Let me tell you about Jennifer.
Now Jennifer is a really nice girl. She is a pretty brunette, good-tempered and sexy with it. At least she was.
It all started early in 1998. She, like many others, was attracted by film publicity. You know the sort of rubbish they turn out "It is the greatest thing since tie-up shoelaces" or "This film is so big that it won't fit into your cinema but we have produced a very special cut-down version just for you."
The publicity for the film had a bigger budget than all the other films released in 1998. With all this publicity, you must know the film I mean. It is a story with an unhappy ending that everyone knows about in advance.
The film was accompanied by all sorts of gimmicks like the films: "How this film was made." "How the film of this film was made" and "How the film that was made up from bits left on the cutting room floor was made."
I must admit that the title they chose for this so-called magnificent film was very apt. It was just called "Moronic".
The film portrayed the way a lot of happy people met their deaths when the ship sank. It was the sort of sad film which can only be shown in cinemas with storm drains fitted to prevent flooding. The proprietors also had to have extractors fitted to prevent salt pollution of the sewage system. It was the weepie to end all weepies.
The film featured the doings of a poor boy who wanted to make good in the new country. The actor who played the part was a certain Lenny da Pricuppio. All the women who saw the film fell in love with him including my (ex?) girlfriend Jennifer. I was in despair. Here was this chap who apparently lived up to his name who had done nothing but play silly idiots in front of a movie camera and every woman fancied him. Boyfriends, partners and husbands could not compete with this two-dimensional hero. I suffered the same fate. It was alright to start with, in a sort of a way. Lovemaking was better than ever but there was a snag. (There always is a snag.) It only worked for her if she pretended that I was Lenny. This tends to deflate the ego (amongst other things) after a time. Even Viraggro is no good in those circumstances.
I looked around for a solution. As I am an SF reader, I tried to think of any ideas from the stories I had read which might somehow sort things out. I discounted fantasy because the magicians always seemed to grant the wishes that one would rather not have wished. They were all like that chap Mince Rind in the Risk World stories. I therefore did not look for a magician.
The SF stories about space travel were too far away and those that dealt with future events would take too long to happen. I needed something from SF that would work in the here and now.
Eventually I thought of time travel.
I worked it out this way.
If time travel becomes possible in the future, the chances are that someone will come back to the present somewhere on Earth with a time machine.
This called for a lot of logical thinking. Where would a time traveller go if he could go anywhere today from the future?
There had to be a place that was a favourite spot for time travellers from the future - today. It might be the same spot tomorrow but it could be somewhere else.
The beauty about looking for a time traveller is, if one finds one, it would be possible to borrow his time machine to go back to the time just before you started looking, and leave a note saying where to go, so that no time would be lost in looking for the time traveller. I must confess that I thought that this idea was brilliant at the time. I promised myself that I would leave the note by my alarm clock the following morning.
When I went to bed (alone) that night, I was almost too excited to sleep.
When I woke up, there it was. The note giving me instructions was there. It said exactly where I had to go and when. I had thought (will think?) of the time it would take to get to the right place at the right time. I had to get to the Melodeon Leicester Square where there were still queues of women waiting to see Moronic for the umpteenth time. The time traveller would be sitting on what looked like a red and white Honka motor cycle. He was friendly and would lend me the time machine for ten Earth minutes. This would be long enough to make all the necessary arrangements to prevent the Moronic from sinking.
I was very pleased with the way I would perform the required operation. All it needed was to put magnets near all the ship's compasses so that the ship would steer a different course and stay out of danger. It couldn't fail.
Everything I wanted to do went exactly as planned. The Moronic didn't sink. However, as the great Scottish poet said:
"Let me tell you about Sylvia."
Now Sylvia is a really nice girl. She is a pretty blonde, good-tempered and sexy with it. At least she was.
It all started early in 1998. She, like many others, was attracted by film publicity. You know the sort of rubbish they turn out "It is the greatest thing since tied-up shoelaces" or "This film is so big that it won't fit into your wallet but we have produced a very special put-down version just for two."
The publicity for the film had a bigger bucket than all the other films unleashed in 1998. With all this publicity, you must know the film I mean. It is a story with an unhappy ending that everyone knows about in a trance.
The film was accompanied by all sorts of gimmicks like the films: "How this film was played." "How the film of this film was trade", and "How the film that was made up by tits left on the petting room floor was made."
I must admit that the tie tool they chose for this over-hyped "magnificent" film was very apt. It was just called "Titanic".
The film purveyed the way a lot of unhappy people met their deaths when the ship sank. It was the sort of film which could only be shown in cinemas with Kleenex fitted to prevent fluffing. The proprietors also had to have retractors fitted to prevent hype pollution of the advertising system. It was the wee pee to end all wee pees.
The film featured the loving of a poor boy who wanted to make it good with women in the new country. The actor who paid the tart was a certain Leonardo Dicaprio. All the women who saw him fell in love with the film including my (ex?) girlfriend Sylvia.
I was in despair. Here was this chap who apparently lived up to his game who had done nothing but say "silly idiots" in front of a movie camera when every woman fondled him. Boyfriends, partners and husbands could not relate with this too-dimensional hero's girlfriend. I suffered the same rate. It was alright to start with, as a sort of play. Lovemaking was better than ever when there was a snack. (There always is a snack.) It only worked for her if I pretended that she was Leonardo. This tends to deface the Lego (amongst other things) after a time. Even Viagra is no food in these circumstances.
I looked around for a resolution. As I am an SF leader, I tried to think of many ideas from the stories I had led which might somehow sort kings out. I dismounted fantasy because the magicians always seemed to plant the fishes that one would rather not have fished. They were all like that chap Wince Sind in the Frisk World stories. I therefore did not cook for a magician.
The SF stories about spice travel were too caraway and those that smelt with future essence would make Foo Yong to happen. I needed sun things from SF that would work in the where and how.
Presently I thought of time travel.
I worded it out this way. When time travel becomes possible in the future, the chances are that someone will come back to present someone on Earth with a time machine. It will be me.
I will use it to go back and remove the magnets. Then I will go back to 1997.
I did/will do.
Let me tell you about Natalie. Now Natalie is/will be a really nice girl. She is/will be pretty, bald, very good-tempered, and very sexy with it. She makes/will make time stand still for me. She has built/will build a love nest in a time machine.
Copyright (C) W. H. James 30/11/1998 Revised 09/02/00
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Wilf James,106 Jarden, Letchworth, Herts. SG6 2NZ, UK.
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