History Made Accessible by Karel Češpiva Death Cookie Soup, 2017
I met her only briefly before recording. She spoke only French, period French at that, and I remember thinking solemnly of the bother this was going to cause me. Audiences don’t like guests who speak in dead languages, and as every language besides American English is now classified ‘dead,’ this presents significant problems in the presentation aspect of our programmes. We have to troll the Classics departments of universities for an interpreter and then dub all of our talent’s lines, not to mention edit out all of the awkward pauses generated by the interpretation.
Anyway, I met Joan in the green room as Melinda was attempting to powder her face and wash out some of the mud that was caked into her hair. It was a quick meeting, how-do-you-do and that; I attempted some small talk about her journey but she didn’t seem to be in the mood. So I left her in the capable hands of our floor manager and made my way upstairs where the graphics guys were working on a banner for the piece.
‘Three Saints Told Me To Save France And Now He Wants To Kill Me For It’.
I mulled over the wording. I liked the beginning; the ‘Three Saints Told Me’. It was good; it established credibility. I didn’t want to get into a debate about whether-or-not there were saints and whether-or-not they appeared to her. That was just fluff, as far as I was concerned. It was best to take the saints thing for granted and move on to the conflict. That’s what they’d teach you in Television School, if there was one. Cut off everything auxiliary and get to the beans. Rather, cut the beans as well, and get to the flatulence. Everyone loves flatulence. People have built entire careers on farting. Forget the beans, forget eating them, just assume someone has eaten them and cut to the farting. This was a fast-paced show.
‘One thing,’ I said to Jerry, the head graphics guy. ‘I think “burn” is better than “kill”. More emotive.’
‘’No problem, boss,’ and he changed it.
I had further instruction. ‘Okay, Jerry, so I’m gonna be gunning for some good take-away lines here, from both parties, and I want you to be cued up to replace the banners with particularly prescient quotes from their dialogue. So if the Pommy bastard says “she’s a witch”, which he will, I want that quote underneath her face before she’s called him a snivelling limey dickhead, and then when she does, I want that quote under his face. You got me?’
‘Loud and clear, sir!’
‘Okay floor’s just buzzed me we’re ready to go; I want everyone primed! Remember, this isn’t Frost/Nixon; we did that in Show 22! This is important! Let’s go, people!’
I ran out onto the show floor, beaming the ridiculously large showbiz smile that only comes with extensive facial surgery. It was a feisty audience today; there was a lot of whooping and hollering, and an inflatable beach ball was being bounced around the auditorium, much to the chagrin of my beefy ‘co-host’, Security Syd.
My floor manager, Roxanne, counted down the seconds to recording. When she got to one I struggled to broaden my already-painful smile even further.
‘Good morning and welcome to the Julius Carlysle Show! Have we got a show for you this morning; she’s a feisty freedom fighter we plucked from Northern France in 1431, who was bestowed as a young girl a mission from his Holiness Saint Michael to defeat the Lancastrian Army and escort the Dauphin to his coronation. Now she faces burning at the stake for heresy! At only 19 years of age, let’s get Joan of Arc on the Julius Carlysle Show!’
Big signs above the audience’s eyelines flashed the word ‘applaud’ and they complied without hesitation. We specifically test our prospective audience for their willingness to obey instruction. The ones who get through the screening process have only a few IQ points on the average Dorset Horn sheep.
Cameras dollied backstage to capture Joan’s strut onto the stage. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much of a strut. It was more a diminutive shuffle, and upon her emergence onto the stage, to thundering applause, she looked vaguely unamused. She stood, mouth slightly agape, staring at the braying public. I directed her to one of the two chairs and she sat, legs pressed together, with the posture of a church pew. I crouched in front of her. I never sat on the programme; my commitment to fast-paced television prevented me this pleasure. I would squat, crouch, pace, leer, and, occasionally, pirouette. I had to be ready at all times to leap across the stage with the energy of a shaken beer, exploding with whatever emotion I deemed appropriate. I’ll be honest, it was usually anger. This presentational style kept my guests disconcerted and my audience invigorated.
But in this moment I would have to feign sympathy, only to throw it back in Joan’s face when she inevitably slipped up. It would put her on a teetering defensive roller coaster, poised to catastrophically plummet from her holier-than-thou attitude. So I crouched in front of her.
‘Joan, now, as I understand it, you were given a very special mission, at quite a young age, weren’t you?’
She nodded.
‘Tell us about it.’
She took a deep breath and began tentatively. ‘Well, I was twelve when Saint Michael came to Father’s front garden to tell me about the English invasion -’
I interrupted her. ‘Was it just Saint Michael or were there other saints as well?’
‘Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret came as well. They were so beautiful…’
‘And so they told you to rid the country of the English?’
‘Yes. They told me I had to escort the Dauphin to Paris for the coronation, and that this would make France whole again.’
I spun around theatrically and addressed the audience with a peevish grin. ‘Well, one person who wouldn’t want that would be our next guest, John Talbot, the First Earl of Shrewsbury, Lancastrian Commander of the English Forces. Let’s get John Talbot on the Julius Carlysle Show!’
The studio erupted into cheers once again. I was surprised by the audience’s fervour; several of them had begun to chant my name completely unprompted. The only time they’d usually do that was when I was about to verbally batter some of the noted hate figures we’d brought on the show, such as Mata Hari and Louis Riel.
Shrewsbury walked out onto the stage, his presence notably more polished than Joan’s had been. He grinned, waved at the audience, and pompously and laboriously wrung my hand.
‘Julius, hello, pleasure to be on, me old mucker.’
He flashed the audience another cheeky grin and sat down, separated from Joan only by the imposing presence of Security Syd.
I retreated to the steps in front of the audience pulpit and sat, leaning against the stage to show my comfortability with the latest arrival.
‘So, Shrewsbury, where do you get off burning someone to death for fulfilling a divine mission?’
‘Well, let’s be clear here, there is no divine mission besides ours. No self-respecting God want the French to have self-determination. He created us English for that very reason. No, this young lady has never met a saint in her life. She’s a liar, a tax cheat, and, in all probability, a witch.’
There we go. We had it. I turned with venom back to Joan. ‘You’re a witch, are you? How very typical, you come on here, eliciting sympathy, claiming benefits, and all the while you’ve been witching around France slandering saints. Your type disgusts me!’
Joan looked horrified. ‘No! I’m no witch! I just want to serve God and my country! I’ve done nothing else since I was a little girl!’
She didn’t call him a dickhead. She must not know we’re allowed to swear.
Shrewsbury tossed his head back and laughed. ‘No, no, no, you mustn’t listen to this second-rate prophet who can’t even read and write! And,’ he looked around mischievously, ‘if I may say so in such polite company, regularly cross-dresses.’
This was a game-changer. A collective gasp from the audience turned seamlessly into a chorus of boos. So that was the audience’s level. They were the ‘family values’ crowd. Well, I could easily play to that.
Joan was crying. ‘It was just a precaution… I was travelling through hostile territory…’
I rounded on her. ‘So you’re swanning about northern France, dressed like a man, committing witchcraft, and you’re surprised some people want to burn you? You were in the late Medieval Period for god’s sake, have some decorum!’
The audience roared approval at my words. Joan seemed suddenly incensed.
‘How dare you!’ she screamed at me, and at Shrewsbury, who looked amused and energised by the audience’s reaction. ‘I served my God, I did nothing more, I served my God and my people! Please,’ she sobbed. ‘We are all Christians, let us unite against those who seek to scorn our god. Let us burn the real heretics, and embrace the peace of our one religion.’
But it was no use. The audience had turned on her. One man in particular, an elderly man in period dress, seemed particularly enraged.
‘Hypocrisy!’ he was shouting. ‘How can you talk of peace and burning in the same sentence? They’re each as bad as each other!’
I ran up the steps to him, camera tracking faithfully by my side.
‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
He looked faintly out of breath. ‘I am Jan Hus, and both of these people seek to destroy popular Christian rule, popular Christian justice, together!’
I made a mental note to kiss whichever executive producer had the bright idea to plant this eccentric oddball in the audience. It was ratings gold. We’d get a trailer together, of me berating an elderly madman, and I couldn’t imagine a single person who wouldn’t tune in.
‘Are you on stage?’ I asked him condescendingly.
‘Well, no…’ he spluttered.
‘Then stop gobbing off from the gallery, will you!? What kind of place do you think this is?’
‘A forum for human bear-baiting, clearly!’
Ah. A touch of the old self-righteousness, this one had. In that moment, I knew I wanted him onstage, moralising alongside the hate-mongering we were getting from the other guests.
‘That’s it!’ I yelled off stage. ‘Get him a chair, he’s coming on the Julius Carlysle Show!’
And the audience erupted in cheers again. I looked directly into camera.
‘But first, a message from our commercial sponsor. The Julius Carlysle Show is made possible by Time Turner Limited, bringing the best of the past and future to your fingertips. We’ll be right back.’
I didn’t mind paying lip service to the sponsor on the programme; after all it was time travel that had single-handedly reinvigorated the television industry. Without the ability to pluck contestants directly from their timelines, reality programming would be stuck sifting through the general public again. We’d be in single-digit revenues, producing tiresome shows about home ownership, and cooking, and all the boring old things that people do every day. Now we were broadcasting history, albeit a heavily curated version of it, and we had lank amounts pouring in from elementary schools across the country, plus a special tax credit for educational programming. It made me feel good, and important, that we were making people smarter and at the same time captivating them. I felt like a cross between Charlie Chaplin and Maria Montessori; and I’d know, we got them both on a couple years ago to see who made the better cheese sandwich. Chaplin won, unless I’m very much mistaken.
‘Julius.’
I was shaken out of my reverie.
‘Julius, sorry to bother you on a break,’ it was Julie, one of the EPs. My personal favourite, in fact, until now that is. ‘It’s just we’ve been getting a spate of calls for you from the Big Brother house; apparently George Orwell’s completely lost the plot and is smashing the place up. Machiavelli and Franco are said to be terrified.’
Oh, Georgie, Georgie, Georgie, what have you got yourself into this time? I mused at the thought. ‘Tell them to make sure they’re getting it all on tape. I’ll be down there soon as we’ve sent Saint Joan back to the fifteenth century.’
I returned to the stage, where Joan and Shrewsbury were still sitting, looking disgruntled at the poorly-dressed hermit now sitting between them. He appeared to be combing his arm hair.
‘I say, you, is this going to take much longer?’ the old man asked. ‘It’s just I left Žižka with the wine and if you’re away for too long, the stuff’ll be gone faster than you can say strč prst skrz krk.’
‘Not too much longer,’ I replied, although I couldn’t think of why any of them would be eager to get back to the middle ages, especially the two that were heading back only to be executed by burning. Different mores, I supposed. People of this time period obviously valued efficiency over enjoyment.
Roxanne counted down and the light above camera three went red.
‘Welcome back to the show, I’m here with Joan, who claims she was given a divine mission to save France, Shrewsbury, who thinks she’s a witch, and… an old man who thinks they’re both fucked!
‘Joan, what do you say to this old man, who thinks you yourself have lost the plot of Christianity?’
‘Oh I know all about him,’ Joan cried hysterically. ‘I know all about his Hussites and their perverted religion, and their disdain for the sacrament!’
‘We don’t have disdain for the sacrament,’ Hus replied, bemused. ‘We just think the wine should be passed around equally. It’s not Church if you’re not a bit buzzed.’
I was about to move the conversation on from drinking the blood of a 1st Century Jew, interesting though it may have turned out to be, when filming was interrupted by an almighty crash from the green room. I tried to ignore it and continue the ‘bear-baiting’ but then there was another and several staff members ran out onto the stage, plainly terrified.
‘Okay cut the tape, what the fuck is that noise?’ Roxanne yelled angrily.
‘Julius,’ Julie called to me, half-jogging up to me on the stage stairs. ‘We’ve got a problem.’
‘Well I can fucking see that,’ I replied, annoyed. ‘What is it?’
‘You know tomorrow’s guests?’
‘Genghis Khan and Queen Victoria, isn’t it? We’re having our special Imperialist Royal Rumble.’
‘Yes well it’s absolutely gone off in the green room. They’ve both got ridiculously steely determination and are about as testy as you’d expect.’
This certainly was a problem.
‘So they’re fighting? Or fucking?’
‘We didn’t really hang around long enough to get a proper appraisal of the situation, Khan kicked us out with about two swings of his sabre.’
At that moment, a huge Mongolian man dressed in yak hide trudged into the room, holding an elderly woman’s head by the grey locks.
‘I HAVE VANQUISHED HER,’ he roared to the room in general. ‘ALL MAY REJOICE.’
The audience screamed and fled for cover. Blood was still dripping from the dead queen’s head, and Khan, mistaking the screams of terror for screams of approval, or mirth, or something, decided the best thing to do would be to throw the head into the crowd. All hell broke loose at that point, with people running and shouting and trying to escape what was almost certain to become a vicious bloodbath. They were quick to find that the studio doors were locked. However, I had bigger problems on my plate.
‘God, she wasn’t supposed to die till 1901! We’re going to get hammered by Ofcom for this. It’s a twenty million dollar fine. How in god’s cock are we going to cover this one up?’
‘Shouldn’t we do something about the homicidal tyrant terrorising our guests first and worry about the clean-up later?’ Julie asked sardonically.
‘Heads are going to roll for this, I’m telling you,’ I told her, as we ducked a projectile hatchet. ‘Starting with yours. Either figuratively or literally, we’ll see.’
‘Can we tackle him, or bait him out with something?’
‘Do you think we could sneak her back into her quarters at the palace? Her courtiers’ll blame the Fenians or… or a shaving accident. And Ofcom might not realise for years. Even when they do, they’ll probably attribute it to the Mandela effect or something. I think that’s the way forward.’
Khan, meanwhile, had taken a particular interest in Joan. She seemed perturbed by his advances, which seemed to include the presentation of carrion on the floor in front of her seat. Hus, on the other hand, was staring good-naturedly at the warrior, while Shrewsbury had retreated under his chair for safety.
‘And this one,’ Khan was saying, producing a dead flying squirrel from his satchel, ‘will be for after the wedding, when we do shots of kumis…’
Hus was surveying the carrion with interest. ‘Mmm yes it would go lovely in a stew, with some dumplings, yes?’
I tentatively approached the group of guests. The trick was to remain calm, get all of them to remain calm, and then I could (somehow probably) trick them into the Time Turner and send them back to their historic deaths, thus erasing four key witnesses to the whole embarrassing debacle.
‘Um, excuse me, Mr Khan?’
The Khan seemed to be in a considerably better mood, and he opened his arms in a conciliatory gesture and said ‘Call me Temüjin, please!’
‘Okay, Temüjin, now, the lady you beheaded back there… um, might I inquire as to where the rest of her body is?’
He looked a little bit affronted.
‘Oh, don’t be upset!’ I quickly qualified. ‘I’m not angry about the - incident - not at all, I just thought it would be - appropriate - to send her body back in tact, you know, to have respect for her family and that.’
He relaxed. ‘You’re right. It is the honourable thing. I shall show you.’ And with that, he walked down the stairs into the pulpit and through to the green room. Perfect, I thought. That was where the Time Turner was. If I could get the rest of the entourage to follow, I could somehow convince them all to step inside in turn. Starting with the big fella. He seemed docile enough at the moment, but there was no way of telling what could happen. I didn’t fancy that sort of unpredictability. Anyway, I began to implore the rest of the guests to follow him. Shrewsbury didn’t seem to happy about vacating his nest under his own chair, but eventually complied and shuffled half-heartedly after the rest of the party.
In the green room, Her Majesty’s headless corpse lay prone on the floor beside the teak coffee table. I resolved to deal with it later, with the intention of returning it to her bedroom at Buckingham Palace and leaving it for them to sort out. First I had to find a way to convince Temüjin into the Time Turner.
‘You’ve got a bit of blood on you there, man,’ I said to him. ‘Wouldn’t you like to - uh - freshen up?’
Khan looked down at himself. ‘No, I’m alright. Don’t need to wash for another fortnight. Blood is good for the skin. Exfoliation.’
Right. Exfoliation. Of course. Genghis Khan is concerned about exfoliation. Now I’ve seen everything. But I had another tactic up my sleeve. I leaned in close in order to whisper the following.
‘I mean, of course it’s up to you, Temüjin, but I had kind of noticed you’ve got a little thing for Joan over there.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, I don’t think she likes the blood thing much. I think you should use my shower, if only for her sake.’
Temüjin nodded. I brought him over to the Turner. ‘Well, this is my shower here, it’s fully automated. It’ll soap you and everything. Step right in.’
Temüjin’s eyes bulged and he stepped back involuntarily. ‘What is this thing? This vile sort of small room? No, no, a thousand times no. I cannot.’
I was surprised that he seemed so scared. He simply stood there, shaking his head, like a small child being propositioned by broccoli.
‘No, Temüjin, it’s completely safe, I promise you!’
But he remained steadfast.
‘Look, I’m telling you, I use it all the time. No harm will come to you. It cleans you perfectly! Come on!’
It was no use.
‘Okay, look, I’ll step into it to show you. It’s perfectly fine.’
BANG. As soon as I walked into the Turner, the door slammed behind me. I looked around immediately and just had time to see Temüjin’s grinning face, and his hand waving goodbye to me. Then the whole picture started to spin and spin and get considerably smaller as I sailed away from it, into the oblivion.
‘NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!’ I screamed as my body felt a desperate shaking, kicking at the metaphysical walls of my transient box. But, in reality, I was calmer than you’d expect. I’d had a good life, I thought. Made a kick-ass TV show. Met some reasonably interesting figures. And persuaded them to degrade themselves on my behalf. Perhaps I was ready to end it. Only time will tell.
____________________________________________________________________________
The audience was a feisty one. I could hear them from outside the yurt, restlessly cheering and chanting my name. I had only briefly spoken to my guests, a quick how-do-you-do beside the fire pit, as they were tanning their best hides. They seemed grumpy, but approachable.
I had stepped outside for a quick shot of kumis with nothing for company but the horses, tied to a post in the middle of the settlement. I paused for a moment, staring into the cold night air, but was woken from my reverie by my floor manager, Gerel, who had come to fetch me.
‘Julius, it’s time.’
I nodded. ‘I’ll be there in a minute, my dear.’ Stolen moments like these were what got me through the day. After a few seconds, I stood up and followed her back into the performance yurt. As I prepared to enter through the side flap, I affixed my biggest showbiz smile and jogged in.
‘Good evening, everybody!’ I shouted to the screaming crowd. ‘He’s a no-nonsense farmer who’s convinced that his own brother stole twelve of his yaks; while his brother claims their milk’s gone sour anyway. Let’s get Nergüi and Batbayar on the Julius Carlysle Show!’ Even more cheers erupted and my smile tightened. This crowd, I could work with.
