Mr Imp, Life columnist at The Banner, writes about his misadventures as a Don Juan-Esque petty criminal, his odd odysseys abroad and his high jinks with his colourful family in Auchterturra. Cartoons by Dod Dunlop.
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Oh, my dear reader, there is nothing more unpleasant than a staff meeting with all the writing crew of the Banner. Probably one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life so far after publishing my first column last week, Hebert phoned me up telling me that we all had to meet to discuss next week's issue. Not thinking, I made the stupid decision to agree to such an event. Of course, I failed to actually bother reading the first issue of the Banner. If I'd been more competent and read it, I would have realised that Hebert assembled a fractious crew of some of the finest nutters, cranks and bastards in Edinburgh. Mercifully, there was only the main crew at the meeting. However, those assembled were the most conquers of a lot.
On a September's Saturday with a blistering sun, I wandered over to the stipulated address, an outdoor snug connected to one of the grimiest pubs in Edinburgh. Hebert provided bottled water, an assortment of vegetable sticks and dip, and an ashtray. Although he didn't say it, he strongly indicated that he didn't want us to drink any grog while in the main meat of the meeting, making this more masochistic than could ever be imagined.
I was last to arrive, and around the table was Jack Hebert, our illustrious editor with lusciously long raven hair that needs to be cut, and he probably needs his brown tweed jacket to be re-tailored as it's clearly falling apart. Clockwise to Hebert, the cartoonist and graphic designer and perhaps the sanest member of this league of lunatics, Dod Dunlop. Dod's skills illustrate the most libellous images of me and make them seem almost appealing. After Dod was Mr Rab, the literary editor and a fellow Edinburgh University rechecked whose skills as a reviewer are unmatched. Still, his eccentricities create an individual that genuinely becomes tiresome, especially once you get on the topic of the politics of literature and its fundamental pointlessness. Next to Mr Rab was the 'Dave Spart' of the Banner Ellsworth Laski, a Marxist intellectual with such a fanatical and firm belief in what he knows is not right that he often makes a tit of himself. After Laski was my seat as I was to play the gooseberry between Laski and the raging right-wing rogue Tom Pain, who is a perfect mirror of Laski and in my personal opinion he would make an excellent 'Private Eye style Taxi Driver'. These two despise each other with a pure hatred that I often wonder burdens on a homoerotic desire for one another, which of course, both would fervently deny and even threaten to libel me for making such a tasteless accusation.
Once the meeting got underway, everything went down like a lead balloon. Hebert is very soft-spoken and isn't what I would call a forceful personality. Inevitably the meeting descended into bickering between Pain and Laski. Every single topic fell into a heated debate between those two buffoons.
The snug was open air, and it filled with hot air between those two, turning the snug into a sauna. And it was not helped by all the smoke from Laski and Pain's cigarettes, my cigar and Hebert's e-cigarette. We, smoking sinners, were slowly choking Dod and Mr Rab to death, and I think that this meeting shortened everyone's lives by about 20 years perhaps.
The debate between Pain and Laski was often disrupted by Mr Rab's bizarre commentaries saying how much this reminds him of a bit of a book. Then he would quote extensive passages sometimes in the original language making no sense whatsoever and making everything go on and on. I went through three of my stogies because of the monotony.
Eventually, when Hebert called time on this masochistically monotonous meeting, we had agreed on absolutely nothing. Pain and Laski nearly traded blows. Dod was freaking out because he had no clue what the next issue would include and what the following issue would look like.
Mr Rab possibly was the only member of the meeting to have gotten his side sorted because, frankly, he is an expert critic, essayist and can pump out a short story in the space of a day, so the art section was already sorted.
Once everyone left, Hebert and I had a long discussion leading to the decision that we would only do these sorts of meetings once a year because life is too short, and everyone's sanity would be significantly improved by not meeting too often.
The upcoming issue we would play by ear. However, for the future arrangement of the next issues Hebert would discuss everything with each member privately and then organise it into one coherent issue with Dod, thus hopefully making a less chaotic mess like this week.
Following this discussion and after me having a pleasant visit in the workingmen's club and consuming an industrial amount of Tennent's, I returned to my place to discover after I recharged my phone that my Dáh had been calling me and left small cash of messages demanding me to call him and more importantly get back home as the family need my services thus kiboshing my plans for next week.
