Camptown Ladies

De Camptown Ladies sing dis song...

Tuesday 26 May, 1998

Last night was fun. For one thing, Stuart and I were re-united, by the simple yet pressing need of my wanting to borrow money from him.
        "Gie's twenty quid, pal," I'd beseeched earlier over the phone. "Ah ken ye widnae want any fucking hypocrisy aff me."
        "OK," he kindly replied. "When and where do you want it?"
        There's an oft misquoted saying, "A friend, in need, is a friend indeed." Everybody misses the first comma, which reverses it completely. Stuart was that friend, in (my) need. As later was Scott, but we mustn't get out of sequence.

Scott has got a new Scanner - Oi!!

"I've got a new scanner," Scott said proudly. "And it doesn't work." These things rarely do, at first. There's a built-in delay factor, so that when at last they do condescend to perform the purchased task, you can feel both grateful and skilful. "I pulled Hal's innards out and rested them on my lap," he continued. I paled then, imagining ba' hairs or worse contaminating those most delicate of neural pathways.

We drank, the three of us, (Stuart having abandoned a previous dinner engagement, sensing more fun was to be had a trois). We drank up to that critical point where we weren't afraid, but were still functioning logically. Chips were bought, economically, and then timidly we entered the lift to Crearie Towers.

Here the evening started to become hallucinatory somewhat. To describe Scott's living room as hi-tech would be like describing the Titanic as unsuitable for icebergs. It was the bridge of the Starship Enterprise - nothing less. Scott sat in front of Hal the talking computer, being Captain Kirk. Me - I was as usual Mr (sensible) Spock, while Stuart could perhaps best be described as Lootenant Uhura.

Kirk fiddled with Hal's controls, while Uhura and I sat abaft, eating our chips. Me from a plate with a fork, and Lootenant somewhat more prosaically from the wrapping paper.

American readers should note that in Britain, the land which gave you your language, the land to which you nowadays flee in increasing numbers, chips are fried fingers of potato. Hot, soggy, and delicious. I believe you call them French fries or some such wrong name.

When the chips were done, the important stuff began. Click here, whirr there, scratch head frequently. "Hmmm - never had that one before," Captain Kirk said, untypically, as a progress bar stuttered across Hal's giant screen.

"I don't recognise any new hardware!" Hal cried, helpfully showing a list of all installed gadgets, with the sooper dooper SnapScan proudly at the top.

"Captain, my sensors detect the hardware is already installed," I said, thoughtfully. "It's only logical - we should proceed with the Scan. You humans have far too many emotions."

At that, Hal threw up one last, desperate dialog. "Whole thing fucked," it declared. "Retry or Cancel."

"Press Retry!!" I screamed. "Don't let the fucker Cancel us!" Hal, in His wisdom, had detected a whole new ball-game ahead. Quite happy to simply process Kirk's stories, the thought of computing 16 million colours had brought on a massive cyber-sulk.

"Retry" was pressed. Time has obscured which of us took that brave step, but up popped a photoworks sort of screen. "Now press Scan, Captain," I said, more calmly now, and SnapScan hummed into warp factor one. We had lift off. The eagle had landed.

Later we strode manfully back into the pub, the three of us. We knew, we could sense, the awe in the punters faces as they pointed and gazed at us - Kings of the Dancing Digits - the very Sultans of Scan.