Posted on June 16, 2011
T. Vok, Sports Inventor
We slept in the belly of the volcano, and it was our most triumphant moment. Press coverage was through the roof, and our new sport looked ready to take off; television companies were sniffing around it, Atari had set up a meeting to discuss licensing a game for their 2600 console and the well-respected actor Tim Curry appeared on television wearing one of our promotional polo shirts.
So what went wrong for Extreme Sleeping?
Well, the demise of my business partner was the first wobble. The eruption took us by surprise, so deeply were we sleeping. It seems the week of snoozing stage-side at a rock music festival in Denmark had somewhat deadened us to noise and vibration. Without earplugs even, we slept until the volcano was fit to burst. Harold was the first to wake, and he slapped my face until I joined the land of the living. The terror across his face was matched by the fierce throbbing of my cheeks – the man did not slap by halves.
“We’ve got to get out”, he said. That much was obvious, and yet – this could have been the turning point. Would our sport still be respected if we left now? We were possibly safe in our chamber; there was a good chance that the lava would leave us untouched, and we had enough oxygen to ignore the fumes until morning. My mind was set – I would sleep through this, even if it killed me.
Harold lacked my conviction, and he headed to the surface. I envied him a little, although I also felt proud – this would leave me the undisputed champion. I would hold the belt, alone.
In the end, it was Harold who made the wrong decision. The eruption swallowed him whole, lava covering him in seconds. My chamber remained safe. I dreamed of rabbits and sunshine. But it wasn’t Harold’s death that signalled the end for Extreme Sleeping, at least not directly. The sponsors were prepared to use his death for publicity; to hold him up as a martyr to the sport.
My decision to use his petrified body as the world championship trophy was the final straw. The papers called it “distasteful”. I thought it was a fitting tribute to the co-founder of a promising new event. But the world was not ready. Not yet.
Posted on June 13, 2011
TobEx
For several years in the mid- to late-1980s I ran a delivery company called TobEx in addition to my duties as the nation’s premier musical scientist and warlock. Thousands of packages would come through the doors of my rented warehouse, be sorted into piles and then jettisoned outwards on fleets of TobEx branded trucks.
I learned several lessons while running TobEx, which I shall recount here.
1. Truck drivers are universally rude and untrustworthy.
2. The contents hardly ever match up the excitement and promise of an unopened parcel.
3. Inviting a crew of parcel-sorters to a “team building” event at a parcel-sorting convention does not raise morale.
4. Muttered incantations are not welcome at board meetings.
5. Piping my own music into the warehouse 24 / 7 does not increase productivity; in fact, quite the opposite. I assume because everyone is too awed by the melodies.
6. All rival delivery companies are unsportsmanlike idiots.
7. There IS such a word as “undeliverable”, which somewhat undermined our advertising slogan.
8. It IS possible to kill a man with bubblewrap.
9. The sight of one million boxes can drive a man insane.
10. I am far, far better suited to the world of music.
R.I.P. TobEx, 1984 – 1989.
Posted on June 1, 2011
Open Letter
Dear whoever,
I am writing to express my concern about things.
I’m all spud and no bluster, a fish without wings.
I’m busting out cantrips, year after year,
notes that should delight, but fall on deaf ears.
If a master composer performed out of doors,
and nobody listened, would there still be applause?
Would it drift down from the clouds and haze?
I expect your reply within 6-8 days.
Kind regards,
Toby Vok
Posted on May 31, 2011
Town Crier
On a Sunday, not so long ago, I stand in the marketplace and shout unsolicited advice and general wisdom at passers by. A small boy approaches. “Morrissey is not what he seems”, I bellow. The boy turns, frightened, and runs from my sight. Yes, Boy, I think. You do right to run.
An elderly couple hobble slowly down the street. Their slow progress is almost painful, but there is something endearing about their aged togetherness. “Never betray your location to the enemy”, I shriek. They barely react; they’ve seen it all before.
My pearls of knowledge flow freely.
“Understanding is underwhelming”.
“Be still, lest the infinite swallow you whole.”
“Do not trust a gopher.”
By the end of the day, I am simply crying “IT IS THE END”, over and over. A gentle policeman approaches.
“The end of what?” he asks, politely, sympathetically. But I have no other words. I am led from the square in tears and I know I have done as much as I can.
