Me and Me Too. Even You

Pepé Le Pew.svg

Source: Wikipedia

That moment when the penny finally drops about misogyny:

Me and Me Too. Even You

Signals saturate the spectrum
But now the noise is clearing
We can hear what we’ve been taught

The brooding dripping man film
Blade Runner. Deckard demanding
Rachel’s compliance
It’s OK she isn’t human
Listen

Bond, being James Bond
And we all wanted that
Magnetic watch
It’s all about the gadget
Not the girl. Listen

Today. Searching for the perfect gif
My cleverness and wit
I hear at last
The true lesson taught
At our mother’s teat
No never means no
You, Pepe le Pew. Even You

Ruswa Fatehpuri 2018

I wrote this while thinking of the perfect gif with which to respond to a friend on facebook – she had posted something about a hair colour change. Pepe losing his stripe or Penelope gaining one is a frequent plot device in the cartoons. It was going to be hilarious. Then I really saw what I was looking at.

Oh, and the fact that I masquerade in poet guise as Ruswa Fatehpuri is a poorly kept and entirely uninteresting secret. Was.

And if you are going to dive into a Blade Runner rabbit hole that involves Deckard really being a replicant you’ve pretty well missed the point.

End

Find out more about my writing here.

There is a Ruswa Fatehpuri chapbook out there too

 

 

 

 

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The Nunicorn

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A Nunicorn  – not a horse with a horn, a donkey with a hook!

The Nunicorn

(a story for children of all ages)

The myth about fairies and unicorns, Nobby thought to himself, was that they weren’t all nice and noble. He plodded his way along the dirt track, his heavy hooves leaving deep imprints in the mud. Earlier a pair of unicorns had galloped by, seeming to float over the ground and looking magnificent of course. They didn’t notice the thick clods they threw up into Nobby’s face. Nobby was a nunicorn and no one cared what he thought.

The cart creaked and swayed behind him. At least that did not weigh much. He was meant to have a load of bright red apples from the orchard, but instead he had a barrel of seashells. Pippin the apple fairy had promised to transform them for him on the outskirts of the fairy village.

Everyone thought fairies only drank nectar straight from flowers, and unicorns munched grass in unspoilt forest glades, but they all loved apples and someone had to haul them in. Pippin remembered what it was like to be an outcast and quietly helped Nobby in his thankless duty. They had to keep it a secret though because the magic people were still a bit scared of Pippin’s ability to turn anything she touched into an apple. Fortunately, while the fairies and unicorns were graceful and lovely they weren’t very bright, and so far Nobby had never been caught.

It was a long trudge from the seashore and Nobby was covered in sweat by the time he reached the meeting point with Pippin. She was nowhere to the seen. With a sigh, Nobby dipped his head and let the thick rope attached to the cart slip off the hook that protruded from his forehead.

“Ho Nobmeister!” A unicorn appeared in a sudden cloud of road dust, rearing up magnificently on his hind legs. It was Fidelio. The unicorn nosed his way to the cart, trying to nudge aside the canvas covering the barrel.

“Give us an apple,” he said. Most people who love unicorns don’t know they can speak, which is just as well because they are not very well spoken.

“Can’t,” Nobby replied, truthfully. It was impossible to lie to a unicorn.

“Why the flippin’ ‘eck not?” Fidelio snorted and pranced back a few steps.

Nobby desperately thought of an excuse. Where was Pippin, she had promised to be here?

“They’re not quite ready yet,” he said. It wasn’t precisely a lie, and Fidelio did not seem to notice.

“Want one.” Fidelio nosed towards the barrel again.

“It’s your choice of course,” Nobby said with a shrug, “but if you eat those I think you’ll get a terribly upset tummy.” He looked meaningfully at Fidelio’s bushy silver tail. “I’m not sure you could lift that high enough to keep it clean.”

Unicorns are also terribly vain. Fidelio backed away and Nobby breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh Nobby, you’re exaggerating.” Nobby jumped at the new voice.

Pippin was leaning on the cart and held out an apple to Fidelio in one gloved hand. Her other hand was hidden behind her back.

“Yeah, Nobbo. Exaggerating.” If Fidelio wanted to complain more his words were lost in a sudden mouthful of apple. He pranced off with a shake of his magnificent mane.

“That was close.” Nobby twisted to give Pippin a nuzzle and she offered him an apple. As always it was juicy and crunchy and sweet.

“Sorry Nobby, there was a terrible storm last night and it has made travel really difficult.” Pippin flapped water from her wings and lifted a muddy shoe.

“Tell me about it, I’ve been slogging through this sticky muck all morning.”

“Oh Nobby,” Pippin said, scratching the base of his hook, “things will get better for you one day, I’m sure.”

Nobby dropped his head, Pippin was one of the few fairies that was kind to him. The others had no time for someone who looked as odd as he did. If something wasn’t lovely and pretty and nice the fairies had trouble accepting it. They assumed that anything outside their narrow view of what was beautiful must be either evil or pitied. The unicorns were just mean. A nunicorn, they said, wasn’t even a thing, it was a mistake. Everyone knew there were mundane horses and donkeys, and stupendous horses with a magic horn called unicorns. There were even legends of an exceptional horse with two magic horns called a bicorn, but no one had seen one of those. Then they looked at Nobby. Whoever heard of a donkey with a hook? they said. That is exactly what Nobby was.

“I’ve got an idea!” Pippin said, grabbing Nobby’s gristly mane in excitement. “If you could do something really brave, or really spectacular everyone would have to change the way they think about you.”

Nobby shook his head and took a couple of steps backwards. Pippin could get over excited and if she touched him with an ungloved hand she would turn him into an apple.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, maybe you could save someone in danger, or find something no one else could.”

“Like the bicorn?” Nobby snorted, “no that can’t be right. Why should I have to do something special to be treated with basic respect. What you’re saying is that because I am different I have to work harder than everyone else. Why is that fair?”

Pippin sighed. “I think you’re expecting the world to be fair, and it isn’t.”

Nobby regretted his outburst. The fairies had been unkind to Pippin and were still not welcoming. But he still felt angry. He and Pippin were as they were and fairies and unicorns should just accept it. He dipped his head and picked up the strap for the cart, resting it against his forehead.

“Come on Pippin. You hop into the cart and transform those shells, and I’ll get us underway. Everyone will be wondering where their apples have got to.”

They hadn’t gone far when they heard shouting from the road ahead. They rounded a corner and found the two unicorns that had gone galloping ahead stuck in muddy bog caused by a dip in the road. Fidelio was prancing around the edge of the bog and not doing anything useful.

“Help,” the unicorns cried. “We’re stuck in this sticky stuff and getting stucker. It’s all over our shiny coats and getting stuck in our silky manes.” They both whinnied and shook their heads, spraying mud all over. Fidelio gave a yelp and backed away, unwilling to get dirty.

“Now’s your chance Nobby.” Pippin jumped down from the cart and hurried to the edge of the mud.

“I’m not doing this for your silly plan Pip. I’m doing this because it is the right thing to do,” Nobby grumbled. He dropped the strap attached to the cart and with a twist of his hook unhitched it from the cart as well.

Pippin bent down to pick it up.

“Wait!” Nobby shouted.

Pippin had been about to touch the strap with an ungloved hand. It would have turned into an apple and there would be no way to save the unicorns.

“That was lucky.” Pippin picked up the strap in her gloved hand and threw one end to the trapped unicorns. They started fighting over it.

“Give it here.”

“Leggo, give it me.”

“Stop it,” Nobby shouted at them. To his surprise they did. “One at a time or neither of you is getting out.”

Sheepishly one of the unicorns dipped its head into the strap.

“Out the way Nobmeister, this is a job for unicorn power.” Fidelio hitched the other end of the strap on his horn and began to pull. The stuck unicorn edged forward and fell back as the strap slipped off Fidelio’s horn.

“Just getting’ the hang of it,” Fidelio said. He took up the strap again. This time it slipped straight off. “Fiddlesticks,” Fidelio said. He turned to the two unicorns. “Sorry folks looks like you’re stuck forever.”

Nobby and Pippin shared an amused look. Pippin took the strap and dropped it over Nobby’s hook.

Nobby began to pull. The unicorn was heavy, and it was well stuck. Nobby pulled harder. His hooves began to slip on the wet ground. He braced himself and pulled with all his might. The edges of his vision went red, stars danced in front of his eyes. He felt his horn grow suddenly very hot. In the distance a horsey shape emerged from the trees. It shone like a black diamond and swam in Nobby’s vision. It seemed to have two horns.

Nobby gasped just as the first unicorn came out of the muck with a loud sucking schlopping pop.

“Did you see that?” he gasped.

“You were amazing Nobby,” said Pippin.

“Did you… oh nevermind.” The other unicorn was straining for the strap. When he was ready Nobby pulled again. This time his hook grew hot the first time, and just before the unicorn popped out of the mud Nobby saw the strange figure in the trees again.

Both unicorns were standing with their heads bowed, covered in mud. Fidelio pranced back and trotted around them.

“Look at the state of you. It’ll take weeks to clean that off and I don’t think you’ll ever get rid of the smell.” He stopped and looked down at Nobby. “Good job Nobbo. Seems like you’re a decent sort after all. I’ll be sure to tell the others.” With that he was off, somehow avoiding the mud pool himself.

“Well?” Pippin asked.

“Well what?”

“You’re a hero now. You should go and make the most of it.”

Nobby shook his head. He couldn’t shake the image of the strange horse with two horns.

“I’m going to go away for a while Pip. I’m off to find the bicorn. Not for them, but for me.”

Pippin’s eyes went wide. She reached out to stroke his mane and stopped. She had been reaching with an ungloved hand. “You’ll not find much if I turn you into an apple. Speaking of apples, what about those?” She pointed to the cart.

“I think the fairies and unicorns can haul their own apples for a while.”

END

Find out more about my writing here.

 

For those who have read my adult fiction, a biographical note. These children’s stories are where I started. I was enraged by a fairy story franchise that played on the acquisitiveness of children, churning out books with regurgitated storylines I can’t describe as “plots”, and merely changing the colour or gemstone of the fairy involved. So I started making up my own for the kids, rather than buy them more of this trash (because they had to have X the Xish fairy to complete the set…)

My kids preferred my stories and so the saga began. Recently my younger daughter asked me to rehash this one for her as she has a textiles project to do at school, based on her favourite story. Since I was writing it down I thought I would share it will my beloved blog followers.

Somewhere I have about 20k words of the story of Pippin Apple, which was intended to be a novel, but life intervened.

And no, I can’t draw.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Eighth Year and the Myth of Audit

yes-full

Source: https://sites.google.com/site/spritetump/odobrosonha

25 Then Joseph said to Pharaoh, “The dreams of Pharaoh are one; God has revealed to Pharaoh what he is about to do. 26 The seven good cows are seven years, and the seven good ears are seven years; the dreams are one. 27 The seven lean and ugly cows that came up after them are seven years, and the seven empty ears blighted by the east wind are also seven years of famine. [Genesis]

 

Businesses are about people. People who do, people who lead, and people who count stuff. This is about the counters. The bean counters. The dour professionals with their ledgers and their double entries. With their standards and their prudence. The accountants.

There are two distinct classes of accountant. The first win their spurs in the rarefied atmosphere of a professional services firm. They’re not the cream of their graduating class. Those guys and girls got snapped up by the boutique consultancies. They’re not the most ambitious, that group goes on to endure sixteen-hour days and bigotry in an investment bank. No, the ones who file through the doors of the big four accountancy firms to join the training treadmill are good but not great, maybe (whisper it) just a bit boring. Or shout: Pasty faced shoegazers.

The really wild ones, the ones that wear brown shoes, go into tax.

A notch further down this hierarchy go to the second-tier firms, let’s not worry about them.

And then you have the waifs and strays of the finance profession. The urchins, urchin’ around on corporate graduate schemes to become what no parent wishes for – a management accountant. I was one of those, out of university without a clue and onto the only graduate scheme that was still hiring. I became an accountant by mistake, and it took me sixteen years to stop.

There is a whiff around accountants these days. It is not as bad as the miasma surrounding bankers, who are the unwholesome spawn of Baal, but a sulphurous odour nonetheless. The failure of Carillion is a recent but not isolated lodestone for public ire.

Carillion, and all such failures, are first and foremost the failure of their own management team, but attention inevitably turns to their auditors. Where were the standards and the prudence while the company flushed its way down the toilet?

My answer lies with the Prophet Joseph and God.

Text books are filled with all the worthy roles a finance function performs to keep its host business alive and healthy. I doubt any of them mention that it plays the role of Joseph.

Being employed is as much about the certainty of employment next year as it is about this week’s wages (unless you are one of the sociopaths known as an entrepreneur). That gives the internal accountant or the commercial finance person or management accountant, call them what you will, two key but rarely mentioned tasks: dealing with lies and making life boring.

People will lie for an easy life. Whether it is the operational manager whose team could not possibly deliver cost savings next year, or the salesperson bemoaning market conditions for lower revenue target, the life of the management accountant is beset by liars. Learning the business, filtering out the bullshit and being credible in this environment is a core skill which means you can put together a coherent, challenging and achievable business plan.

Making life boring is just as important. Steady, predictable growth and modest improvements year on year keep everyone employed. Bonuses don’t fluctuate, hard questions are avoided.

Life and business aren’t like that. Myriad exogenous factors can lead to a good year or a bad year. In this the management accountant is Joseph, and her/his granaries are the balance sheet.

Putting a little bit aside in a good year is just prudence. A provision against what may befall in the future. Provisions are essentially subjective: I think I may owe someone money in the future, I’ve assessed the risk, I’ve taken a little bit out of this year’s profits against that possibility.

Often this is for a good, uncontroversial reason. Sometimes it is just because this year’s numbers are looking a bit too good, and next year might be tough. Smoothing out volatility makes everyone more comfortable, and in the medium term all profits will be declared, all taxes paid, and no harm done. A victimless crime. In fact, in the exercise of judgement and prudence, not a crime at all.

Everyone sleeps well at night.

Where is the auditor in all of this? In practical terms – utterly powerless. As a financial controller I expected my junior finance managers (around their first full year post qualification) to be able to run rings around any auditor. They could justify a provision one day, and when the corporate numbers looked a bit better the next day, argue the opposite. Sometimes they did this just to alleviate the grind of the year-end close.

Learning to deal with liars makes you quick on your feet and fills your armoury with credible half-truths and myths about the business. I’ve made up this example to protect ex-colleagues, but they’ll recognise the tone “we get more refund claims against us on a Tuesday, and next year there are more Tuesdays than this year, so some of the revenue earned this year is at risk…”

You can’t really blame the auditors. Most have never stepped outside their glass and steel edifice. As their careers progress the cream keep getting skimmed off to do business advisory work or are enticed away by corporate riches. Quality diminishes with seniority.

In which case what is the point of the tax every business has to pay in audit fees?

And so we come to God. People behave better when they think there is someone watching. A warning sign about speed cameras makes you slow down, even if you are pretty sure there is no actual camera.

Most accounting is carried out by software, most decisions, even marginal ones, are benign. The presence of the auditor is just to remind the CFO not to do something really bad. The probability that Tina or Tim nice-but-dim from DeToiletWaterhouse will actually catch you is low, but the consequences are high, so don’t do it.

That’s fine when good years are followed by bad years and more good years. But think about Joseph. What happens in the eighth year of famine? At that point the Prophet would rely not on prudence in filling the granaries, but on a miracle.

Accountants can perform miracles too. Balance sheet sleight of hand and some fast talking can draw forward future performance and prop up the eighth year. Sometimes they get away with it, the ninth year is fine, the borrowed future repaid, and everyone sleeps soundly again. Employees keep getting paid, audit fees are earned and disaster avoided. Another victimless crime?

Maybe.

No one knows with certainty what will happen in the ninth year. And at what point does Pharoah (the CEO) who has put years into a business, or a deposit on a yacht, have the incentive to say “actually, we’re toast.”

Aha, but God (aka the auditor) is watching.

True. But remember all those little white lies, the marginal provisions? We all know there is no camera.

Besides, the auditor is also invested in the business. Years of boozy lunches and advisory add-ons have been earned. Believing in the ninth year means they may be earned again. The auditor that calls foul in the eighth year is a heretic. Any business can have a run of bad luck, who wants an auditor that does not believe?

The myth is that oversight works. Thousands of years of religion have proved this to be untrue. Paradise is a long way off; the pleasures of sinning are present and immediate. God may be watching, but most of the time (floods and plagues of locusts aside) does nothing. And auditors are far from omniscient.

Just like everyone else they also want to be employed next year. Except on the very brink of disaster, there is no incentive for them to call out a business that is sinking.

The entire system needs a rethink. It is grounded in a history of manual ledgers and petty cash. The risky parts of the economy are now wholly electronically controlled. Money is digital, transactions are coded. It is possible to be omniscient about transactions. The risks are all in the making of decisions. Why force every business to pay the audit fee tax, the modern day tithe to the church, for oversight that is over-engineered and yet impotent?

Better in my view is a system which focusses where the risks are. A smaller, better experienced, commercially aware and technically well-resourced group that can spot check businesses at will. An arm of government that is protected from mixed incentives, with tools and powers to keep businesses on their toes.

If we need someone to play God, better the government than the self-interested.

END

The views expressed are strictly my own and not those of any employer past or present.

Find out more about my writing here.

TRANSCENDENT Cover Reveal

Very Excited – I have a story in this lush looking anthology, out later this year

Transmundane Press

There exists a realm beyond reality. A place where nothing is what it seems and anything is possible.

Each soul who travels to this mysterious world finds something different.

Some voyagers get lost in this land of DREAMS, forgetting their way back to the path, to home. Others experience intense VISIONS, glimmers of the past, present, and future, discovering sacred knowledge and infinite wisdom. NIGHTMARES also lurk in this land, twisted and horrible creatures wait in the darkest corners while HALLUCINATIONS reveal the unspoken truths of our hearts and souls.

Are you ready?

Step through the gate and leave everything you knew behind.

Step through the gate and become TRANSCENDENT.

Transcendent - Amazon Kindle.jpg

Dean Samed always does a wonderful job!

The Official Blurb:

A parallel dimension exists below the surface of reality.

Its doors swing open every time we sleep, allowing us passage into the land of DREAMS, a plane rich with exotic…

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Blessed are the Bottleneckers

oysterpad

The problem with automatic ticket barriers is their propensity to change location. Logic dictates that such essential train station furniture should be close to the entrance/exit and that the demands of space, power and connectivity should limit the options available to planners. Not so in your precious world, my dear bottlenecker, where these most Muggle of items are imbued with a Hogwarts staircase-esque intelligence. For you, these shiny pillars with their drab grey swing gates are a constant source of bewilderment.

You, brave traveller, know that we live in a world of perverse wizardry. Hence you arrive at the barrier wholly unprepared. How could you possibly have predicted that exiting the station may require some form of validation, or that the method would conform to such mundane rules? We should laud your courage in the face of these crippling uncertainties:

– Will there be a barrier?

– Will it be where it was yesterday, and every day before that?

– Who am I? Why am I here?

Bowed down under the weight of doubt it makes perfect sense that you don’t have your contactless payment method ready in your hand. Only when faced with the undeniable solidity of the bright yellow pad should you paw through your purse, or switch on your phone and scroll to ApplePay.

Someone churlish might suggest you could use your time on the escalator to prepare. These mechanical contrivances are long, and you’re clearly not someone in a hurry who walked up. How ignoble to suggest you sacrifice your precious time contemplating the low to high, misery to glory of your own existence, and the posters for West End shows you will never see. Who would not forgive you grappling with your existential angst and your vapid arse scratching?

It’s not as though you inconvenienced that many people at the ticket barrier itself. Most of your fellow travellers are far behind, caught in a pile-up at the top of the escalator. When you stepped off it was essential that you stop and survey this new world the moving walkway had magically transported you to.

How boorish of the people behind to think you should be expected to keep walking. You who have clawed out of the cocoon of the London tube system into a bright reality of backlit advertising. This emergence should be celebrated, not bound by the relentless industry of the escalator, spewing forth the rest of humanity into your back. Why should you, in this moment of rapture, take a single step to the side?

You are a pilgrim through life. Your every step is holy. The world is a cruel and uncertain place, its hallmark is its unpredictability. Its pleasures are few and to be savoured. So pause often, in the tightest of spaces, in the most inconvenient bottlenecks. Make your skin like armour against the barging shoulders and the barbs of “moron” and “imbecile”.

Blessed are the bottleneckers for they shall inhibit the underground.

END

Find out more about my writing here.