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HOW TO BE LIBELLOUS

I once sent an extract from this book to Willo, thinking he might find it funny. Willo's response was as follows:

He's a fucking paedophile. Some of the greatest minds in the world were idle. Dick. It ranks up there with 'Smoking Grass can't rob you of your ambition, if all you want to do is get high'. Cockface. Fucking attention seeking twat tissue. Get off my planet, if you can't be arsed, or if being idle is that great, hook yourself up to a machine, which purifies your useless innards and feeds (by way of a tube) hungry children.

You vapid, turd chewer. Just because he is a lazy bastard he thinks he can pass off his own idleness as genius by equating it to the fact that Socrates used to piss about in his bathrobe from time to time. Oh, and it's a convenient excuse to have a picture of his puffy face on the front of the Guardian magazine, looking like his brain has been slapped with a birch and salt rubbed in his eyes.

Someone mentioned the book in their Livejournal, and I cut and pasted Willo's shouties in the comments section. Now, I loved Willo (pictured, having pretty eyes) for writing it, and I didn't think it would be possible to love him more until his comment got a comment FROM THE MAN HIMSELF. He can't even spell his own name. It all got deleted, but luckily a copy was automatically forwarded to my hotmail. Here it is:

Subject: Re: the voice of dissent
Hello chaps.

Thank you for all the nice comments but I suggest you remove this post as it's one of the most libellous things I've ever read and the strange twisted twat who wrote it could get roasted alive. Of course, it's against my philosophy to fight evil with evil (as only evil can win) but my philosophy may change.

Thanking you

Tom Hodgkison

______

My uncle Peter died. He had a voice like Alan Rickman and he was very prickly and rude, very dry and sly, and fucking funny. He looked Byronic and wore a heavy silver bracelet. He thought the Bodyform advert was funny and he used to scream "Waaah, Bodyform!" in the cafe where he waited for his magazine contacts. He edited a magazine in Penzance, which was like a decent version of the Private Eye, and my dad and I had a page in it called "Believe it or Don't!"

A local newspaper has published an obituary for him, which follows.

The journalist Peter Wright-Davies, who published the Peninsula Voice magazine during the late '80s and early '90s, has died aged 65.

He had worked as a reporter on a number of newspapers in the Midlands before moving to West Cornwall.

A former colleague writes:

"Peninsula Voice had been started up in 1982 as an 'alternative magazine' by a co-operative of local writers and artists.

"It had always been an entertaining mix of serious reporting, humour, reviews, profiles and comment, attracting talented writers, photographers and cartoonists - but when Peter took it over in late 1987 he added his own brand of investigative journalism.

"He was tireless in exposing injustice and corruption in public life. Several of the stories he broke were followed up by the national media but, while he was always generous in promoting the work of Voice contributors, Peter never gave himself a name by-line, usually signing off modestly with PWD.

"During the years he ran the Voice, PWD was not only its publisher and chief reporter, he was also the magazine's compositor and distributor.

"The circulation figures were always a closely guarded secret, known only to Peter and Headland printers, but it was generally reckoned that many times more people read it than bought copies.

"One role that PWD was reluctant to claim was that of editor, vowing that an editor was something he could never be - the necessary caution and compromise being anathema to him.

'Publish and be damned' was always Peter's style.

"Unfortunately, it was sometimes a case of publish and face the threat of legal action. The bills eventually helped kill off Peninsula Voice.

"However, Peter was, rightly, proud of his achievement in exposing scandals while keeping the magazine going for so long - and he was living proof that Dr Johnson got it wrong when he said: 'No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money'.

"The Voice never made any money. PWD wrote because he believed passionately that his readers deserved the whole truth, or at least, as much of it as he could dig out - and he was a very shrewd and honest reporter.

"Peter was a character of intriguing contrasts.

"Although his journalism made him a well known figure to countless people across Cornwall, he was a very private man, living quietly near Newlyn with his wife Caroline, to whom he was devoted.

"Although he could be merciless in taking public figures to task in print, privately his comments about them were often surprisingly kindly."

...

"So every time I unrolled the blind, all these fat, sticky bluebottles would fall out, and there would be live ones climbing the walls." With the help of his eighth shot of whisky, Precious' eyes followed the imaginary bluebottles as he spoke. "No matter how many times I got rid of them, more would be there when I got home, all climbing up the same wall. I couldn't understand it. I emptied the bins and everything. I'm not a bad housewife. Then I remembered, under the bed..." The bar door slammed open clumsily, and they all looked around.

"Ummm..." frowned Precious. "Yeah..." he giggled, "sort of cenotaph... I'd..." and his face darkened, "oh, shit." A beautiful, vaguely battered looking girl was trotting towards the table, wrapped in damp furs and blinking through raindrops and determination. Unreasonably yellow curtains of hair framed her sharp features, and a greenish-yellow bruise bloomed on one cheekbone. Precious intercepted her and bundled her back towards the entrance. They whispered urgently at one another. Precious said what he had to say, and walked back towards his friends. The girl remained in the doorway, fists clenched at her sides.

"I'm in love with you!" she howled, with a voice like a warped cello.

"I think you'll find that's entirely your problem," said Precious reasonably, and she left.

"Who was that?" Daniel wanted to know.

"I don't know," replied Precious dismissively. Thomas winked at Daniel and said,

"Ah, that's Helen. She's a singer, performs here some nights. She's also Nicky's future girlfriend."

"Stop... talking... now," warned Precious.

"He didn't treat her as a future girlfriend just then," said Daniel. Thomas shook his head and began,

"You'll like this. He met her one night in here, about a week ago. He had a skinful and got bored of my company.
So he went and sat next to this girl Helen - the one you saw just now - she was on her own. He told her they'd met three years in the future, and had this big romance. Somehow he managed to work out her favourite drink - stuff about her past - and I have to hand it to him, he was brilliant. She was loving it. But the thing is, after about half an hour he started believing it himself. At the end of the night, he beat her up for cheating on him."

"I didn't beat her up. I just pushed her."

"Yeah, into a wall, with your fist," said Thomas reprovingly. Daniel blinked.

"So you didn't even get laid?"

"Nope."

"But if you know she's going to cheat on you, you can stop it happening, treat her a little better. Why didn't you make a go of it - knowing what you know now?"

"What I know now is that I never loved her - not the way I wanted to."

"You seriously believe you knew her, you nut," jeered Daniel.

"I just couldn't bear the thought of her with someone else." Precious' voice was soft and calm. His eyes swept up dangerously. "I should have killed her. There was nothing linking me to her."

"If you're psychic," said Daniel, deliciously, "how come you haven't punched me for fucking your ma yet?"

"My psychic powers tell me, Dan, that you have all the personality of... that cork over there."

"I have to say," remarked Thomas "I'm not psychic and even I could tell she was the cheating type." Precious coughed irritably.

"Look, I'm not claiming to be psychic. Can we talk about something else now, please?" Thomas leaned closer.

"The best part was where he sang her a song and told her she wrote it... in the future. And she started crying."

"I don't remember that part," sneered Precious. "Anyway... shut the fuck up. She's crap in bed, pulls weird faces. Who wants more beer."