The Avid Advertiser, of The Daily Play @marseashwaran - Tumblr Blog

"Reflections on the Thames, Westminster"

1880

John Atkinson Grimshaw (English, 1836–1893)

THE DAILY PLAY: TEMPUS FUGIT -- PART 2

(And now the continuation.)

The Snivelling Scientist: (To the Horologist from the box-machines’ monitor) Something’s gone (snivels) wrong. We’re (snivels) losing him.

(Ding-dong-ding-dong cry the bells. “Te Deum laudámus: te Dominum confitémur.” Hollered the phonograph in a choric tone. The Empirical Horologist jumps unto the controls of the box-like machine.)

The Empirical Horologist: (with their glasses fallen off, and in a hurry. To the Snivelling Scientist.) You’ve misaligned the matrices!! It’s going to be very hard to extricate him now!! (Looks at the staff) We may have to destroy the thing, with the Head Editor still stuck in the Temporal Field generated by that thing!! It will destroy them both!! (The Soppy Caricaturist breaks down. Many of the staff are bleary-eyed) Better that! Or contaminate the timeline! But we’ll try everything else before that!!

(Ding-Dong-Ding-Dong, “Te ætérnum Patrem omnis terra venerátur.” Cries the phonograph. The staff are apprehensive, and the scientists are also. The Anomaly glows and brightens but still does not emit light.)

The Empirical Horologist: (Hurriedly) Maximum power! This better work! It’s this or (gravely) destroying it!

(Ding-Dong-Ding-Dong, “Tibi omnes Angeli; tibi cæli et univérsae potestátes.” Cries the phonograph. Buttons are pushed. Science happens! The Anomaly does not care and continues its expansion unabated. The staff clasp their hearts both external and internal.)

The Empirical Horologist: (Gravely) We have no choice now!! We have to destroy it. (To the scientists) Prepare the machine. (To the staff) There is some chance that he’ll survive. But it’s slim. I have no hope. I won’t ask you to not weep, for not all tears are evil.

(Ding-Dong-Ding-Dong, “Tibi Chérubim et Séraphim incessábili voce proclámant” cried the phonograph. The staff look upon the proceedings with teary-eyes. The proceeding proceeds.)

The Empirical Horologist: (Pushing buttons) Well, it’s done, any eulogies for The Head Editor. (The Anomaly fizzes and lessens in size slowly. The Sardonic Commenter with tears welled up like all the rest of the staff advances.)

The Sardonic Commenter: (Solemnly) He was a man. We have had our differences, and arguments. But it doesn’t change the fact that though he is petulant, hot-tempered he was still he most honourable man that I had ever met. He was quite simple, in his own…

(Ding-Dong-Dong-Ding-Dong, “Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dóminus Deus Sábaoth.” Cries the phonograph. The Anomaly fizzes and blips out. The staff lower their head and take a solemn moment of silence. The Head Editor was gone. At this same moment a man enters from the basement staircase.)

????: (A bit annoyed) What’s this! Why are you not working!! (To the Commenter) Who’re you calling a simple man!! (Listens to phonograph) Turn off that heavenly nonsense!!

(It could really only be one person, and it was. All the staff look up expectantly and are not disappointed. The Sardonic Commenter looked up recognizing the voice. He lurches forward and ensconces the Head Editor in an embrace. The Head Editor at first resists but eventually falls into the clinch. The staff seeing the scene also ensconce the Editor. It’s all very sentimental. The embraces are finally released. And the phonograph is stopped)

The Head Editor: (With a subdued voice) Why...What happened? I went out for tea. Saw all the floors empty and came down here. What happened?

The Empirical Horologist: (explains the entire thing) I would also like to request something. We don’t yet know why the anomaly was formed here. There must be a reason. We intend to find out. But for that we need to work in this basement.

The Head Editor: (Shakes their hand, heartily.) After all you’ve done for me, deny that request. Never! I’ll allow it! (To the staff) As for all of you, I’m going to hold a soiree in the evening. And you’re all invited!

(The Scientists and the staff cheer in a single voice. In the evening, the planned soiree is realized. Brilliant lights of red and gold shine brightly from the offices. All the staff glittering, smiling jewels spinning in fixed orbits reflecting the brilliance of the venue in their faces like planets to a star. The Head Editor and The Sardonic Commenter dressed in the finest of clothes banter amiably at the snack table)

The Head Editor: (Laughing, then stops and looks seriously) I’m really sorry. You know all the times I’ve shouted at you, even for little things. I’m really sorry. (Chuckles) But I won’t promise not to do it again! Where’s the fun in civil conversation!

The Sardonic Commenter: (Pats Editor on the back) Though I am regretful now about all the times I had egged you on . I will do it again if needs be. If they are enjoyed in the true spirit of camaraderie. If they show you your flaws. (the two men laugh)

#The Daily Play

(Not an actual AD)

#The Daily Play

(Not an actual AD)

#The Daily Play

THE DAILY PLAY: TEMPUS FUGIT -- PART 1

(Time flies when you are having fun, or that at the least is the way that the proverb goes. Time flew for the staff of the Daily Play while they were typing, ergo, they were having fun typing. It was a normal day. The Head Editor had left his office for a cup of tea. And The Aquiline Muckraker talks to The Mordacious Columnist while handing her articles to the proofreaders.)

The Mordacious Columnist: (Smiling) What muck did you rake up this time? Society type makes culinary faux pas.

The Aquiline Muckraker: (Her usual Aquiline expressions relax into a smile, as she ruffles through the papers) Well, let’s see, shall we? I have “Mayor does not know to use cutlery”, “Actress down with indigestion”. (Ruffles through the rest also and looks at The Columnist) It seems you’re right. Scandal is at a premium these days; I miss those days where all you could write was scandals. Remember ’86 I was one of the first to cover that. What about you?

The Mordacious Columnist: (Cheerily) Ah! Who could forget! (Chuckles) As for me! I’ve been given a respite from cutting “The Daily Concert” into pieces. They’ve given me “The Daily Tribune” instead!

The Aquiline Muckraker: Good for you! (The Head Editor leaves his office for tea) What? Look there! The Editors leaving for tea, didn’t he already leave 5 minutes ago. We didn’t see him come back! (The Mordacious Columnist gives a shrug and leaves. The Aquiline Muckraker looks intently at the door of The Head Editor’s office.)

The Aquiline Muckraker: (Sees Editor exit his office once again) Ah! That office only has one door. And that man’s come out of it three times already! Something’s afoot!

(The Aquiline Muckraker thinks, in most cases the strange things happen in basements. So, somethings in the basement. She descends the three floors of the offices. To the dark, dark basement, where what she saw froze her blood. And stole her voice. There was an orb of white energy from whence gold thunder emanated. She immediately in fright rushes out the third floor, where she informs the staff.)

The Meticulous Editor: Ah! from the effect on The Head Editor this seems to be some sort of Temporal Anomaly. I’ve heard of such things. (chuckles) Anyways, it at the least explains why the dates in the papers are all over the place. (Thinks) For a solution I think I know a scientist who’ll help. (Takes up the headset of the phone, but before he could dial the number. A coterie of scientists enter the offices.)

The Empirical Horologist: (Adjusting their coat, and glasses) Where is the anomaly? We detected one here.

The Aquiline Muckraker: (slightly shaken) Its, its in the basement. The Head Editor’s stuck in a Time Loop too!

(Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock. The Horologist nods and the entire group goes spelunking then returns)

The Empirical Horologist: (Gravely) It’s as I feared from what you told me of the Editor. A Class-III Markochev-Karinsky temporal anomaly. Very rare. In normal cases we could destroy it. But the editor seems to be stuck in it. That’s never happened before. So (With obvious distaste) we have to use theoretical methods.(To the Snivelling Scientist) Bring the generator to the basement! (To the staff) Do you want to come too?

(Tick-Tick-Tick-Tick .The whole staff alight to the basement, all curious. The large orb flickers and glows, but the basement is still dark. A large box-like machine is brought inside by one of the scientists.)

The Empirical Horologist: (With disdain and visibly reins in the jargon.) This machine will emit a blast of particles, which will hopefully close the anomaly, or might send the Head Editor to the past. We don’t know. That’s the problem with theory. Anyway, (To a scientist operating the box) Try 0.8

(Tick-Tick-Tick-Tick. The Anomaly does not change.)

The Empirical Horologist: (Frustrated) Try 1 now!

(Tick-Tick-Tick-tick. The Anomaly starts expanding. Fear is in the staffs’ faces)

The Empirical Horologist: (Frustrated) That didn’t work!! Try 1.8!

(Tick-Tick-Tick-Tick. The Anomaly’s growth accelerates. The Apprehension of the staff increases.)

The Empirical Horologist: (Visibly Fearful) Now! What Happened! The Thing’s expanding. Try 2!

(Tick-Tick-Tick-Tick-Tick)

The Snivelling Scientist: (To the Horologist from the box-machines’ monitor) Something’s gone (snivels) wrong. We’re (snivels) losing him.

(One of the staff push an old phonograph in surprise. The dusty old record in it spins. The sounds of ‘Te Deum’ echo through the room. Somewhere nearby bells ring Ding-Dong-Ding-Dong. Time’s up.)

(to be continued)

#The Daily Play

"Dulce et decorum est por patria mori" -- Latin phrase.

THE DAILY PLAY: AN 'AI' FOR AN 'I'

(A dreary day in the “The Daily Play” offices. A man and woman were standing at the office of the Head Editor. Who waves a newspaper and scolds them)

The Head Editor: (Angry and reading the newspaper to the Incautious Journalist) What sort of article is this! I in my tenure have never, never seen something like this!! Really! Tell me what is “spon”? Tell me what do mean by “thong”!? Tell me what is “knpw”? This entire thing is like this! (Turns to the woman, The Guileless Proofreader) Aren’t you supposed to catch these errors? Or were you too engrossed with (Points to The Incautious Journalist) this human specimen?

(The Incautious Journalist and The Guileless Proofreader eye themselves sheepishly in fact they had been too engrossed with themselves. They were in love, and about to be married too. Everyone forgave them for such mistakes, that is until now)

The Guileless Proofreader: (In an explanatory way) Sir, “spon” is supposed to be “spin”, “thong” is supposed to be “thing”, and “knpw” is supposed to be “know”.

The Head Editor: (Exasperated) Gah! Now you do your job!! The paper’s already gone off the presses!! I’ll be the laughingstock of the entire city!! (rubs his temple in annoyance) I can see The Editor of the “The Daily Concert” laughing!! All we can do now is damage control!! And the first order of that is that I’m firing both of you!! This paper doesn’t need any more spelling mistakes!! Go now!! Get out!! I’ll give you your severance pay!!

(The Journalist and The Proofreader are shocked; they dredge out of the office. The Proofreader ensconced by The Journalist in an embrace. Their brows clouded with a misery which is not ameliorated by any caress. They made a pitiful sight, and the fact that they were about to be married made them even more sympathetic.)

The Soppy Caricaturist: (Strikes a heroic pose) O! Dear workers! Look! Feast your eyes upon the wreck left by our Editor!! Look! At their misery!! We must strike the ven…aah(Gets slapped in the arm by the Pessimistic Diatribist and stops. And looks like the most miserable man on earth.)

The Pessimistic Diatribist: (Stands) I agree with the intentions of my co-worker. Though I don’t like his tone, or his poses, or his face in general. But he is right. Say! We all have unions, don’t we? Why don’t we strike?

The Mordacious Columnist: (Chuckles) And the Head Editor can’t throw ink bottles at us from his perch like last time. I heard him damning the pens, when he should have been damning his own forgetfulness in buying ink.

The Plucky Paperboy: (To the Venerable Epigrammist) Say! Grandpapa, what’s a strike?

The Venerable Epigrammist: (Heartily, with affection. He had not been called that for a while. His own grandchildren had grown up.) A strike, my boy, is a sort of disruption in work to force our employers to give into our demands. (Reminisces) You know, in ’26 long before you were born. I was in a factory in Manchester, O! My foreman was a cruel man. Gave us no bread for our hours. We struck work. We stood for days on end standing against the foreman’s cronies who took us under one by one. Our leader died, he died more that a hero, he died a union man. I survived, and more importantly our demands were met. (The Paperboy listened with enthrallment, no one had addressed him as “my boy” before. He was an orphan.)

(The Incautious Journalist and The Guileless Proofreader’s faces showed a glimmer of hope much like a sunbeam through dark clouds. The Proofreader looks up into the visage of The Journalist)

The Guileless Proofreader: (Smiling and looking at the staff) We’ll help.

(Hours passed, signs were printed, banners were placed. The entire staff filed outside and struck work. The Head Editor when made cognisant of the strike rushes out in rage)

The Head Editor: (to the strikers) What are you doing you fools!! Look at your placards!! I thought that only those two were the loons here, but it seems I stand corrected!! I should rename the paper to “The Daily Bedlam”, it seems more accurate!! Look at your signs!! If I wasn’t a laughingstock by now! That would have made me one!!!

(The staff looked at their signs, and placards. And smiled sheepishly. They had not noticed it before. They only got a few hours to prepare and had to rush through in haste. They really had not noticed. The Head Editor continued his soliloquy of rage. The Sardonic Commenter noticing the proceedings from the opposite side comes closer.)

The Sardonic Commenter: (Looks at the Editor, the workers, and the signs and laughs) Hahaha! (Reads placard) “Vring Back Dfired Employees” in bold letters! Hahaha! No wonder, that the Editor is marching around ranting! Hahaha! Do not worry I will get him to agree to your demands! Hahaha!

(The Sardonic Commenter by virtue of his tallness pushes the ranting Head Editor into the building. Sounds of argument mostly The Head Editor’s voice raised above the usual range. Some time later, both of them exit.)

The Head Editor: I’ll agree to your demands! But (Authoritatively, points to the Incautious Journalist, and the Guileless Proofreader) You have to tie the knot as soon as you possibly can!

#The Daily Play

THE DAILY PLAY: BOBBIES ! PEELERS ! AND A GENERAL NUISANCE !

(A usual day at the offices, nothing untoward, nothing out of the ordinary. The air is resonant with the clatter of typewriters. Suddenly like a squall of rain a policeman enters without warning) The Intrepid Inspector: (Doffs his cap and checks his notebooks) Ah! Don’t worry workers of “The Daily Play”. This is just a routine, er (turns notebook pages) Ah! searching. (Gasps are heard across the office. The paperboy advances to the Policeman) The Plucky Paperboy: ‘Ello there , Inspector. Say! Do you know what the time is ‘ere. The Intrepid Inspector: Well, boy, (Checks watch) the time is 5 o’clock in the evening. Why did you ask? The Plucky Paperboy: (Sniggers) Well don’t you know. (recites from memory) If you want the time ask a pleeceman. Common knowledge. (The staff chuckle but restrain themselves when a truncheon is waved threateningly. The Paperboy scampers off.) (The Sardonic Commenter takes an interest in the proceedings and comes to investigate) The Sardonic Commenter: (With a look of recognition) Why? Inspector. What are you doing here. I believe we are acquainted. The Intrepid Inspector: (Looks suspiciously at the Commenter, then recognition, then heartiness) Well, well, you old rascal (gives a well-intentioned backslap to the commenter) What are you doing in this dump? The Sardonic Commenter: (Heartily) I do not want to be a nomad, you know? By the way what are you doing here, inspector. The Intrepid Inspector: Haha! I’m just here because we got a tip of illicit activities occurring here from the “The Daily Concert”. (Looks back) Come on, boys, and girls. Let’s do our jobs. (Policemen, and Policewomen fan out into the offices, and cause a ruckus) The Meticulous Editor: (Catches a piece paper thrown haphazardly by a policeman) Got you! (Catches a pen) Got you too! (Puts them back on the desk, only for them to be thrown back again during the policeman’s search.) Aargh! (Holds them both standing on one leg, but falls, dropping both the paper and pen) Aargh! (Grunts in exasperation.) The Soppy Caricaturist: (Makes a dramatic pose, while a policeman searches his pockets and desk.) O! Hero am I! To resist such annoyances for the purposes of the greater good! (Gets slapped in the arm by both the policeman, and the Pessimistic Diatribist and then stops.) The Polite Policewoman: (To the Mordacious Columnist) Could you give me permission to check your reticule? Please? The Mordacious Columnist: No, you copper. I don’t give you permission to violate my rights! I know you’ll check it anyway! (The Policeman takes and checks reticule nonetheless.) (The Head Editor enters from his office and the entire staff glowered at him. He had not been searched.) The Head Editor: (Blushing, and angry) What! Why are to staring at me! Is something wrong? (Checks pocket) Golly! What’s this? (Takes out a large diamond) O! By Jove, how did get in there? (The Policeman seize the gem and ask the same question to the Editor.) The Head Editor: (Thinks hard, till realisation dawns on him) The Editor of “The Daily Concert”. I had lunch with him this afternoon! (The Police glare at him as if deciding the verity of his statement. And being satisfied doff their hats and leave.)

#The Daily Play

THE DAILY PLAY: PERHAPS, A CHANGE OF HEART?

(It was an unusual day, any day where a visitor visits “The Daily Play” offices is unusual. This visitor was a woman, a sort of woman that is generally admitted to being “pretty” and nothing more than that) The Implacable Secretary: (With an electronic smile, and a practiced honeyed voice) Please, madam, sit down. The Head Editor is busy currently, but he’ll be with you in (checks watch) 5 minutes. The Visiting Socialite: (Smiles good naturedly) Well, I can wait. I don’t have anything to do anyway. (Time passes, The Implacable Secretary presses a button on her desk) The Implacable Secretary: (To microphone) Sir, there’s someone to see you. Can I let her in? The Head Editor: (Through the speaker) By all means, Secretary. Let her in! The Implacable Secretary: (To visitor, smiling) You can go in now. He’ll see you now. (The Visiting Socialite nods and enters through the door. The Head Editor, and The Sardonic Commenter stop their argument to look at the visitor) The Head Editor: (looks up at the visitor, and his breathing rate slightly increases, unnoticeable to everyone except the Sardonic Commenter who notices and chuckles) Well, er, miss, er, or it is Mrs. What, er, can “The Daily Play” do for you? The Visiting Socialite: (smiling) Miss will do just fine. As for why I’m here. I want an Advertisement in the paper. (Gives a piece of paper to the Head Editor.) The Head Editor: (Talk in a faster tone, reads the piece of paper) A missing necklace! Don’t, er, worry, miss. I’m, er, sure the “The Daily Play” will, er, serve you. (The Visiting Socialite, takes her leave, as soon as she passes across the portals of the Head Editor’s office The Sardonic Commenter bursts out in guffaws, and twirls his moustache while emitting a shrill whistle.) The Sardonic Commenter: (Composing himself) Huh! It seems that you are not as heartless as we would presume. The Head Editor: (Gives an annoyed look at the commenter) Of course, I have a heart. Do you insinuate that my behaviour makes one presume that I don’t!? The Sardonic Commenter: (Explanatorily) I merely meant that your behaviour does somewhat reduce credence to the presumption that you have a heart. The Head Editor: (Mad with rage) Get out! Heartless, my foot! Get Out! Now! (The Sardonic Commenter leaves leaving the Head Editor to his mumblings) The Sardonic Commenter: (in a Gossiping voice to The Nocturnal Illustrator) Do you know that visitor that came today? She caught the Editor’s eye! Of course, he has not done anything yet. The Nocturnal Illustrator: (Chuckling) Well, now we know that the big chief’s got a heart! The Ethereal Cartoonist: (Comes out of abstraction for a while) Ah! Don’t we all…(goes back into thought) (The Implacable Secretary approaches them) The Implacable Secretary: (Turns to The Commenter) The Head Editor wants you in his office. (The Sardonic Commenter, makes a swiping motion across his neck, causing great amusement among his listeners) (Inside the office) The Head Editor: (in a subdued voice) Now, tell me! Have I got a chance? The Sardonic Commenter: (Smirks) I am very, very honoured that you chose me as your confidant. As Tennyson once wrote “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”. So go for it! The Head Editor: I could only choose you. However Infernal your commentary is. You don’t Gossip, and I know that for a fact! In fact, I have seen almost the entire staff gossiping except you. I’ll take your advice. I’ll go right now. (Takes hat, and strokes his clean-shaven face after putting it on, and goes out) The Sardonic Commenter: (Chuckling) He is going to get himself killed! (Sits in the Head Editor’s chair) Well, no reason not to enjoy myself while he is gone. (Takes a cup of un-drunk tea – which was the Editor’s favourite and drinks it)

#The Daily Play

THE DAILY PLAY: THOSE WERE THE DAYS.....

(A pleasing morning, birds were singing in their respective perches, snails were slowly moving in faraway swamps. In short it was a day when one could say “God’s in his heaven – all’s right in the world.” During this time, a man sits on a desk at the “The Daily Play” offices.) The Indigestive Investigator: (Looks at date, with surprise, and fear) Oh! Good God in Heaven! (Nudges The Aquiline Muckraker, sitting next to his desk) The Aquiline Muckraker: (The nudge causes her to make three typographical errors on the typewriter, she fixes the Investigator with an annoyed look while she replaces the paper) Yes, what is it now? The Indigestive Investigator: It’s the first second Tuesday of an even numbered month! (The Aquiline Muckraker is not amused) The Aquiline Muckraker: So, what? It’s just a date! The Indigestive Investigator: So, what! so, what! (He is interrupted by the faint tunes of a song, emanating from a door on the far side of the office. The Sardonic Commenter being the nearest rushes to investigate.) The Sardonic Commenter: (Listens with his ears by the door, with the curious stare of The Implacable Secretary on him) By Gad! It is the Head Editor, reciting, no, singing (Listens more intently) It sounds like “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” (All round him, some employees turn pale with fear, others are piqued, The Sardonic Commenter remembers, then also turns pale. He continues listening solemnly) He’s at….

The Head Editor: (In a booming voice) “And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he Was tyrannous and strong He struck with his overtaking wings, And chased us south along.” (And just as this line was sung, a strong wind buffeted the office on the third story from the north. The north wind was powerful enough to shake the windows trying to edge its way inward.) The Incredulous Theologian: (Surprised and smiles weakly) What Ho! What a coincidence! Though it must be due to the cause of the weather, it is winter, and Boreases are quite common. The Anglophilic Crossword-maker: (Shakes head knowingly, and pats the Theologian on the back) No, no, old chap. It is not Boreas. You will understand, soon enough. Till then keep a stiff upper lip. (Time passes, with it so does the wind. At the door The Commenter announces) The Sardonic Commenter: He is at…. The Head Editor: (In a booming voice, from behind the door) 'God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus! — Why looks’ thou so?'—With my cross-bow I shot the ALBATROSS. (At the instant the line “I shot the ALBATROSS” was uttered, a pen flew from whence no one knew, and embedded itself at a point in a large painting on the side of the office) The Plucky Paper-boy: (With boyish enthusiasm, and not enough prudence, walks up to the painting, and extracts the pen) Huh! Where did this come from? (Inspects landing point of pen) ‘Cor Blimey! That’s, or used to be an Albatross painted ‘ere. The pen shot the albatross (realisation strikes he turns pale) I say, what’s to come. What happens when the crew git cursed in the poem? The Venerable Epigrammist: Well, this happens every year, my boy. It happens every year. But when he comes to that particular part nothing happens. The Mordacious Columnist: (Weighs into the conversation) Though, I think after what you’ll experience instead, you’ll wish for “Life-in-death.” The Plucky Paperboy: Well, if it happens ev’ry year. I fink I wouldn’t need to worry. You’ve all survived it. The Mordacious Columnist: We all have, but it won’t be easy. (At the door) The Sardonic Commenter: Hark! He is at… The Head Editor: (in fluted voice muffled by the door) Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. (At this point, the skies tore with rain, and the roof and walls of the office leaked)

The Meticulous Editor: (Looking at a stray drop of water which had fallen on his paper as one looks on a rat.) O! God, I’ll have to start over again (takes paper which was only lightly smudged and crumples it) (Sighs) In you go hours of work. (Drops it into the bin, and takes a new one, and starts again.) The Soppy Caricaturist: (a drop falls into his nose, and from there to his windpipe) O! Goodbye world! I choke! I drown! I die! I die! I always knew ‘twould end this way, a palmist told me. “Death in water” she said! O! (A co-worker slaps him on the back; the drop comes out) I am saved! I am saved! Take that palmist! Who was the hero or heroine that saved me! Who? (When pointed to her) O! my saviour, I shall be your servant. The Pessimistic Diatribist: (looking very annoyed) I’ve had it with you! You and your ‘dramatizations’! If Shakespeare heard you, he’ll have an apoplexy. You’re insufferable, I don’t want you ten feet of me, or to be my servant. I helped you ‘cause I felt a bit sorry with your reaction and all that. (At the door) The Sardonic Commenter: Hark! He is at… The Head Editor: (In a booming voice, masked by the door) Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. (Nothing happens) The Plucky Paperboy: (Excited) You were right, grandpapa. Nofing happened and That’s the curse we hear. The Venerable Epigrammist: (amused no-one had called him “Grandpapa” in a long time, all his grandchildren had grown up) Didn’t I say so, my boy. I’ve been through this all the decades I’ve worked here. (Sees paperboy’s interested visage) I’ll tell you about the time in ’98 where… (At another end)

The Incredulous Theologian: At last! A respite! Though I wonder why only this stanza has no effect? Or rather, why does The Editor’s singing cause all this? The Anglophilic Crossword-maker: Haha! I don’t know, old chap. This happens every second Tuesday on an even numbered month. No one here knows why. (Stanzas flit by, at the door) The Sardonic Commenter: Hark! He is at… The Head Editor: (In a mournful voice) Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead. (At this point, a trinket on the eastern wall, fell and broke) The Meticulous Editor: (Looks back at the wreck, annoyed) Can’t this office stay clean! (Takes up broom from under desk, and a magnifying glass) (Looks through glass and sweeps up every bit into a box) It’s a pity, that was a good model ship. I buy one every year, and every year this happens. The Soppy Caricaturist: O! What do the Heavenly Heavens imply by giving our Head Editor this humongous world-shaking power! O! (Gets a slap in the arm, by the Pessimistic Diatribist, and stops looking like the most miserable man on earth) (Stanzas pass, At the door) The Sardonic Commenter: (relieved) Hark! He has finished! (Listens intently) O! By Jove! He is starting again. Makes one wish for the old days where one could try him for witchcraft and burn him at the stake. All: (with anamoia) Those were the days.

#The Daily Play

THE DAILY PLAY: PROLOGUE

(A day at the Office, A Mordacious Columnist rushes into the office of The Head Editor, looking indignant, The Sardonic Commenter takes interest and also enters.) A Mordacious Columnist: (She looks sternly at The Head Editor) Look! What do you mean by expurgating my column! (She looks sterner and takes a paper out of her pocket) Look! See! One entire paragraph is gone! What happened to it? You expunged it! (Looks sterner) Now, you'll change it! The Head Editor: (Cowering under his desk, unable to bear The Columnist's gaze, pokes up his head) Well, yes, I did, er, expunge it. It was, er, a bit inflammatory. The Sardonic Commenter: (Looks at both of them, and chuckles) A bit inflammatory, what a lark! Why? That paragraph could change nations, cause revolutions, and especially cause The Head Editor to be hunted across the free, and the unfree world. That is a noble cause. (Looks at The Columnist) Well, miss, I will ensure that the paragraph is unexpunged (She nods and leaves) (Turns to Head Editor) I had expected better from the Head Editor of The Daily Play, than desk-cowering. The Head Editor: (Very shaken, and trembling) You don't understand, she would've killed me! I saw it in her eyes, her eyes! Now, what did you promise that for. I'll have to put that paragraph back now. The Sardonic Commenter: (Gives the Editor a pat to steady him) Now, now, you do not need to do that. Just give her a column that you want to be inflammatory -- some review of our rivals perhaps, and I am sure she will forget about that paragraph. The Head Editor: I'll get to it, posthaste! Secretary! The Commenter: It is a pity; I rather would have enjoyed the hunt. The Editor: Yes, you definitely would've. But I shan't be caught by you. I can't bear to think of it, all that infernal commentary, all day long. The Commenter: Sometimes, for some people, their tastes are strange. (Secretary enters before any further conflagration, or remarks) The Editor: Well, er, yes, Secretary, make sure you assign a new column to The Mordacious Columnist, a column on "The Daily Concert". (Chuckles) She'll rip them to shreds, like the last two times. The Commenter: (Raises eyebrow) A bit repetitive, is it not? Why not "The Daily Prayer"? The Editor: Because she'll rip them to shreds, and the whole horde of good Samaritans will be on me! Why? I'll be killed! (the Commenter shrugs). The Implacable Secretary: May I make a suggestion, sir? (The Editor nods) Why not "The Thespian Times"? The Editor: That’s genius! You've earned your salt! Make it so! The Commenter: If I may intrude, "The Thespian Times" I believe is our major sponsor. We do not want to lose our major sponsor with a column, do we not? The Editor: (Sighs, and thinks) Well, what about "The Monthly Mathematician"? The Commenter: Does our columnist have enough knowledge of Mathematics to decipher that enigmatic paper? The Editor: (Gets a bit annoyed) What about "The Daily Gazette"! Got anything against that! The Commenter: Why? They did (seeing editor annoyed, puts on a wry smile) .... No matter, it does not matter. The Implacable Secretary: I will inform her, sir.

(Names are inspired by a browser game, called Fallen London. None of these characters are supposed to be real people. Nor are the newspapers.)

#The Daily Play

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