![](/staticarchive/5ea3e7590d674d9be4582cc6f6c8e86070157686.gif) |
SEE
ALSO |
![](/staticarchive/5ea3e7590d674d9be4582cc6f6c8e86070157686.gif) |
The
Morris Telford archive. Read about Morris's previous
exploits, and find out how the adventure has unfolded.
Follow
Morris's journey Day One Day Two Day Three Day Four Day Five Day Six Day Seven |
![](/staticarchive/5ea3e7590d674d9be4582cc6f6c8e86070157686.gif) |
PRINT
THIS PAGE |
|
|
|
FACTS |
![](/staticarchive/5ea3e7590d674d9be4582cc6f6c8e86070157686.gif) |
Name: Morris Telford
Age: 33
DOB: 18/04/70
Occupation:Unemployed
Hobbies: Enlightenment, Philosophy, Bingo
Favourite
book – Ordnance Survey Map of Shropshire 1999 edition
Favourite
foods – Pickled Eggs
Favourite
film – Late For Dinner
Favourite colour – The delicate cyan of the dinnertime sky in
Moreton Say.
Favourite British County – Shropshire
Favourite Place – Moreton Say
Favourite Postal Code Area – TF9
Favourite radio
frequency - 96FM
Favourite sound – The gentle breeze rustling through the leafy
glades of Moreton Say
Favourite Clive – Clive of India
Favourite Iron Bridge - Ironbridge
Favourite adhesive note size – 75 x 75mm
Favourite Vegetable – Anything grown in the fertile soils of
Shropshire
Favourite band – *(shameless plug)
Biggest inspiration –
The ´óÏó´«Ã½ is not responsible
for the content of external websites. |
![](/staticarchive/5ea3e7590d674d9be4582cc6f6c8e86070157686.gif) |
|
![](/staticarchive/5ea3e7590d674d9be4582cc6f6c8e86070157686.gif) |
Communicate
with Morris via the - or look back through the archive
to find out what happened in previous weeks.
Do you have a question for Morris?
|
I
gave a brief but eventful presentation to a packed bar last night.
Setting up, it reminded me of the halcyon days in my old office
job when I would give my weekly stationary report in the team meetings
- Twenty five minutes on how many post it notes we had used since
last Tuesday. I was often chastised for the length, depth and content
of my presentations, but I like to think I added a flavour and colour
to otherwise dull proceedings.
My
presentation theme in the bar was, as always, why Shropshire is
so completely marvelous in every single way and how it can solve
all your problems with its aforementioned marvellousness.
I had barely set up a makeshift flipchart and begun describing
the gentle beauty of Moreton Say before a group of men in white
hoods burst in and put a bag over my head. I think it was a bag,
but it all happened so suddenly it might have been just a piece
of cloth wrapped around my face, like a large blindfold, or a
small sack.
I
was bundled into a vehicle of some sort and driven a small distance.
Then the bag or possibly sack was removed and a light shone directly
in my face in a fashion often seen in World War Two film interrogations...
but seldom in real life.
I was sitting on a chair in the middle of a small wooden room.
Men in white hoods were at the periphery of my vision, brandishing
things menacingly in their hands, like bits of pipe and crowbars.
However, I did notice a couple of them had spatulas and one of
them had what looked very much like an egg whisk.
Anyway
there was much shouting and pushing around, but nothing a hardened
traveller such as myself couldn't handle.
The nature of the display seemed to be that I was not allowed
to give talks in public places, or to promote any alternative
lifestyles to the one currently on offer in Lost Hope, unless
I had the express permission of the Pope.
After a bit of confusion I ascertained that this wasn't the Vatican-based
Pope, but a locally based Pope, who seemed to be behind this reactionary
little display.
I
calmly explained that I'd like to meet the Pope. After a bit of
forced laughing and bizarre Wizard of Oz type comments like "Nobody,
but nobody sees the Pope", I managed to make an appointment
for tomorrow and they re-bagged my head and led me out.
Despite
all the pushing and lights and bags over heads, my abductors seemed
like a decent enough bunch of people. I couldn't help but notice
they stopped me banging my head as they put me back in the vehicle
and put my seatbelt on for me before driving me back to the bar.
One of them even said "sorry" when I knocked my arm as
he pushed me out of the car.
I was
taken to meet a man called "The Pope" today.
He lives in the largest house in Lost Hope - a mansion in the snow...
All roman columns, Gone With The Wind staircases, stuffed animal heads,
unspoken menace and high ceilings.
I was
left to wait for a full half hour on a hard stone bench, with not
so much as a cup of tea or digestive biscuit, before being summoned
into his presence.
I was going to complain about the wait and lack of digestives, before
then threatening to withhold vital information about Shropshire
and the glories within...
However, when I saw that the Pope was wearing what appeared to be
a garment of human skin, with an ermine trim and had a large snake
coiled at his feet, I thought better of it.
He was clearly a man intent on giving the appearance of menace.
After
a short chat with the Pope, in which I tried to explain to him the
importance of Shropshire and he tried to explain to me that if I
talk out of turn once again he would have me killed, I feel we came
to a mutual understanding.
I want
to tell the people of Lost Hope that the welcoming vistas of my beloved
Shropshire are waiting for them just across the ocean... While the
Pope wants me to understand that as patriarch of Lost Hope, I must
obey his every whim and spend the rest of my natural life living in
fear of displeasing him.
I hid
in my room above the bar all day today.
Outside
on the telegraph pole someone has stuck a billposter saying "Don't
talk to strangers, it's better for your health". It's actually
quite good advice given the predatory nature of some individuals
in today's society and something I would encourage all parents to
tell their children.
In
this context however, I think it's directed at me specifically.
I'm not leaping to conclusions here.
The poster was put up after the xenophobic past few days... It's
been displayed just outside the window of my room... It's in red
writing - a clear indication of threatful intent rather than friendly
advice... and there's an artists impression of me on it.
It's not a bad likeness actually.
It's
really quite upset me that elements of the Lost Hope community feel
this way toward me.
I'm a stranger to no man; I'm Morris Telford, friend to the world.
I left
my room briefly today to see what all the noise outside was about.
There was a parade in the street outside and they seemed to be burning
an effigy. I'm not leaping to conclusions here, but I think it was
supposed to be me.
It was wearing the same clothes, had the same hair, the same build,
again it's not a bad likeness actually... obviously someone in Lost
Hope has real artistic talent.
However, the real giveaway was the sign around the neck saying "Morris
Telford".
They certainly know how to give a bloke a welcome here.
It's some
sort of local tradition that on this day each year they take the newest
member of the community and dip him headfirst into the freezing waters
of Lake Hell, which in contradiction of the
popular phrase, is nearly always frozen over.
They call it the "Day Of Death", I'm sure it's all in good
fun.
I now
know why Roland was so glad to see me the first day I arrived. He
had been here six months and was due for a dipping himself as newest
entrant to Lost Hope.
They are
banging at my door now; they certainly are enthusiastic about local
customs in Lost Hope. I hope I can channel some of this zeal into
an appreciation of Shropshire.
I'd better go and answer it, before they break it down.
I'm a
bit down today.
Partly because I was nearly killed yesterday when I was dropped into
a frozen lake and left for dead; partly because the people here seem
to have it in for me; but mostly because I've had some bad news on
the phone.
I rang
home and when I finally managed to get a signal, Aunt Felicity answered
and told me the terrible, terrible news.
My
Mother has died.
She
was on the roof trying to fix the guttering. They have had a lot
of snow in Moreton Say this week and as it was melting on the roof
it was running down into the corner of my old bedroom.
Since Toby moved out Mother had arranged everything exactly as it
had been when I had left - My mounted collection of rare Bingo markers
from around the world, my magazine clippings of Richard Whiteley,
my Star Wars duvet and the drawing of Clive Of India I did in HB
Pencil.
She didn't want the rain to spoil my room for when I came home,
so she was outside in high winds trying to sellotape the guttering
back into place.
I've told
her a thousand times that sellotape (while a revolutionary repair
tool in the case of most paper or cardboard based situations), is
not an industrial strength bonding tape and should not be used for
electrical insulation, plumbing or muzzling dogs.
She always had misplaced enthusiasm for sellotape's ability to mend
anything and it was, quite literally, her downfall.
She fell, plucked from the roof by gale force winds and landed on
the greenhouse. Her fall was broken by a rusty Mini engine and lots
of glass.
She didn't stand a chance and I feel at least partly responsible.
I went
to see the Pope again, explained the situation and asked if I could
please leave Lost Hope and go home for my Mother's funeral.
He
said No.
He
said lots of other things, but the theme of the thing was definitely
"No".
I don't
like the Pope.
On
the way back to my single room I cried like I haven't cried since
I left my beloved Moreton Say, 34 weeks ago.
My tears froze on my reddened cheeks, little, salty jewels of pure
sorrow preserved beyond their time.
I want
my Mum.
|