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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 |
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| FACTS |
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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 –
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I
just spent twenty-six hours locked in a small room with a mentally
unstable pope-fixated megalomaniac.
It was a bit like working weekend overtime in consumables and procurement,
(just me and Peter Scholes in a small stationary room for hours
and hours), only marginally less stressful.
Peter used to talk about how much he liked trains, train related
trivia, train stations, the uniforms people who work on trains wear
and the minutiae of train engine configurations.
He had this theory that hidden within the British Rail train timetables
were the answers to all the great mysteries of the universe. It
was quite blisteringly boring and just got in the way of the important
task of counting the paperclips.
So
I used the same tactic on the Pope that drove me so mad with Peter
Scholes. I talked to him for 25 straight hours about stationary
- About paperclips, staples, staplers, catalogues, the subtle
differences between different paper qualities, the 1347 varieties
of black pen available in the UK, the dichotomy of reusable toner
cartridges, the heady complexities of laminate fold over and the
bitter beauty to be found in every single box of 125mm bar tags
with plastic ends.
The
Pope actually broke down after about 19 hours... but I felt I
had to finish my point about the European standard paperclip and
its superior cousin the British Standard paperclip (and how much
the slightest inferiority in the original base mould can change
the angle of the upper curve and thus give reduced paper holding
ability).
The
Pope's real name is Steven Watson. He's a retired civil servant
from Devon.
When he finally broke I almost felt sorry for him., After all his
posturing and menace, in the end he's really just like anyone else
- frightened, alone and in serious need of a dose of Shropshire.
We had a town meeting and it was agreed that with my help, the Pope
and twenty of his ex-followers are to come to live in Moreton Say.
The rest are staying in New Hope to rebuild their lives, and then,
when that doesn't work out, come on to Shropshire later.
I awoke
this morning to a crowd outside my window shouting "Pope Morris".
It was all very nice what with the town women fighting over who would
help dress me and make my breakfast, the parade in my honour and the
'pledging of allegiance to Pope Morris and Shropshire ceremony...
but I did feel they had taken it all a bit too far when a queue formed
to kiss my feet.
Especially
with the current state of my blisters.
We set
off tomorrow, away from New Hope and on to new, fresh and potentially
lethal challenges.
It's hard
going crossing the Alaskan wilderness.
The snowmobiles we found in the Pope's shed are a big help. There's
a party atmosphere in the small rag tag fleet following me across
the snowscape, the occasional whoop from behind me betrays the barely
contained joy that these people feel now they are free... that or
their snowmobile went over a rock.
There
are some pretty big animals around, bears, wolves and something
called the Oor-hupu that apparently looks like a giant grey bear,
walks like a man and eats children. So we have taken some of the
Pope's firearms with us for protection. Nothing too much, just a
few Uzi's, a general electric mini-gun and a bag of grenades.
According
to Trent (Our tracker and guide; a six foot three American Indian
who had been tied up in the Pope's shed and reminds me of Derek
Griffiths in his Playschool heyday), we are two days hard travel
from the nearest airport.
It's an old military base and I'm sure it will be full of friendly
American servicemen ready to help 22 heavily armed, bearded strangers
on snowmobiles.
If I can
charter a flight for us from there to Heathrow, it looks like my Mother's
funeral might be getting a few extra Alaskan mourners next week.
Trent
tells me that Alaskan people have 357 different words for snow, but
not a single one for Bingo.
He also told me that at night the Oor-hupu sing to him in his dreams
using quite complex vocal harmonies... and give him recipes for special
cakes that, when baked, become sentient and are able to work out the
value of Pi to several thousand decimal places.
I jokingly
asked him if they gave him a recipe for a special pie that can work
out cake to several thousand decimal places, but he didn't respond
favourably.
I think
when I chose Trent as our guide, I may have made a poor decision based
on my own racial stereotyping of the American Indians as expert guides
and trackers. Thus forgetting the simple truth that, no matter what
race, colour, or religion you belong to, you can still turn out to
be a complete nutter.
Starting
to get cold and hungry already. Some of the convoy are complaining
about the lack of provisions and questioning my leadership skills.
I pointed
out to them in no uncertain terms that I had been on the Leadership
Skills workshop with work and was fully qualified to lead groups
up to and including 50 people in an office environment.
They didn't seem nearly as impressed as my mother had been when
I brought home the certificate. I'd like to see them co-ordinate
a team-building exercise with a roomful of bored stationary clerks
and come up with the sort of results and enthusiasm I did in the
legendary summer of 1993.
Trent
suggested eating Steven Watson, but I managed to distract him by
showing him how to play solitaire on my palmtop. Apparently Trent
had been locked in the Pope's shed for nearly seven years, so it's
really no wonder he has a few 'issues'.
The
world is full of people with sadness in their lives. Nearly everyone
has had, at some point in their time here, something devastating
happen to them. However, it's important to maintain perspective.
When
my first pet died, I thought my world had shattered. Then I found
out that Shropshire wasn't the centre of the civilised world and
I had to come to terms with that.
After that my Father came home one day in a dress and announced
that he wanted us to call him Aunt Felicity. Then one day at work
I accidentally stapled my hand to the desk and on that day I knew
the true meaning of pain.
So my point is, I think, that you never know what's around the corner...
and what seems like the worst thing ever on Monday may seem relatively
trivial next week, after you find out what's going to happen to
you on Tuesday afternoon.
I told
this to Trent. I told him that even though being locked in a shed
for seven years might seem bad now, it will probably seem relatively
trivial after he experiences all the other terrible things that life
is going to throw at him.
I think I cheered him up.
It's probably
just the exposure to cold and the lack of food, but I could have sworn
I heard the lilting melody of a sweet choir coming from the trees
last night. It seemed to be saying "Â…lightly combine the
eggs, half a cup of milk and one teaspoon of vanilla. Mix with the
dry ingredients and stir well. Add ground cinnamon to tasteÂ…"
We
should be near the military base now. I'm beginning to doubt it
even exists, but we are all committed to believing in Trent now.
I pressed
him on the question of exactly where the base was and how he knew
about it and he was a little vague. He just said "When the
snow eagle dives into the valley of the spirit, the men with fire
sticks hide in their tin boxes."
I persisted and after my constant nagging for a couple of hours
he added, "Through the ice walls and over the moon's shadow,
the wounded wolf always crawls back to the pack." Which again
wasn't a great deal of help.
I
kept at him. I often find where politeness and courtesy fails, dogged
irritation can reap rewards.
After
a few hours he ran out of mystic wolf-this and mysterious bear-that
and gave in.
"It's seven miles south-south-east," he told me, just before
he walked off in a sulk.
The military
base does exist; we can see it now we've passed over a snowy ridge.
I apologised to Trent for doubting him and he clasped me close to
his chest, then grabbed my head and pressed his right ear against
my left ear. According to his people's traditions this makes us "wax
brothers" and we are forever bonded. I like Trent, he reminds
me of my Aunt Felicity.
We
are approaching the perimeter now. I can see a few soldiers walking
their dogs near the large, barbed wire fence, so at least someone
is home.
It's
been a tough few days but it will all be worth it to see my beloved
home once again.
If I close my eyes I can see the little round sign at the top of
the signpost that says "Moreton Say". Despite the freezing
conditions here I can still imagine the warm, silage-tinted Shropshire
breeze wafting from the Ostrich farm, past the Moreton Say C of
E Controlled Primary School, past Mad George's bungalow, past my
Mother hanging out my Star Wars duvet cover to dry on the line and
into my hopes and dreams via my figurative nose.
I hope
we get a warm welcome from the American military base.
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