It was the good old, bad old days. I had been introduced to MyT by my wife’s godson who sat fairly close to Ped at the launch in the DT offices. Still got the online photo to prove it. I arrived at the MyT party in due course and have enjoyed the frivolity and gadflying therein and hereon ever since. I have mainly kept my anonymity.
Proper name disclosed by e-mail to hmb, Brendano, Ferret, Bearsy and Boadicea. I have met the aforementioned uxorial godson and Ferret in person. I have heard the voices of Ara and Bilby chatting in their garden in an audio posting and I have spoken on the phone to godson and Ferret.
And to The Bulletin.
One of the best posters ever on MyT, in my opinion. The trouble was that he got zapped even more often than Janus. It got to the point where I would log in of a morning, read another great TB post, go off to work and then rush home to discover that it had vanished yet again because some sad person had reported it. Eventually, he got expunged completely in the Badger way.
I was, admittedly, responsible for a self-extirpation by TB. He had been terminally diagnosed and had posted a picture of the myriad pills which he had to take stacked next to his PC. Said picture disclosed his chemist’s address and his real name from which it was a matter of minutes to BT him and to get his phone number. This was at a time when there was rampant TUGism with, for example, hmb being relentlessly pursued by TUG for the name of his favourite curry house.
I duly phoned TB, introduced myself and suggested deleting the post. He did with an online thanks to me.
Anyhow, I had thought that I had lost all of his posts until tonight. I was tidying up my C drive when I came across one that I must have saved, anticipating the usual zap. Part of his ‘Statue’ series. PB and Low Wattage had both commented before it disappeared.
‘The Bulletin’s Greatest Hits- Track 1
- Ballade de Adelaide Street
I weary of lying in Adelaide Street,
When nights in Old Compton aught be more meet.
Nay down that pink lit strip I do not go,
No Admiral Duncan and no pink oboe.
Legal it could be though homophobes chide,
To mince in the sun at my Bosie’s side.
Alack! and alack! seems I must lie here,
Great writer it’s true but foremost a queer.
So from this gutter I look at the stars,
While worse men than I are cruising in cars.
This wrought iron face is Reading’s old lag,
So why can’t those vandals leave me my fag.’
And though modern actors can make me cry,
I’m really quite fond of that Stephen Fry.
Lest at quotations you are rather poor.
A tip, it was me, or George Bernard Shaw.’