Confessions of an IT Manager_Phil Factor

Section VI: Hiccoughs in the Working Day 303
"It is an interesting word. You can track it back hundreds of years. People
suspected that any machinery, even a cart, could be infected by Bugbears,
which were a sort of mischievous spirit like a gremlin. 'Hobgoblins and
buggybeares'. Even the millers in the old watermills would talk about
'buggybows' getting into the mill works. We have references to the word in the
oldest printed books in English."
"Nah. It's an American word. I think Thomas Edison used it."
"Well, so did a scholar in the twelfth century, writing about devils and
spirits: There was a Celtic god, Bugibus, who was associated with avenging or
malicious spirits."
"Phil, you make up the most incredible rot, you really do."
I shrugged. "Look it up yourself, it is all in the Oxford English dictionary."
He looked doubtful, which was a shame as I could have won some money
on a bet.
"I've been doing some work on the subject myself at the Harry Price Library
at the Senate House." I added. "The custodian ferreted out several boxes of
miscellaneous papers, mainly bits of old books from Powys Castle library that
had never really been sorted since their bindings fell apart. On one of them was
a poem; an 'Elegy to Buegibos'. It was written on what seems to have been the
flyleaf of a fifteenth century printed book. I photocopied it and had it
transcribed, and partly translated, by a friend at the British Library. Buegibos
seems to have been that vengeful Celtic spirit."
"OK," interjected Alistair, challengingly, "what did the poem say?"
"It starts off 'Darkest Dark, and deepest deep, Bugbears rise from deaths
last sleep, Come, with the funeral's tolling bell, from vampire's lair and
shrieking hell' …"
At that moment, the lights went out. It is a simple trick, which is done by
leaning against the wall and tapping the switch with your shoulder-blade. "Oh
blast, the condenser in the overhead lights is a bit dodgy, I must get it fixed." I
lit a cigarette lighter, and the room became suffused by an eerie glow. "I'll try
switching on and off again." Before he had time to look, I had the lights on
again.
"All rot, this is", spoke Alistair, slightly hotly, I thought.
"It could be." I shrugged. "I'm a historian, not a spook-chaser. The poem is
genuine enough. Let's try it out in the data centre and see if it really does infect
big computers."