To the Manchester Born

 (Excerpt from How to Publish a Book by Timothy L. Marx, 1928)

I have recently rallied my efforts to publish Cuthers' latest literary efforts. It pains me to say it, but he's beginning to settle into some sort of consistent style. I am a man of my word, so I had resolved to free myself from distractions and find a willing publisher.

However this ambition to hard slog was quickly derailed by the news that the chairman of the club had resigned. His hand had been forced by members of the committee apparently. I try not to lower myself into the vipers' nest of committee affairs, especially since most of them went to the Other Place, but on this occasion there was little talk of anything else at the club, and limb by limb I entered the fray.

The instigating incident had been an argument over the price of a glass of brandy. This had been started by Cuthers, who had been researching the historic bar prices in a rare show of initiative. Bafflingly he had been doing this for his latest novel, yet all that I'd managed to get out of him by way of synopsis is that it was something to do with dogs at sea. And yet again I can hear you thinking, have I lost my marbles? Gone cock-o-hoop cuckoo and far away beyond bedtime? No, Cuthers really has shown some potential of late, and I'm not saying so merely to make my prior actions regarding him look less foolish.

That said, he proved to be numerically illiterate. Although he had access to all the price increases for a glass of brandy since 1888, he had incorrectly surmised that the price had more than doubled in the past couple of years. This led to a bitter argument with Marsden during which buttons were pushed and steam vented in the manner of an angry factory. Cuthers had left the club in first a huff and second a Hackney carriage. Marsden had complained to the committee, but the general consensus of the committee was that Cuthers had a point even if his mathematical precision was lacking. This had in turn led to an argument with the chairman, whose general opinion was that if they didn't like the way he was running things perhaps they should have a go instead.

During all of this hullaballoo I was still searching for a publisher willing to take on a bizarrely researched novel vaguely about dogs and the sea. I wasn't making much progress, but what happened next was the final straw for my concentration. The committee appointed a new chairman. Not from their ranks, but from outside the club. Worse still, not from London. Not even from the south.

To my astonishment, the new chairman was a businessman from Manchester. What could he possibly know about running a club in the great metropolis of London? I have nothing against northern cities and have even spent time in some. They are also grand in their own ways. The same sun shines upon them, albeit much less often.

I steeled myself for sweeping changes in the running of the club. Would we all be forced to drink pints of bitter? Would he adopt the pigeons which infested the roof instead of culling them?

In short, no. He marginally reduced the price of a glass of brandy, which seemed to placate everyone for the time being. Cuthers returned to the club and apologised to Marsden. I managed to wheedle the first few chapters of Cuthers' new book. It is about a dog rowing across the English Channel using a list of bar prices as its only means of navigation. It is unpublishable gibberish that could only be the product of a deranged mind. I discussed this one evening with Marsden and shared a few pages of Cuthers' ravings with him. Although we could find nothing wrong with them, we both agreed to pour the rest of the case of brandy down the drain and remove it from the menu.