FANFARE

Northland Age, Volume XVIII, Issue 37, 11 February 1949, Page 4

FANFARE

Despite the fact that I have said on other and divers occasions that it is my mission in life to insult all and sundry, individually and collectively, that does not debar me from having fans.

People write in to ask my ruling on diverse controversial subjects, and 1 in Solomon-like wisdom, announce judgment through the post. . Our office staff is burdened by the amount of my fan mail, and my chief suggests that if I don’t put an end to it somehow, I will have to pack my traps—such as they are—and wend my way to pastures anew. This seems a prety drastic thing to threaten me with when I am but trying to edify a world that is in a . slough of moronic ignorance. But there it is, and there it stays. Let me give you a few instances of the type of thing that I am subjectedto through His Majesty’s mails. A writer says, “Dear Jay, can you tell me with any degree of certainty how caviare is made.” To which I reply, “Dear , caviare is not made in the true sense of the word, as manufactured. It’s like the devil, always with us or rather, with the virgin sturgeon from which it comes.” Another one wants a good recipe for a good cocktail. I replied to this by saying that I drink ’em, not make ’em. Then there was the young lady who slimming, as she has gained 5 lbs. suggested that I tell her a recipe for in weight and now is 6 stone 8 lbs. - I told her that she should do as I do. _ Then she would be as a true sylph, just like that little bixd that is called the ellyfant. Yet another sweet thing says that my work of late has been very, very soulful. She would like me to burst into ecstatic verse some time. I am more likely to burst into a good crop of boils, and I hope that might be the case befre ever I break into verse. There are two persons I hate and loathe in this world, and they are poets and punsters. Yet I shouln’t say a thing like that, for here is a very good friend who rendered this tribute-to my more or less worthiness : “To An Unjust Friend” (Dedicated to Plugger Jenks) Yes, I loved him like a brother, I even called him “Pal o’ mine,” Then he slandered and maligned me ; He no longer is divine. If he should go to Heaven when he dies, 1 Then I’ll steer clear, | And when my earthly span is run, I’ll try the other sphere. ! For I would rather sizzle on Hell's coals, And writhe in torture to the bitter end, Than live in Paradise with Plugger Jenks, And once more have to call lim “friend.” Wallie Hales. Now don’t you think that is really touching ? Here is a man that is prepared to go through Hell for me. He suggests that I am going to Patadise, and yet I am prepared to swear that I am in Paradise enew, when he gives me copy for the ever-hungry maw of a newspaper, or for that matter when he demonstrates the catching of fish by the southpaw method. Then there are those other fans who get grizzley at the things I write. They are the poeple who have little or no sense of humour, and cannot see at times that what I write is written in satirical manner, or with that v, onderful wealth of imagination for which I am famous (I don’t brag much, do I ?) Yet others ask that I tell of my travels in divers parts of this old globe. Now, I ask you, just how would that benefit you ? I would say to these people “Go and see for yourselves, and don’t do it through a Cook’s Tour Agency.” Experience is the thing that tells its own story—and what a story 1 Having got that little bit of philosophising from the region of my tronchial tubes, I shake my hoary old whiskers, and retire peacefully to my fixeside nook, there to-dream of what was, v.hat is, and what might have been. I have received letters from Ministers of the Crown, with a particular reference to the Minister of Finance, I who says, “Dear Sir, unless this final j demand for payment of Income Tax is paid before, we shall be forced, etc., etc.” Nice of him, wasn’t it ? Then there are societies who think that I am worthy of some of their attention. They remark that they have read articles of mine which show

that I am prone on occasions—on occasions only, mark you—to have a glass of the cup that cheers. I presume they mean beer. Such plebian stuff !■ They send me pretty tracts, and hope that I will vote the liquor out at the next referendum. That’s a thought. But where shall I vote it out to ? To the bottom of the sea, they suggest. I do not think that Diver Johnstone would relish such keen competition \ as there would then be, do you ? Others send me little gifts. Eggs that have apparently outlived their usefulness. Pies avec whiskers. Old love letters ; socks that want darning badly or goodly ; sehnapper that have seen better days. A stray shark or two. Empty beer bottles, and so on ad lib. Such is fame, and such is the attempt to cajole me into giving away secrets that over the years have come my way. Persons have asked to dissipate a reputation in ten minutes that has already taken me a lifetime to acquire such as it is. So you see how it is. I’m willing to answer all this fan mail, but it seems that it is growing to the extent of a Hollywood star, and at the same time I refuse to send autographed copies of my photo if postage is not enclosed. In other words, dear readers, lay orf it a bit, will yer ?