Hey gang,
Did you know, the Daily Telegraph runs a monthly competition, encouraging the traveling writers of the nation to convey their experiences to them? No? Check it out at http://www.telegraph.co.uk/travel/travel-writing-competition/ . I have no idea why they care, but if they're giving up coin, that's all I need to know. I sent them the following.
"Dear TheDailyTelegraph
My penpal, Cecil Brogues (as in the shoe) sent me this after one of his adventures in Glasgow. I think he was just angry, but it’s rather good nonetheless. If I win, don’t tell him you published his letter, as he’ll want a cut of the loot. He doesn’t read The Telegraph, so that isn’t an issue.
“An icy winter wind whipped through the wrought iron gate’d doors of the ancient train station, freezing to all and sundry to the marrow. Brr! Chilly. Not I, however, as I was well provisioned, with my lamb’s wool lined Barbour mac, double chorded corduroy slacks and Betty Noufele double lined trilby. Comfort comes at a price, as they say, and that price is money. Everyone else looked so cold, a man could not help but chuckle to himself - a deep, throaty chuckle, involuntary and yet subconsciously premeditated, the chuckle of kings, knowing and wise.
My destination was our capital, the capital of the union, still tried and tested and not found wanting after all these years, after all these years. Like the howling cold against the throne of my mac’d chest, the slings and arrows of our petty individualisms had not shaken the truth of our shared national desire. To be spirited away in that moment to the great gigaopolis’ bosom, to feel the love embrace only its populace could extend, was my dearest wish. That I would have to wait up to 6 hours in the first class coach of the Virgin Glasgow to London with complementary coffee and snack only heightened my anticipation, steeled my resolve to complete the passage. I extended a fond farewell to my brother city, already missing it’s kinship and yet confident of a hearty welcome when next I came to call, such was our relationship, such was it.
And yet, my troubles had not yet begun, the comedy of mischiefs only about to unfold. Standing, as I was, in line, waiting for my turn with the wizard, dread technology, the ferryman. My tickets were booked, paid for, my own, and still I would have to go to this flashing box, cap in hand, to beg for my proof of passage, my billet, the only signal the trainsm’n would truly accept. Once, an age ago, a man had stood in place of this box, a man of flesh, blood, bone, soul. My heart has hardened over the years, but the thought of it... These machines may spoil for a kind of fight, but it is man who makes them so. A moment passed, and the soul in front of me moved to the side, the combat between the box and himself clearly at an end. I failed to ascertain the victor, as my own trial had just begun.
My opponent was, as I have said, simply a box, as tall as a summer boy, with a shining monitor face full of questions. From the outset, I was on the ropes. I pressed its face where it gave me the option to Collect Pre-Paid Tickets. It asked for a reference number. I gave them first my employers, then my friend Toby’s, my agents, my confectioner’s, my groundsm’n’s, my rivals’. None would suffice. I doubt the electronic monster even tried them, though what grounds he had for dismissing them outright went unspecified. Suffice it to say, my friends would not have betrayed me. After long, agonising moments, bereft in front of the box’s smugly lit face, I moved away, alone, finding myself beside the rank outwith the station. It would be a long taxi to London. I thought of my complementary snack, and paid my taxim’n by check. He was not pleased. Nor was I. This isle of ours is truly broken...”
Yeah, he gets like that sometimes."
A smash hit. Why not try next month instead, though? Give yourself a chance.
