A hiding to nothing

Blog entry posted by Quilp, Mar 2, 2014.

Please do not read if easily offended. This is a fictional account and any references to anyone living, or dead, is entirely coincidental :)

The year : 2014; the location, London; the reality....somewhat vague.
What is certain is that a man, a Professor, claimed to possess an ability to cure the very sick, wake the very comatose, and stir the very ....dead.

A young reporter, eager to learn more, and the Professor, eager to say more, met in a London Pub along the banks of the River Thames.
The young journalist, expecting a rather professorial countenance, was, to his surprise, looking at a man wearing a trilby hat, covering a yellow balaclava, and sporting a gold medal.

A dress that was fitted in haste, covered only by a loosely fitting black mack, completed the figure staring back at him.

Q : SW ?

SW : Not that name, I am being watched, possibly followed.

Q : By whom ?

SW : All of them.
Call me only by the nom de plume Ali Akbar Abdullah Asif Ahmed.....Smith

Q : Can i call you Smithy ?

SW : Are you deliberately trying to blow my cover ?
Use my German appellation : Stefan Kuntz

Q : Stefan or just Kuntz ?

SW : Kuntz
No, no, no, no....... a lot of people call me that.
Refer to me as Wayne.

Q : Wayne ?

SW : Kerr

Q : Wayne Kerr

SW : Yeaaas, perhaps you could slow down on the pronunciation, Wayne.......pause.... Kerr.
It’s not natural to say it quickly.

Q : Perhaps it would be easier if I called you by another name. Something simple ?

SW : Someone oblivious you mean. Someone that no-one respects, like Peter White ?
The little hobbit wouldn’t stop coughing when the queen was placing the sword above my head.

Q : Quite

SW : I shall use my own name, a name that means something, a name that resonates throughout the world of academia. A name that strikes fear into the poor, weak and disabled, a name that.......

Q : Atos ?

SW : Why should I sit here in fear of my life ? I am Sir Simon, a descendant of King Arthur.

And it was here on March 2nd 2014 Sir Lancelot began his Gettysburg address from the Mucky Duck Pub on the banks of the river Thames.

SW : Sorry, sorry everyone, can I just say a few words.
Shush please, I have something very important to say. Yes, you in the corner, that means you too.

I am proud of who and what I am, even if there are many out there that abhor everything I stand for, hate everything I am, loathe ever word that falls from my mouth. I am Sir Professor Simon Orville Wessely and I feel no shame. I do not need an alias, I do not need to hide behind another man’s name.

Audience member : Or a woman’s dress........( laughter )

SW : What I am and what I do is not illegal

Audience member : Bloody well should be.

SW : ........and i’ll challenge anyone who says otherwise.

Had this been 1837 Russia, like Pushkin before him, Wessely may have found himself challenged to a duel, but given that the dominos had been cancelled, and the fact that most of the skinheads were on an EDL march, Wessely was like a minister preaching to an empty congregation.

Silence, punctuated only by the sound of broken glass, and a faint snigger of laughter that may, or may not, have been Peter the Great White shark himself.

If a man who was trying to stay undercover had chosen to break such cover, it is to be concluded that the manual on how to do so, had just been recited by the Professor himself.

In opening the door to strangers, some of those strangers duly entered, sat down beside him, and began to make themselves at home.

Mr One Too Many : Let me say I think your wonderful.

SW : Thank you

Mr One Too Many : You coming out like that in front of all these people. That takes guts that does; big balls that takes; big Cojones that boss; hung like a horse you mate.

SW : No, you don’t understand. I am not coming out, I am positively in, locked away, unable to get out, keys thrown away as it were.

Mr One Too Many : What a larf you are mate; juicy melons them mate, what you did and all.
Fancy coming back to my place ?

SW : No, no I don’t think........

Mr Wise : No you’re not

SW : Not what ?

Mr Wise : you’re name is Kuntz

Mr One Too Many : I’ll let you smell me Aubergines......

Mr Intellect : I think you’ll find his name is Kerr, Wayne Kerr. Said quickly to avoid any confusion.

Mr Wise : No he’s a kuntz. Everyone knows he’s a Kuntz.

Mr Intellect : I think you’ll find that the Kuntz are to be found over at the MRC.
The Kerrs, the Wayne Kerrs, are to be found at this man’s clinic.

Mr One Too Many : You calling my bird a Kuntz ?

Mr Mad Mullah : Ali Akbar Abdullah Asif Ahmed.....Smith
so glad to see you my friend.
Where’s that bullet proof vest you poppadom
What’s that you’re wearing ........ ‘Dorothy Perkins’, what is this ?
Anyways my friend do not worry. All Talibans agree not to fight if you don’t come back.
You very good warrior. Taliban so scared of Ali Smith they sleep with IED’s because they feel safer.

Mr One Too Many : You hitting on my bird mate ? I knocked two of your lot out cold down the kebab house last week. You want to make it a third Gov’ nor ?

And so the fighting began.......

Wessely may indeed have been right, for now it would seem he really was safer in Afghanistan than on the streets of London.

Other alias’s were thown into the mix like confetti at a wedding, though the scene promised more of a funeral than talk of a wedding.

He fled the scene leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, a trail that stretched beyond the Mucky Duck, beyond the banks of the river Thames, and beyond London itself.

Perhaps the worst crimes of all are those that fall between the cracks of our legal system, beyond the reach of justice, and in full gaze of the watching world.

Will anyone make that call, and if they did, who would listen ?


What must they have endured ? Those that died at their own hands, because in that lonely hour this illness finally proved too much.

They suffered because of a very real, a very painful, a very physical illness.
They did so alone, in silence, and in harrowing circumstances.

An embrace, a kiss, anything. We all need to be loved, but as I type this mournful perambulation I can’t help feeling that even if they were loved, they didn’t feel it. The illness couldn’t resist taking that from them too.

That they died feeling desolate, abandoned, with a loneliness only they knew is more than I can take. I would really like to say more, but I doubt if many would find it socially acceptable, but I rage inside nevertheless.

I still have hope. I hope that they will be forever remembered as that small group of individuals that did so much harm, to so many, for so long.
alkt likes this.
  1. taniaaust1
    Im wondering if you could change the title of this.. it gave me a big adrenaline rush (I have abnormal adrenaline too so dont need a rush like that!). By the title I thought this thread could be someone who had taken a drug OD to try to kill themselves or something like that and now wanted urgent help(things like that can happen at these forums). or post a smiley or something at the start of the title so we know its going to be a joke.