[Novel Excerpt] Roger Daltry and Derek Sport Giving Lipscombe the Job

But Roger Daltry dashed down the telephone.

‘That was Robert Lipscombe.’  ‘We’ve given him the job.’

But Derek Sport stood motionless before the giant windows, affording a [giant] panoramic view of Notting Hill and part of Portabello Market.

And now hot and excruciating beads of sweat were were [oozing] tickling and needling into Daltry’s forehead.

‘Go careful… Derek, is all I can say. I’ve heard of this guy, and the word on the street, is… he’s beside himself with madness’

‘Ya, he has a mania for certain ideas… some very tedious ideas.. such that will have you gasping for some kind of escape, perhaps even to jump out of that very window… and he never stops, I’m warning you Derek, he has ideas which will bore the hind leg off a donkey, it’s as bad as listening to someone wittering on about being left or right in politics… It’s a bad call Sport…’

Sport’s mind was clouded with eniterly different thoughts, such that Daltry may as well have been spouting pure gobbledygook.

‘He’s not all there. Listening to him is enough to test the endurance of any man. It’ll drive you to the end of your tether – you see if it won’t. You’ll regret it with bitter [lamentations] and bitterness of soul. He’ll harang you forever about who’s taking over the world, who’s secretly in control, My God! My eyes just glaze over just thinking about it. He has illusions, not only of grandeaur, but of the intricate and diabolic web the world has woven to compromise the well-meaning majority, with himself in the bargain. He’s a dashed conspiracy theorist. Is that the sort of guy you want? He’s a most eccentric conspiracy theorist. Is that the sort of guy you want running about your corridors, kIcking up a stink, raising hell, bandying about, spreading to every inch and corner, infesting the place with his broad-ranging, unsustainable, and completely ubsubstantializable notions about string pullers, overarching world agendas, and all that sort of god-foresaken automatic fanciful verily ill-begotten poppy-cock? Do you wish to expose your hard won students to one with such an affliction, one with such a compromised mind, one who’s mind, no matter how mercurial, is in the grip of an impossible delusion has come under the grasp of nothing that could be further removed from thhe truth? I assure you, [Derek] this man has ventured into new previsouly untrammeled territories of immoderation, and the news of these extravagances has not failed to reach the ears of anyone, excluding you, so it would seem, Derek, – and he peered around at him, anxiously… You’re making a grave mistake Derek, I assure you. He’ll run this place into the ground. He’ll be the final downfall of this place. And within time you’ll be among those trapsing about in the street… You! Derek Sport, And you, Derek Sport, you, trapsing around in torn tracksuit trousers, ‘whose this, in the torn tracksuit trousers? And this, Roger Daltry! What a pair they were, and brought to this pitiable pass by the badly compromised mind of one individual’.

Roger Daltry had finished his soliloquy.

But Derek Sport was pausing.

Derek was surveying the street down below, his steely eyes reflected in the window.  He surveyed the mendicants winding between flouting pouting cavorting, twisting, hat wearing, curvy or sleek, inhabitants and passers through, undulating, and histrionicising: ‘A vertitable, turnmill of exotic cloths, all interwoven round and about, from every fabric, every whelp and weave: from mendicant, to manual worker, to passengers in the cart – all just in different combobulations, and… funnily enough, all about threads,’ thought he…

‘Is he that one who goes rattling about with a bootful of gobbledy gook pamphlets and always wears some kind of absurd sandwich board?’

‘Yes that’s the one’

‘Does he always wear the same sandwich board?’

‘Always the same sandwich board.’

‘Not like us, who have different sandwiches everyday down the road.’

‘These sandwich boards seem to fly from the cornucopia of plenty’

‘You know the one, the cornucopia of plenty’

‘And it never goes stale?’

‘It seems not.’

‘Who does he think he is?’

‘He thinks he’s the big cheese, but one thing’s for sure, he’s always in a pickle.’

‘I think this sandwich board of his is becoming a little stale.’ ‘The whole thing seems to become a little stale’…

‘Roger, my dear fellow, and by the raising of his hand beckoned him over for a reassuing pat on the back. It is not rarely given for us, ever, or at least often, [perhaps even ever] [ever [even]] to ever to foresee what unprecedented new pathways may arise from applying the mind of those we might find at somewhat of a deviation from the general run of things – these types, though often unhinged, and without any kind of focal point [single outlet], may provide, perhaps unwittingly, some avenue, unbenkownsted to us, which proves to provide an avenue for some anomaly, to propagate into a meaningful and thoroughfaring progression, doubtless in harmony with the unforeseeable edge of today’s growing discrimination and procurations [mind and culture] – you see if it doesn’t: all-too-often, there comes along, the crack-pot, half-wit type, and all his foreign babblings and histrionics, and endless posturing, create for us a whole new world, and it’s our way of doing things. We give this guy a chance, see what kind of mistakes he makes, register the responses everyone makes, we let the college fall into step with whatever reactions and resonances arise. I say we give him a hand, in some new way we’ll give him some kind of an opportunity, at least allow him some kind of an agency, an asset – clear of the touchline, he’ll soon go in or out of line. No more words Daltry. The Derek Sport college is all about this kind of facilitation and exploratory. We give this man fighter’s chance. God knows, we may learn something from him. It’s nasty, in any case, to see a man like that, running about with no money, simply because of the beauty of his wife. Look at Sergei Eisenstein, who invented the unusual universal theory of relativity. Everyone had quickly concluded he was a madman, even before he opened his mouth. This man may look like a bedraggled actor, who’s been dragged at nightmare speed backwards through a thousand hedges, [by thousands of helicopters] and whose chips are but a distant memory, but I say we give him a chance.’

They usually have one chip left, on their shoulder.