EDITORIAL 

There’s something of a European air about this issue. We continue with the fascinating autobiog of the Hungarian Ivan de Nemethy and precede his episode with a story by the Secretary General of the Slovakian Writers Society, Pavol Janik. This is followed by Jim Burns’ review of Paris-Amsterdam Underground. Stretching a point we might remind readers that Tom Kilcourse lived in France for 17 years (but is now back in the UK) and that John Lee, formerly of Manchester, now lives in France and Spain, on which he reports in his story At O’Donnell’s. Tanner too has emigrated from the extra-territorial region of Liverpool, about which he continues to write, like James Joyce in Paris, with a kind of nostalgie de la boue, to… Swindon?! Bob Wild has Irish antecedents and this allows him a character assassination of an innocent Irish dog- loving transvestite – just as Samuel L. Jackson can freely use the word “nigger” and Woody Allen take the piss out of Jews. A squib by PJ Fell celebrates another example of Irish masochism (Father Ted). Locals Keith Howden and Dave Birtwistle have a crack at the English scene, in case you were feeling deracinated. 

On more metaphysical matters we recycle Rhian E Jones great rant on the oik cultural straitjacket and how to get out of it - by reading. Read loads. Read your bleeding head off. Read till your eyes drop out. I couldn’t agree more and regard this as a healthy corrective to celeb hungry oiks who might be tempted to sign up for a creative writing course. I must thank Fred Whitehead of Kansas for digging this up. He has an astonishing radar for such things.  

Apropos of creative writing I recycle a snippet I found myself. It’s hardly obscure. Indeed Ian Jack’s piece in the Guardian of March 8^th was followed the week after by trumpetings from wounded profs in the subject – eg Jeanette Winterson, Blake Morrison, Toby Litt et al. Here’s the original torpedo:

 Hanif Kureishi thinks creative writing courses are a waste of time, which is a dangerous thing to say given that he makes his living (not, all of it, but probably; more of it than he does from his novels) as a professor of creative writing at Kingston University. Telling a story well took a rare skill, he told an audience at the Bath literary festival last weekend. He estimated that perhaps 0.1% of his students had it. Could it be taught? Kureishi didn't think so. Would he pay money to take an MA in creative writing himself? "No... that would be madness."

We should feel sorry for all concerned: for a university that may consequently face a sharp drop in fee income; for Kureishi's students, who have paid £5,800 each (£12,700 for non-EU citizens) for their professor's useless course; and not least for Kureishi himself, biting the hand that fed him out of a rage confined as an occupation to those who had private incomes or the patronage of philanthropists and academies.

What tempts students towards such an unfeasible career? A clue lies on King­ston University's website: "A Kingston University creative writing MA graduate has been snapped up in a six-figure deal by one of the world's biggest publishers after her self-published books topped the Kindle download rankings, selling tens of thousands of copies." In other words, like winning the national lottery, it could happen to you.

Well, there you have it. Save your money – just read, write and subscribe to the Oik.

KEITH HOWDEN

The Stuff that Kills Germs Dead

Birdy tonight was hopping

buttock to buttock. He blames

shrapnel in his bum, picked up

dog-fighting Messerschmidts.

I don't believe. More likely piles.

That fat brother-in-law

(once look-out on a submarine)

now studies language. A wartime

poster: Always Wash Your Hands

After Passing Water Or Stools

was the start of it.  What was

so dangerous in passing glasses

of water ? And were stools dirty

from being sat on?  It spoiled

his table manners. And what's Public

about Public Schools?  What's

this fatal disease that budgies

only sometimes die of?  What's this stuff

that kills germs dead? Is there

some other way of killing things?

But Birdy's philosophical.

It's speculation night come round in its

due cycle. What's buzzing in him

is parallels he's dreamed between

atoms and solar systems. We're a bit

of some gigantic body. Could be God.

More likely, since it’s badly designed

to be some scheme of Matron Thatcher.

His stellar calculations

and mumbo-jumbos of astronomy

have constellations twitching

like buttocks. Birdy believes

we're part of something's leg.

Reckons he'll make the world's

most powerful microscope and stare

into the unimagined reaches

of someone's leg. Something minute,

manlike in there, he thinks, might be

staring towards him through its world's

most powerful telescope.

Come Gentlemen. Your time is up.

Your sojourn in this den of vice

is at an end. Shift your arse, Birdy.

It's time, almost, to mount

the loony bus throbbing outside.

That fat brother-in-law, he says,

wants to know why, if notices

insist Dogs must be carried

on elevators, how come

they're always full of people

not carrying dogs ....