Wider Reading | Ministry of Silly Names

Major Major’s father had a Calvinist’s faith in predestination and could perceive distinctly how everyone’s misfortunes but his own were expressions of God’s will. He smoked cigarettes and drank whiskey, and he thrived on good wit and stimulating intellectual conversation, particularly his own when he was lying about his age or telling that good one about God and his wife’s difficulties in delivering Major Major. The good one about God and his wife’s difficulties had to do with the fact that it had taken God only six days to produce the whole world, whereas his wife had spent a full day and a half in labour just to produce Major Major. A lesser man might have wavered that day in the hospital corridor, a weaker man might have compromised on such excellent substitutes as Drum Major, Minor Major, Sergeant Major or C Sharp Major, but Major Major’s father had waited fourteen years for just such an opportunity, and he was not a person to waste it. Major Major’s father had a good joke about opportunity. “Opportunity only knocks once in this world,” he would say.  Major Major’s father repeated this good joke at every opportunity.

Being born with a sickly resemblance to Henry Fonda was the first of a long series of practical jokes of which destiny was to make Major Major the unhappy victim throughout his joyless life. Being born Major Major Major was the second. The fact that he had been born Major Major Major was a secret known only to his father. Not until Major Major was enrolling in kindergarten was the discovery of his real name made, and then the effects were disastrous. The news killed his mother, who had lost her will to live and wasted away and died, which was just fine with his father, who had decided to marry the bad-tempered girl at the A & P if he had to and who had not been optimistic about his chances of getting his wife off the land without paying her some money or flogging her.

Catch 22, by Joseph Heller

Much has been writ about how Joseph Heller could only make sense of the realities of war through farce. Less has been writ about how the same can be said of the realities of names. The real-life example Major Major’s name immediately calls to mind is, of course, Neville Neville, Phil and Gary Neville’s father, forever immortalised by a song sung to the tune of Bowie’s Rebel Rebel:

Neville Neville, they’re in defence

Neville Neville, their future’s immense

Neville Neville, they ain’t half bad

Neville Neville, the name of their dad

But more relevant to the here and now – for there is nothing in football now more irrelevant than Gary Neville – is the way recent high-profile military names have once again proved Heller’s novel right. Or, more specifically, to be no more ridiculous than the actual Western military is capable of being. Has there ever been a more hilariously appropriately-named general to lead an American intervention in the Middle East than CARTER HAM, currently taking on Gaddafi? I mean, the whole Islam/pork thing aside, apparently HAM is also a US military slangly acronym for the grammatically problematic idiom, ‘Hard At Motherfuckers’. As in, marines, we're going HAM on this one! AND as everybody knows, US marines look a bit like hams. Big, sweaty, meaty ham hocks in desert fatigues. In the same way that Dave Cameron looks like a robot made of ham. Processed supermarket ham. Which tastes horrid.

Carter Ham                               Ham Hock

Ham                                     Cam

Meanwhile, have there ever been two names more representative of the atmosphere of public school masculinity (‘Play up! Play up! And play the game!’ etc.) that still, according to acquaintances of mine currently tearing up Sandhurst, dominates the upper echelons of the British Army, than AIR CHIEF MARSHAL JOCK STIRRUP and GENERAL FRANCIS RICHARD DANNATT? Is it possible to forge for oneself an eminent career in the British Army without having a surname that represents the onomatopoeic equivalent of a punch in the mouth?

We are living through a Golden Age of silly high-ranking military names. All we need now is somebody who comes close to matching Cromwell’s best-named officer, Praisegod Barebone, and we can consider ourselves truly blessed.

SKS

Wider Reading | A Personal Letter From David Cameron To Silkworms Ink

Editors' note:

This morning we were all rather surprised by the arrival of six SAS men and their MI6 handlers, unannounced, landing in a helicopter on the roof of the Silkworms offices. Once we'd disarmed them and taken them prisoner, they soon explained to us that they'd actually intended to make contact with us in order to deliver a personal letter from the Prime Minister himself, Mr. David William Donald Cameron. Whether or not the author of said letter was really Mr. Cameron remains to be seen, especially as the SAS men turned out not to be SAS men at all but civil servants from the Ministry of Sound wearing camouflage and fluorescent headbands. Regardless, we felt it was our duty to print it as another exciting and traffic-encouraging chapter in Silkworms' history. Letter follows below.

Dear Editors,

I just wanted to express my delight at your ongoing series of musical mixtapes - and your site as a whole, by the way. Five young people going out there and blogging for themselves really is a symbol of what I mean to do with the Big Society - after all, people can't expect the government to go around blogging for them all the time. But let me make one thing quite clear.

I was delighted to see that the latest album from experimental artist PJ Harvey has been so thoroughly critically acclaimed and done so well in the charts - I have always been a fan of hers, I have always enjoyed her music, and I admire her as a Briton. I have listened to many of her songs over the years, and I particularly enjoy (just put in any of them APART FROM THE ONE ABOUT THE ABORTION IN THE WATER). In fact, I should like to point out that Let England Shake is itself a love letter to modern Conservatism. But let me make one thing quite clear.


The jaunty 'The Last Living Rose' stands out immediately as a fine example of Tory policy - the first lines, '"Goddamn Europeans!" representing our traditional Eurosceptism and our determination that Britain, modern Britain, must remain its own entity. We also see the paradox of Broken Britain and Britain the World Leader in those conflicting lines about "beautiful England" and "the filthiness of ages". We see concern for crime and alcoholism, so neatly encapsulated by "drunken beatings", and, most importantly, we see a rebuke towards the previous administration's valuation of our nation's gold reserves with those memorable lines, "gold hastily sold/for nothing". (Eagle-eared listeners may also spot a reference to Mr Brown's extended, unelected stay as PM in 'England', as she croons, 'people, they stagnate with time, like air'.) But let me make one thing quite clear.


Then, of course, the jangling title track, 'Let England Shake', refers to "Bobby" coming home to tell the narrator that indifference won. I see through Ms. Harvey's sense of truly British irony - she is in fact referencing the splendid victory of Conservative MP Robert Wilson in 2005 for the seat of Reading East - a by-election in which indifference most certainly did not win, in which it could never have won, because we live in a country like Britain that has belief in its politicians. But let me make one thing quite clear.


And then there's the running theme of 'war' throughout the album; a tone that all at once evokes dismay at the continued ill-treatment of our soldiers overseas, criticises the government that sent them into a war without ever doing so explicitly or without coming out and calling it 'illegal', as well as showing respect and honour to these brave men and women. It is not a confused response from the point of view of a singer-songwriter. And, obviously, neither is it a confused response from a nation's Conservative government. But let me make one thing quite clear.

This is not some shallow attempt to grab attention for oneself by invoking a subject which is currently very popular (neither, obviously, is this letter). Any on-the-nose qualities that might go with the territory of being a concept album that 'deals with' Modern Britain - particularly, I feel, that mention of "drunken beatings" and the entirety of 'The Words That Maketh Murder', apart from its killing final line - are cancelled out by the still, quiet simplicity of the heavily Eliot-influenced pronouncements and natural observations that conclude many of the tracks (and which sometimes make up the whole song - see 'In The Dark Places'). As Ms. Harvey intones on 'On Battleship Hill',


"Cruel nature has won again."


I do hope you see fit to publish this small article - and I hope many of your patriotic readers and audience overseas will come to see the essential, modern, engaged Conservatism of PJ Harvey's Let England Shake. I shall also be sending in a mixtape of the greatest songs by Nas (none of that Distant Relatives horseshit) and a collection of my own poetry, entitled 'Dave Speaks Out'. But let me make one thing quite clear.


Yours,


David William Donald Cameron,
Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland

Wider Reading | Free Screenplay. 'Trojan: First Sequence. An Erotic Thriller.'

TROJAN

BAD NEIGHBOURHOOD ON THE INTERNET, EXT, DAY

OUR HERO (played by SHIA LE BOEUF. I wish he wasn’t, but it’s just his sort of film.) is taking a shortcut through a seedy neighbourhood of the Internet. He looks nervous. He should be.



A COMMAND PROMPT (DANNY TREJO) steps out of the shadows. He's smoking a Cuban cigar.

McAfee VirusAlert’s sirens are going off, in the distant far corner of the screen. OUR HERO’s eyes flicker towards them.

No amount of Partypoker adverts could be as terrifying as this sight.

COMMAND PROMPT:

Hey, homes...you wan’ install xtcjrf.frrjh.ehch? YES. NO.

OUR HERO:

No, thank you.

OUR HERO tries to reach the end of the alley and get to the VirusAlert. But COMMAND PROMPT is too fast for him, popping up into his path. He pulls out a knife.

COMMAND PROMPT:

I said, you wan’ install xtcjrf.frrjh.ehch? YES. NO.

OUR HERO:

No!

COMMAND PROMPT:

I ain’t playin’ wit’ ya, homes. You wan’ install xtcjrf.frrjh.ehch? YES. NO.

OUR HERO:

(Frantic)

Restart! Restart!

OUR HERO restarts his computer. He blacks out.


COMPUTER, INT, DAY


When OUR HERO wakes up, he’s surprised to see not his familiar desktop screen, but a slightly suspicious-looking menu in a suit (WILLIAM FICHTNER.)

If William Fichtner is not available, Joe Pantoliano will play the role of the untrustworthy antagonist.

THINKPOINT:

Good evening, sir. Name’s Thinkpoint. Anti-Spyware Unit. You mind if I have a look around?

OUR HERO:

Er...do you have any credentials?

THINKPOINT flashes a badge that looks like the Windows logo. But it doesn’t look quite right. OUR HERO frowns.

OUR HERO:

So you’re an anti-spyware programme installed on my computer? I, er...don’t recall seeing you around here before.

THINKPOINT:

I’m undercover, sir. Before you load up your computer, I’m going to have to make a scan – see if those viruses are still around.

THINKPOINT begins to scan the computer, without waiting for a reply.


OUR HERO’s suspicious now. He begins to sidle over to Task Manager.

THINKPOINT:

(Without turning)

I wouldn’t touch that, sir. It’s almost certainly infected.

OUR HERO:

I just...thought I’d check if there were any dodgy systems running on my computer.

THINKPOINT:

That’s my job, sir. You just stay still while I scan the system.

OUR HERO, remembering his GCSE IT training, attempts to open the Internet Explorer bar.


When he turns around, THINKPOINT’s aiming a gun at him. He smiles, nastily.

THINKPOINT:

I’m afraid I can’t let you check my credentials online, sir.

OUR HERO gapes.

OUR HERO:

You! You’re the virus. I suspected as much.

THINKPOINT:

You had to keep pushing, didn’t you? You had to keep asking questions.

(Through gritted teeth)

It would all have gone down smoothly. I’d have finished the scan;

Then I’d have told you your computer was deeply, horribly infected and asked you to download my advanced software, at a cost of $99. It would have been the perfect crime.

OUR HERO:

So. When it comes down to it, you’re nothing more than a common thief.

OUR HERO’s taunting THINKPOINT; keeping him talking. All the while, his fingers are tapping away behind his back, at his roommate’s laptop.

A secret message, into Google.

‘Thinkpoint Scam Removal’.

GOOGLE SEARCH ENGINE, INT, DAY


Two ENTRIES, mere drones among thousands, are talking amongst themselves as they work at their screens. ENTRY 1, neatly dressed and youngish, taps away at his computer’s keyboard.

ENTRY 1:

Hey, Entry 2 – got a guy here who says he’s infected with the Thinkpoint virus. Told him to get on Task Manager and shut down the process; and from there he can wipe it off his computer with his real anti-spyware software. What a noob.

Then he frowns.

ENTRY 1:

Huh. Apparently Thinkpoint won’t let him open Task Manager. Cunning bastard.

He taps his fingers, a little frantically, on the desk.

ENTRY 1:

Well, I mean...if Thinkpoint has all the exits sealed off, if he can’t get to any of his anti-virus programmes or to Task Manager...well, we should probably call in an airstrike. Nuke the computer. We might lose the hostage and a few of his Word documents, but-

ENTRY 2 puts down his whiskey bottle. He’s unshaven, aging and dissolute; but there’s a powerful glint in his eye.

ENTRY 2:

I know how to get him into Task Manager.

ENTRY 1

Sure you do, old timer. There’s a reason you’re the second entry on Google, and I’m the first. Your maverick ways aren’t well-liked around here.

ENTRY 2 leans urgently in to his microphone.

ENTRY 2:

All right, kid – listen up. Restart your computer again. At the very moment when Thinkpoint begins to scan, open up Task Manager. He’ll be too busy scanning to notice. Close the process.

(Rummaging through his papers)

Now, Thinkpoint’s smart, so even if he’s closed down, he won’t let you onto your desktop screen. But I know a secret entrance.

(Pause; grimly)

Using Task Manager, go to ‘Start’, ‘Run’, and type in ‘explorer.exe.’ That should be enough to get you to Internet Explorer. You can wave down an anti-spyware programme from there. Good luck, kid.

He leans back from the microphone. ENTRY 1 is staring at him.

ENTRY 1:

I hope to God you’re right.

COMPUTER, INT, DAY


OUR HERO nods, and lowers his flat-mate’s computer. He raises his finger, slowly, to the restart button.

THINKPOINT gazes at him, amused.

THINKPOINT:

That won’t stop me, boy.

OUR HERO presses the button. He blacks out.

COMPUTER, INT, DAY

OUR HERO opens his eyes. THINKPOINT is still standing before him.

THINKPOINT:

I told you, boy – you’ll never be rid of me!

(Laughing horribly)

Now, I think it’s about time I scan your system again. Maybe that’ll convince you to buy my full version for $99!

He turns. And OUR HERO dives for Task Manager-


-Quickly clicking on the PROCESSES menu, finding the process called ‘hotfix.exe’ and ending it-


And the lights go out. The desktop screen goes dark.


We hear THINKPOINT’s voice.

THINKPOINT:

Very clever, boy. But I’ve got the desktop closed off. I can’t leave; neither can you. There’s no escape.

We hear his footsteps, in the darkness, getting closer.


OUR HERO types in, through Task Manager, ‘run explorer.exe’.


The lights come back on. And THINKPOINT is nowhere to be seen.

OUR HERO dashes down the stairs. We hear THINKPOINT roaring, from above,

THINKPOINT:

Boy! I do this for a living, boy!

A MALICIOUS POP-UP smacks into the wall just over OUR HERO’s head, exploding in a shower of Smileys and secrets of getting dentist-clean teeth.

OUR HERO keeps running. He makes it to the front door of Internet Explorer and begins to pound frantically on it.

OUR HERO:

Mcafee! Mcafee, where the hell are you?

MCAFEE SQUAD CAR, INT, DAY

Obese, uniformed MCAFEE is enjoying a nice jam donut when a call comes in over his radio.

CALLER:

Bill, we’ve received a message that there might be a virus in your neighbourhood.

MCAFEE:

Looks pretty quiet to me. Crank caller, you think?

CALLER:

Maybe, but check it out all the same.

MCAFEE:

All right, all right.

(Grumbling)

They don’t pay me enough for this shit.

Still grumbling beneath his breath, he dusts the sugar granules off his chest and gets out of the car.


COMPUTER, EXT, DAY

THINKPOINT circles the walls of Internet Explorer. He’s pissed off now, and mean.


He finds a door, and tries the handle. It turns.

Then we hear,

MCAFEE:

Scuse me!

THINKPOINT turns. MCAFEE is waddling down the alleyway.

MCAFEE:

Could I ask you a few questions, sir?

THINKPOINT rummages in his suit pocket and produces his Windows badge.

THINKPOINT:

That’s quite all right, officer. Anti-Spyware unit. We’d received a call that there was a virus in this area.

MCAFEE:

Same one we heard. Musta been some kinda wind-up, you think?

THINKPOINT:

Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s my daughter’s sax recital tonight, too. Shame to be spending my evening on some wild goose chase instead.

He and MCAFEE share a fraternal chuckle. Silence, for a moment.

MCAFEE:

Well, if you’ve got this area locked down, I’ll be getting back to the squadcar. Good night, sir.

THINKPOINT:

Good night, officer.

He waits for MCAFEE’s footsteps to recede, and then turns the handle and slips into the house.


INTERNET EXPLORER, INT, DAY

THINKPOINT enters the empty room. He glances about him, seething. Listening.

Then turns. OUR HERO is standing, in the corner, a kitchen knife in his hand. He’s trembling.

THINKPOINT grins. Finally, it’s over.

THINKPOINT:

It’s time to stop running, boy.

OUR HERO:

(Bravely)

It’s over, Thinkpoint. They’re coming for you now.

THINKPOINT laughs at him.

THINKPOINT:

(Sneering)

Oh, of course...I forgot! Friendly old Officer Mcafee’s coming to help you, isn’t he?

(Pause)

I hate to disappoint you, but he’s not coming for you. Nobody’s coming for you.

OUR HERO’s courage seems to quaver. He blinks, uncertainly.

THINKPOINT:

You’re beaten, boy.

(Shouting)

NOW BUY – MY FULL VERSION – FOR $99!

He raises his gun. Aims.

A single shot.


THINKPOINT frowns, as if confused. Then he topples over, dead. His gun goes off in his hands, firing a toxic bullet full of hot girls in OUR HERO’s local area and shattering a window.

SPYWARE DOCTOR (HALLE BERRY) is standing in the doorway, her SCANNER-GUN smoking. For no reason, she’s dressed as Catwoman.

I don't know. Maybe she was on her way to a Hallowe'en party. Maybe it's ironic.

She lowers the gun, slowly.

SPYWARE DOCTOR:

Virus neutralised.

OUR HERO and SPYWARE DOCTOR rush to one another. They start to like, totally make out and junk.

SPYWARE DOCTOR:

I love you.

OUR HERO:

I know.

Then she pulls back.

SPYWARE DOCTOR:

Oh, by the way, you’ve only installed my free trial version. In order to actually delete THINKPOINT from your system, you will have to purchase me in full.

OUR HERO:

(In sudden horror)

Wait - WHAT?

CUT TO BLACK.

FIN.