Triffids Beard 2 - The Bearded Triffid

Moronicity
Phoenixine Ninety-Three, May 1997
When I come into possession of a chicken carcass (as it might be, the remains of a roast) I usually boil it
up with this and that, throw away the bits of used up yucky chicken fragments and cool the resultant
liquor. Then I skim off the fat and I have a wholesome chicken stock which I can freeze for later, or use
immediately as the basis of a soup or stew.
Last week the assembled multitudes gathered together in my kitchen watched me take the simmering
pan of stock from the stove, sling the savoury liquid down the sink, and solemnly save the manky
chicken bits in a sieve. In between mirthful, hysterical giggles they enquired as to the source of my
stupidity. Why was I doing it all the wrong way round? I had no answer, being as bemused as they were.
It's been that sort of month.
It started with Arthur C. Clarke's latest last novel, the capstone of his magnum opus, 3001 -- The Final
Odyssey. It is a thousand years after Dave Bowman and Frank Poole embarked on their individual
odysseys. Bowman's fate was described in earlier novels, but we always assumed that Frank Poole died
when HAL the berserk computer set him adrift in space. However as this novel opens, Poole's frozen
corpse is retrieved from space and revived. Poole proves to have a resilient personality and the culture
shock is minimised. Soon he embarks on a tiki-tour of the new world he finds himself in, and here the
book is utterly fascinating as Clarke throws off ideas like a berserk firecracker throws off bangs and
sparks. The wit and wisdom are vintage Clarke and even though the story is thin the ideas enthral. Then
the emphasis turns to the progress of life on Ganymede under the light of Lucifer, the solar system's
second sun which once was the planet Jupiter. Contact is re-established with Bowman who has some
disquieting things to say about the monolith that is supervising this great experiment. The plot becomes
increasingly mechanical and the rather weak, almost deus ex machina ending fails to satisfy. Ultimately
the book, in seeking to explain and define that which would better have been left mysterious, becomes
almost trite. (Mary Poppins never explained anything and that's often a good rule to follow). It is
impossible to call this a bad book, but it is a weak one.
When I get home from work it is my habit to change out of my work clothes into something more
comfortable. Remove my suit, don a pair of jeans, slouch around like a couch potato in front of the telly
with a book. Several years ago I came home one evening and carefully hung up my suit jacket, removed
my shoes, took off my trousers and folded them. At this point my mind went utterly blank and I stood
there in my underpants, trousers in hand, staring vaguely at the hanger, and wondering what to do
next. It took several seconds of concentrated thought (interrupted only by some increasingly bizarre
suggestions from my wife who was always quick to pick up on, and take advantage of my moments of
moronicity) before I managed to gather myself together sufficiently to hang up my trousers and put on
my jeans. Throughout all these actions I was conscious of a feeling of great bewilderment. None of what
I was doing made any sense to me at all. A bit like the new Wilbur Smith novel really.
Birds of Prey is set in the seventeenth century and concerns the adventures of Sir Francis Courtney
and his son Hal as they plunder the galleons of the Dutch East India Company off the coast of South
Africa. The book consists mainly of action sequences, massive coincidences, sweaty sex and lots of
male bonding. When the page count reaches the size agreed in the contract, the book stops. There will
obviously be a sequel but I won't read it.
After Joseph Heller's Catch-22 I didn't think it was possible to write any more novels set in World War II
that had anything serious to say. But the amazingly funny Captain Corelli's Mandolin has proved me
wrong. The action takes place in 1941, on the Greek Island of Cephallonia. The somewhat half-hearted
Italian occupying army is at odds with the local population. The doctor's daughter is less than pleased
when Captain Corelli is billeted in her house, but he proves to be a civilised, humorous man and a
consummate musician. You can probably guess the rest.
The book does not approach the brilliance of Heller's masterpiece, but does resemble it in the close