A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
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CAFFEINE – Historically, many religious orders have used caffeine to intensify the powers of prayer and concentration. Over the years, I've found it an invaluable aid when trying to immerse myself in a case or summon depleted resources. The Mystery of the Flesh Meringue, for example, collected in my archive for public release in 2030, was resolved without recourse to notes over three mugs of coffee in Dunblane Hydro. A word of caution, to avoid pollutants, one should only drink superior coffees. Analysis of various brands has revealed the presence of foreign substances ranging from mouse droppings to cigarette ash. For many unsuspecting individuals, their morning pick-me-up largely comprises floor sweepings. I import coffee for my personal use from Italy. When buying coffee in a restaurant or cafe, I always ascertain what type they use.
CANNIBALISM - Recently a distressing story circulated to the effect that a group of depressives from Minnesota, lost in the forest while rambling, resorted to cannibalism. The fact is that, being depressives, they panicked in a sudden flash storm and got lost. At the height of the panic, they tied Barry Gordon, the group leader, to a tree and threw sticks at him. It was Barry's bellowed pleas that they desist, in fact, overheard by passing hikers, that led to their rescue. The seasoned investigator, particularly one with experience of depressives, responds to this story with no more than a wry smile. Throughout history frightened people have attempted to appease nemesis with sacrifices. An apparently hysterical response serves the purpose of providing the group with a scapegoat and a distraction from its predicament. In Britain, health service employees suffer similar indignities at the hands of their charges on a daily basis. No more would have been said of this particular incident were it not for the enraged group leader's claim that he suffered various bite wounds in the course of the assault: this was substantiated by a brief examination. He further alleged that the previously cowed depressives underwent a startling transformation, gambolling around the tree to which he'd been bound and gleefully discussing the prospect of eating him. As the rescuers appeared, however, they immediately reverted to type, lowering their heads, mumbling and walking in a shuffling gait.
Cannibalism is, of course, an offence against nature. Even the many primitive tribes to whom the act is wrongly attributed consider the act taboo. Throughout history, however, outsiders, enraged by their circumstances, have perpetrated cannibalistic outrages, not out of necessity (most reasonable people would die rather than eat their dead friends) so much as a form of protest. Sawney Bean and his incestuous brood of prototype hippies had access to any number of alternative food resources, in choosing to exist on a diet of travellers, they were effectively goading the very God they imagined responsible for their creation. Similar offences, incidentally, are still routinely committed against tourists throughout Scotland, particularly in FIFE where walkers are regularly abducted from the coastal paths around Kirkcaldy.
CELEBRITY, CULT OF - My brother, with a characteristic lack of self-awareness, recently made an unkind observation about what he scathingly referred to as my “celebrity”. Obviously, this is an ironic insult from someone who has sent three thousand unsolicited cassettes to record companies, but allowances must be made for Spencer's extreme unhappiness. Like many people who consider their own lives unsatisfactory, he is particularly diligent in finding fault in others: it's his only solace. Over the years, he's expended so much energy in disparaging me that it's hardly surprising his “pop” career has foundered. The fact that he's devoid of talent is hardly relevant in his chosen sphere: countless nonentities have prospered through graft and perseverance. Unfortunately, Spencer considers himself an artist and refuses to accept the necessity of salesmanship. He mopes about the house, writing his morbid lyrics and maintaining the 'blog' dedicated to his life-time of non-achievement from which he spends his evenings pestering young girls. The fact that my opinions are sought and disseminated to the audience he feels should, by rights, be his, is a source of terrible resentment. When I return from my weekly appearances on the Rob McCaskill radio show, I invariably find Spencer belligerently drunk and eager to criticise my performance. While he professes to hate the show, he never misses my appearances. In fact, he records them in order that he can re-listen while sober and repeat the same sarcastic observations to which I've already been subjected.
Spencer is, of course, completely unqualified to discuss my realm of expertise. Despite the impression of worldliness he attempts to convey, his own life experience is so limited that he's barely qualified to discuss anything beyond what food he enjoys. In a society in which everyone's opinions are considered valid, though, I can understand how frustrating it is for Spencer that, after a lifetime of attempted communication, nobody is even remotely interested in his.
Dealing with the inanities of Rob's listener's in fact, is something I find increasingly irksome. Normally I'm eager to accommodate anyone who might ask for an opinion. When other people 'zone out' (as my niece, Muriel, says) my own focus intensifies. All I can discern of these people, though, is that they're boring me. Out of politeness I try and dissemble an interest, but I can't help dread the pre-occupation with trivia that Rob, despite the best of intentions, shares with his listeners. “What are Hamilton's opinions on such or such a pop star?” they ask, or “What does Hamilton think about such or such a marriage?” The truth is that Hamilton thinks very little of such things if at all! How can it possibly interest me if a movie actor I've never heard of has drugged himself into a state of incapacity or left his wife for someone he's met on a goodwill tour of Africa (whatever that might entail)? Unless his personal depredations lead him into my own realm of expertise, aberrant and criminal behaviour, I can only say “good luck to him” and try to negotiate a change of subject.
CHANNEL FOUR – For several years Channel Four was unavailable in Drumfeld. I remember my cousin Richard Malcolm's disgruntlement at missing out on his favourite programmmes when visiting at Christmas. "Poor old Richard," said Aunt Isobel as he slouched moodily on the settee in his baggy trousers and pixie boots. "I was sure the reception would be better this year. He was so looking forward to the Brookside Christmas edition." Richard was always talking about Brookside, Channel Four's flag-ship soap opera. If he wasn't complaining about missing Brookside, it was the Avengers or The Comic Strip Presents. He used to send regular video tapes of these shows to Spencer who watched them with the rapt expression of medieval peasant staring at fireworks. From what I saw in passing, Drumfeld was actually fortunate to miss out on a collection of programmes even more pointless and boring than their equivalents on the traditional channels. Brookside, an interminable drama about squabbling Liverpudlians was a particular disappointment.
Despite their feigned indifference, both Spencer and Richard were consumed by envy when I was invited to participate in an edition of the channel's open ended talk show After Dark. Despite their gleeful derision in the show's immediate aftermath, neither could deny that the terrifying impressions I suffered on being confronted by my fellow guest, the sports correspondent David Icke, have been subsequently vindicated.
CHARLATANS - See COE, SPENCER; CROWLEY, ALEISTER; FREUD, SIGMUND; HAWTHORNE, RONALD; INGLIS, PHILIP; KELLOGG, FRANCIS; KEVIN OF SUMMERSTON; LENNON, JOHN; LESTER, DR PHILIP; MAIR, DUNCAN; MANSON, MARILYN; YUILL, PHYLLIS; ZEKLOS, IORGU.
CHILDREN OF COURAGE AND ACHIEVEMENT AWARD - Established in 1946 by Walter Henderson as a memorial to his son, Douglas, who died in France, the awards, open to nominees from all over Scotland, ran until 2005. Walter's great-grandson Dougal supervised the final Awards, a task he inherited from his father, Gordon. Incapable of self-assertion, he was coerced into accepting nominations of parties unfit to share a roster with the Children of Courage and Achievement of the past. While Gordon had no compunction in rejecting nominations based entirely on affliction and misfortune, Dougal, cursed by a weakling's need to be liked, rubber stamped every application with the consequence that the awards became meaningless. I'm a compassionate person, but sickness is no achievement in itself, however stoicially borne.
Worse still was Dougal's fawning obeisance to the demands of the celebrities who were allowed to attach themselves to the Awards. So-called comedienne Elaine C. Smith in particular used them as a platform for her own political agendas. For three successive years, she presented the Hendersons' coveted crystal trophies to smirking activists whose only 'achievements' had been to picket, pester and harass people trying to go about their business. After the third of these travesties, I returned my own Henderson crystal in disgust..
In her book about my career, NINA KELLY argues that my nomination in 1984 was only accepted after Gordon Henderson, beset by family problems, capitulated to my aunt's incessant campaigning and, she implies, blackmail. This is offensive to Hendersons and Coes alike. While various other parties might have suggested my nomination, my aunt and I were too busy pursuing cases to expend our energies soliciting awards. For his part, Gordon Henderson would never have accepted a nomination he considered unworthy.
While it's nice to have one's contribution recognised, congratulation is all too often the herald of complacency. The true enthusiast in any field, be it detection or tiddly winks, has no interest in baubles or pats on the back. His passion has its own rewards.
CHRISTIE, FRASER (1980 - ) My youngest cousin's problems can be attributed to various factors. Chief amongst them must be my aunt's advanced years at the time of his conception and the almost total absence of worthwhile qualities to be inherited from his father, a man whose insignificance precludes an individual entry in the glossary.
At the time of my aunt's reconciliation with Christie, her former fiance, previously abandoned on account of a terrifying premonition in which he stood before me in a suit of meat, she was still unbalanced by events that had led to my being ostracised and ridiculed on THE PEOPLE WHO SAW TOMORROW television programme. With hindsight, it should have been incumbent upon the family to intervene. Freedom of choice might be an admirable concept, but how often do we allow the people we love blunder into ruinous commitments rather than risk the potential awkwardness of intervention? Had my aunt been offered the help and support of her family, I suspect she would never have succumbed to the wiles of nonentity. Sensing her vulnerability, though, and doubtless realising she was drugged, Christie remorselessly followed through with his game plan. Within months they were married in a tawdry and depressing Vegas office, a ceremony only attended by an elderly couple they'd met the previous day while on a sight-seeing tour of Vegas's 'attractions'.
I still argue that the circumstances of the wedding should render it null and void. If only I could say the same for her subsequent pregnancy! Studying the timescale, it's entirely possible that Fraser, the Prince of Numbskulls, was conceived in Los Vegas, the Numbskull capital of the known universe, a city inhabited by a transiet population of cheats, gawkers and convention lurkers.
My suspicion that my aunt was desperately trying to fill the void left by my absence was confirmed when she took Fraser, then aged seven, for analysis at the Gibson Institute, the same facility in which my own abilities had been confirmed years earlier. Since Fraser's infancy, she had desperately sought signs of enhanced intuition, a particularly difficult chore with a child who was five before he could 'intuit' the difference between a dog and a cat. The potential for humiliation was fulfilled when a series of clinical tests deemed him 'subnormal'.
CHRISTMAS - Cynics might argue that Christmas has been hijacked by spivs and numbskulls. For many, certainly, the festival is now dominated by the monstrous American import Claus. In the House of Coe, however, the spirit of St Nicholas prevails! The traditionally decked hall echoes with laughter and lusty renditions of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' and 'Feed the World' (a modern concession to the younger set). Paper hats are worn at an angle indicative of derangement and 'howlers' are exchanged to a chorus of good natured groans. Only Spencer, who has professed loathing toward Christmas since our parents gave him a Spanish guitar rather than the Fender Telecaster he expected, remains aloof, skulking in his room for the duration, only occasionally emerging to forage for alcohol.
Throughout our childhood, ironically, I was the one excluded. For successive Christmases between the ages of seven and eleven, I was confined to bed by viruses caused by a depletion of the immune system. This is a common problem for children of enhanced intuition subjected to a sensory bombardment entailed by the modern Christmas. A straightforward trip to the pantomime, for example, where actors blithely exchange genders, bellow pop songs and goad the audience, is fraught with potential for trauma. Even the least sensitive child, meanwhile, can be unsettled by the experience of being bounced roughly upon the knee of an reprobate with an aura the colour of suicide and false whiskers attached to his cheeks. While the introduction of mandatory background checks has done much to identify the parasites who traditionally used Christmas as a means of attaining temporary employment, it's incumbent upon parents to protect clairvoyant children from malign impressions. By referring to guidelines supplied by the Hamilton Coe Foundation, however, they can ensure that nobody misses out on any of the fun.
For Drumfeld children, incidentally, the name Hamilton Coe is as closely associated with Christmas as cards, crackers and turkey. It's four years since the popular military historian, Hugh Mortimer, was hospitalised with a kidney stone only hours before he was scheduled to switch on Drumfeld's Christmas lights . Rather than allow the occasion be soured by anti-climax, I stepped into the breach at less than forty-five minute's notice. According to Spencer, at least seven other candidates were approached before I was spotted "lurking hopefully" in the vicinity. Total rot! My brother wasn't even in Drumfeld at the time but if I was "lurking" anywhere that day it was in bed with a heavy cold.
My own memory of the occasion is limited on account of the flu medication I was taking at the time. Christine's video recording, however, preserves a thirty minute rumination on the spirit of Christmas in the Age of Sadism the poignancy of which caused several of my listeners to be overcome by symptoms traditionally associated with epiphany. As I concluded my address and flicked the switch which, had it not been for a faulty connection, would have illuminated Drumfeld, I was momentarily transfixed by an unbearable sensation of nostalgia for the Christmases of my childhood. This was immediately followed by a surge of electricity which caused Drumfeld to be momentarily bathed in a celestial glow before an explosion precipitated total darkness. Had it not been for my presence of mind and authoritative handling of the situation, the ensuing panic might have had disastrous consequences.
In subsequent years, I've continued to fulfil the role, though not, thankfully, with such dramatic consequences.
COE, ADAM (1900 – 1975) - While my Grandfather Sneddon had a positive influence on my development, I had less empathy with my father's side of the family. Playing board games with my siblings and Grandfather Coe, he habitually penalised me for offences ranging from gloating, gamesmanship and reckless dice use, improvised rules not applied to anybody else. Later, exhibiting symptoms inherited by Dad, he pushed me down the stairs, an incident still disputed by some of my relatives who remain embittered by the fact that, having been injured by our grandfather, I was particularly favoured in his will. My cousin Pamela, occasionally refers to me as being as ‘maladroit as a cow on skates', a neat enough turn of phrase which fails to take into account the fact that, before my equilibrium was offset by my tumble I was, in fact, excessively nimble and more than capable of negotiating my way between two points without hurtling myself into the first obstacle. Of course, incidents like this feature in any childhood. We've stopped regarding them with any sort of perspective. At the height of his marriage problems, Spencer, encouraged by some idiotic counsellor he'd been consulting, made some inferences about advances made toward him by our Uncle Gibby that, I'm sure, were designed to forever release him from responsibility for his own behaviour. As is often the case with Spencer, this was followed by second thoughts (after Gibby confronted him at our mother's funeral) and a grovelling retraction. By the same token would be easy for me to retreat from life. My own grandfather tried to kill me, after all. This was hardly a vote of confidence. As anyone who knows me will attest, though, I have persevered.
COE, CHRISTINE (1966 - ) Psychiatric Nurse. In the absence of her husband, I recently accompanied Christine to Drumfeld's annual Woman of the Year dinner. Few people who knew my sister as a child could have anticipated her nomination. The very suggestion would probably have been dismissed as a cruel joke. While it would be unfair to say that my siblings lived in my shadow, their accomplishments perhaps seemed insignificant compared to mine. In normal circumstances, the family would have celebrated Christine's selection to play hockey for the school. Even Spencer's first ‘gigs' might have elicited a mention in the Christmas newsletter. At the time, though, I was the most remarkable prodigy in the history of psychic detection. When television researchers and F.B.I. consultants beat a path to our door, it was natural that other activities were relegated to peripheral status. While Spencer never concealed his resentment, Christine suppressed her own feelings with predictable results: acne, mood swings and bad language, a pattern currently being repeated by my niece, Muriel.
COE, HAMILTON (1968 - )
COE, HAMILTON, JR Dummy – See SANDERSON, CRAIG
COE, HECTOR (1934 - ) Currently resident in the Room With a View (to Happiness) retirement home in Crieff. Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's shortly before my mother's death. In the months that followed he became increasingly unmanageable and, at times, violent. Initially the repetition of a favourite joke, preferably one accompanied by pratfalls, was sufficient to calm him, but he gradually became unmanageable. On more than one occasion I had to resort to locking myself in the bathroom as he rampaged through the house. Reluctant to have dad institutionalised, I found myself, not for the first time, at the mercy of the social services who assessed my capabilities. Apparently they were found wanting. Much was made at the time of an antique Geiger counter I'd set up in the living room upon which, apparently, Dad might have injured himself. My home was subjected to an invasion of care assistants: Charlene, Mandy and Bea. Oblivious to my international reputation, they treated me with unfeigned contempt, demanding constant cups of coffee and referring to me within earshot by offensive nicknames. When I retreated to the sanctuary of the shed to listen to Mahler, they followed me, banging on the door and shouting, “What are you up to in there with Mallard, monkey man?” a joke of which they never tired. People resent those they consider useless – in tribal societies non-contributors were cannibalised or sacrificed. Today they're subjected to medical experiments or forced to scrub industrial vats.
COE, MARION (1937 – 2002) It's the fault of a kind heart that it continues to seek qualities in others despite overwhelming evidence that they don't exist. To the very end of her life, my mother regaled her bedside visitors with instances of Spencer's sensitivity and encouraged them to buy his latest c.d. over the internet. Spencer, meanwhile, thankfully unbeknown to our mother, was assiduously insinuating himself with his so-called birth family the Patersons!
COE, MURIEL (1992 - ) Few would dispute the unsuitability of the modern school environment to the development of sensitive children. While Muriel might not be especially 'gifted' in any respect, her curiousity is indicative of an enhanced sensibility which might, at some stage, result in a career in one of the forensic sciences. For years, in fact, members of the family referred to her as 'Hamilton's assistant', a joke that, admittedly, became wearing (Muriel wasn't qualified to be my assistant). She displayed, however, a serious interest in my work which, allowed to evolve, could have resulted in some kind of apprenticeship. After two years in secondary school, unfortunately, Muriel has become less interested in investigative technique than hanging round Drumfeld churchyard, smoking cigarettes and presenting vicious lampoons of her former mentor for the amusement of her idiotic new cronies.
My disappointment in Muriel's behaviour is tempered by a compassion borne of experience. Her mother went through a similar phase, as did her Aunt Pamela. Had Christine removed her from secondary school, as, indeed, I urged after a visit in the guise of 'Jimmy the Janitor' first exposed Muriel's involvement with a cigarette smoking vampire sect, a solution might have been effected. As I reminded Christine at the time, however intelligent or sensible a person might seem, the incessant influence of a cretinous peer group can have a disastrous effect. Unfortunately, she ignored me. Muriel is now so enamoured of her new friends that any criticism of them, however constructive, provokes a temper tantrum and a barrage of unkind and inappropriate personal observations.
COE, SPENCER (1970 - ) I hesitate to include an occupation or summary of my brother's purpose. Any dispassionate observer of his activities would probably conclude that he is an aspiring pop star. By describing him as such on the Rob McCaskill radio show, however, I unwittingly provoked a temper tantrum that would have shamed a five year old. Had it not been for our sister's timely arrival, in fact, my bedroom door might have yielded to Spencer's frenzied kicks and shoulder charges. Fortunately for both of us, Christine responded to my telephone alert before I was compelled to use CUNG-COE.
My brother, apparently, considers himself suited to some higher purpose than the slavish pursuit of adulation. The thousands of tapes, letters and e-mails he has distributed over the years suggest otherwise. In deference to his own, flawed SELF-PERCEPTION, though, I'll refrain from describing him in terms he finds offensively dismissive and leave it to the reader to form his or her own conclusion. See Also EASTON, PETER
COLONSAY – Hebridean Island, nestled between Jura and Islay. The birthplace of my Grandfather Sneddon, we spent many happy holidays here until Spencer and Christine's protests that there was “nothing to do” caused our parents to opt for caravan holidays in France instead. Over a succession of miserable, camp-site bound trips it became obvious that all Spencer and Christine really wanted to do was get drunk, smoke cigarettes and canoodle with similarly obnoxious new friends. My dossiers from two of these trips (Brittany, 1982 and the Dordogne, 1985) still survive in the Hamilton Coe archive. The most explosive document (The Gironde, 1984) was seized and destroyed by my brother.
Spencer's dissatisfaction with Colonsay was probably exacerbated by my popularity with the indigenous population. In my experience, people in remote areas have a greater respect for and understanding of natural powers derided or misunderstood by their inland counterparts. “There goes the wonderful boy!” the islanders would shout as the family Coe cycled past. Spencer and Christine subsequently insisted that this was an inept translation from the Gaelic, and that I was being mocked on the necessity of using a customised tricycle on account of the inner ear damage caused by the beating I received from Grandpa Coe. This was not the case. Even today my visits to the island are rewarded by unsolicited gifts of eggs and home baking. When I leave, the islanders still gather at the pier to sing the Song of the Wind and the Waves and dance their poignant Jig of Farewell.
COMPASSION – Not to be confused with empathy. A virtue essential to any effective investigator. Many people lose their way. Some blunder onto the wrong path by accident, others head wilfully into the darkness and entice others to follow. In the course of my own investigative career I've only encountered a dozen or so individuals entirely motivated by malice. Weaklings and numbskulls, however, are legion. A successful detective must know when to apply compassion and when to summon wrath.
CONNOLLY, BILLY Show-off, Boor.
CORKY (1965 – 1973) Dog. Resentful, perhaps, on being named after a cartoon cat, my great aunt Teeny's West Highland Terrier exhibited such pronounced symptoms of maladjustment that it should probably have been destroyed as a puppy. Aunt Teeny, unfortunately, was a slave to sentiment, a trait common to many dog owners, and attributed her dog's anti-social behaviour to ‘character'. Corky, an habitual snapper, succumbed to his bloodlust on Christmas Eve, 1972, subjecting me to a terrifying ordeal that was only curtailed by a fusillade of smacks from Teeny's slipper. My aunt, who consequently refused to acknowledge me or allow me into her house, opposed Corky's execution. “What was Hamilton doing in my room in the first place?” she demanded in a contemptible attempt to turn the victim into a perpetrator. Her efforts were, thankfully, in vain. In recent years certain members of the family, equally terrified of Corky at the time, have embraced the revisionist argument that he was, in fact, ‘a great wee dog.... full of fun.'
COULL, ALEXANDER (1950 - ) Poison Pen Writer. As far as I'm aware, Coull was the most prolific writer of anonymous letters in modern times. An otherwise respectable and benign individual, his solitary transgression, nonetheless impacted upon numerous lives, not least that of this author.
Coull embarked upon his pernicious pastime when still in his teens. Otherwise timid and inoffensive, he became prone to palpitation inducing fits of rage. For months he struggled to find an outlet for his moods that didn't result in personal endangerment. Other youngsters might have turned to sport, but Coull had a horror of physical contact with other people. Unable to channel his aggressive tendencies, he was bedevilled by stomach complaints and disrupted sleep patterns, both common symptoms of repression. He eventually stumbled upon the outlet that would define his future when, having nurtured an inexplicably intense loathing toward Richard Hearne, creator of Mr Pastry, he wrote a thirty item list of why he found the character and its creator offensive. On sending this, Coull found himself at peace with the world, a brief respite ended when he was visited by police officers responding to a complaint from Mr Hearne.
Discouraged from further correspondence, Coull tried to channel his energies into charity work becoming a stalwart of various church initiatives. The experienced investigator recognises this symptom of transgression: my case files contain numerous instances of desperate efforts to placate inner demons with good deeds. In Coull's case, the distraction was initially successful. In 1970, however, chance meeting with George Harrison at a sorting office for items to be shipped to Bangladesh, enraged Coull in a way that could only be expressed in a ten page letter of breathtaking vituperation. On this occasion, he didn't sign it.
While we'll never know the full extent of Coull's correspondence, it's been categorically established that over the course of thirty years, he sent over ten thousand such letters to recipients ranging from Lulu and child singer 'Wee' Stewart Anderson to David Blunkett and 'Bono'. The Hamilton Coe archive contains five letters I received from Coull. The last of these, a neatly written diatribe in which I'm described as a 'snitch', a 'buffoon' and a 'bulb-headed freak' resulted in his capture. Using a combination of INTUITION and GRAPHOLOGY, I set a trap into which Coull blundered: unwittingly responding to an offer of a half-price Christmas hamper, his reply contained thirty seven separate hand-writing quirks identical to those of the anonymous author. In most cases in which handwriting analysis is employed, fifteen such instances are considered sufficient to establish responsibility for a text. Coull had effectively doodled a noose for himself.
Need I describe Coull's astonishment when, on delivery of his unexpectedly heavy hamper, he opened it to find nemesis in the form of the investigator he had dismissed as a 'bulb headed freak'? On this occasion, I was nearly undone when an attack of cramp gave Coull the opportunity to return the hamper's lid and secure it, confining me for several hours until Christine, eventually responding to calls from my mobile phone, arrived with assistance.
An otherwise decent man, unbalanced by a solitary character aberration, Alexander Coull has now returned to charity work and is often to be seen behind the counter of Pitlochry's Oxfam shop. I bear him no ill will.
CREEPWATCH - In many respects, the internet is an invaluable facility through which the informed user can easily access information and communicate with friends, old and new. To the foolish or naive, however, it contains innumerable potential hazards. I initiated 'Creepwatch' with the intention of alerting browsers to the lurking menace, providing an updated list of rogue sites or, where possible, stamping them with the circled 'C', a symbol I hoped might became an internationally recognised warning. As is often the case, though, my good intentions were thwarted by a combination of politics and incompetence. ROSS MCCATEER, whom I employed to design and maintain the site, accepted a fee of £300 with which he set up a 'Live Journal' in my name. I only later discovered that this was a free service and that my journal's design would have taken minutes.
Still unaware of McCateer's skull-duggery, I spent successive evenings establishing Creepwatch's presence in the Live Journal community, listing suspect journals and leaving warnings on their authors' message boards. As one might expect, I was consequently besieged by hostile messages. Having spent my life confronting ogres, of course, I wasn't even slightly perturbed by their misspelt harangues. The inadvertent discovery, however, of a journal maintained by my niece, Muriel, much of which was devoted to someone she referred to as 'Uncle Schizo' was something else entirely. To be viciously lampooned by someone I had regarded as a protege, for an audience of numbskulls, was such a harrowing experience, that I immediately abandoned the Creepwatch service and left the Live Journal nonentities to their own pitiful devices.
CRIME TIME - My weekly hour-long slot is sub-titled Crime Time with Hamilton Coe. More often than not, however, it becomes Crime Time with Hamilton Coe and whoever happens to be passing the studio with an uninformed comment about criminal psychology. Having put a lot of work into my broadcasts, I'm naturally irritated by the necessity of dealing with contradictions from people who've been wrongfully encouraged to express opinions on matters they know nothing about. At the outset of my broadcasting career, I arrived at the studio on several occasions to be confronted by the sullen features of Miriam Tobin, Drumfeld's neighbourhood watch co-ordinator. To be blunt, Miriam was a numbskull, determined to dwell on matters of total non-interest to serious criminologists. Crime Time with Hamilton Coe is not a forum for discussing the necessity of double locking doors or checking on elderly neighbours. Miriam, however, was determined to intersperse my carefully prepared broadcasts with such nuggets of irrelevance. “What about the old people?” she'd squawk apropos of nothing at all. If her point was ignored or rebutted she merely repeated it with enhanced volume. When she didn't, as was frequently the case, understand an argument, she rolled her eyes and repeated, “For the love of Mike” over and over in the expectation that her antagonist would concede the point. I'm made of sterner stuff. While I'm instinctively polite, I won't hesitate to put a bully in his or her place. The effort of dealing with someone as obdurate and obnoxious as Miriam, however, was exhausting. McCaskill, ostensibly the show's host, merely interjected with idiotic comments such as “she's got you there, H!” On one occasion he asked us to pose for a publicity photo, grimacing comically, one's hands around the other's throat. Naturally, I refused inciting Miriam to launch into a predictable accusation that I was humourless. It was around this time that she had “For the Love of Mike”, which she'd been encouraged to consider a catch-phrase, printed onto t-shirts accompanied by a caricature of herself. In short, she grew too big for her boots, a situation exacerbated by the station who twice, when I was unavailable, renamed the slot Crime Time with Miriam Tobin.
CRISIS, MID-LIFE – Ridiculous justification for caddish behaviour imported from America. A sense of anti-climax and failure is, of course, to be expected in those who have lived as slaves to compromise. Anyone who imagines that squandered potential can be compensated by means of an illicit affair or purchase of a sports car probably had little to recommend him in the first place.
CROWLEY, ALEISTER Poet, Magician, ‘Character' – Remembered without affection in Inverness-shire for strutting around, brandishing his swagger stick at locals and threatening to turn tradesmen into camels. Interested parties can now follow Crowley's footsteps on the Great Beast Way, the ill-judged brainchild of Malcolm Copperthwaite, so-called party organiser and current resident of Crowley's Boleskine home. This idiotic scheme, initially welcomed by Inverness-shire Council, has resulted in the area being deluged by unsavoury ramblers, some of whom have caused disruption by experimentally summoning entities. Copperthwaite became a victim of his own stupidity when an ill-judged piece of sexual magic(k) caused his dreadlocks to fall out.
A young Aleister Crowley torments a familiar.
CRUISE, TOM (1962 - ) Actor. When Cruise offered his support to my theories on the modern trearment of depression, he was pilloried to the extent that the very mention of his name became sufficient to prompt smirks and lame jokes. In my experience, the surest means of undermining someone is to subject him to ridicule. When Cruise refused to retract his opinions, he became the victim of a merciless campaign in which he was demeaned in satirical cartoons and sketch shows that presented him as an unworldly odd-ball. As dependent on applause as any other actor, Cruise was demoralised by the hostility he had attracted, and gradually became subservient to the imbecilic agenda of 'The X Men', a Californian Doomsday cult whose members have so assiduously attached themselves to vulnerable members of the community that ten percent of the state's population are currently members.
When I last visited Los Angeles to work on the proposed Hamilton Coe television series, I tried to negotiate a meeting with Cruise. This was more complicated than I had anticipated. When I eventually tracked him down to an upmarket Santa Monica Mall, his minders, obviously alert to attempts to subject him to further ridicule, misinterpreted my benign intentions and tried to manhandle me. In the ensuing scuffle, I was forced to resort to CUNG-COE, inadvertently spilling hot coffee over Cruise's lap.
CULLEN, PETER (1966 - ) Disgraced teacher, Plagiarist. Aberfoyle based English teacher, Cullen first came to public notice after embarking upon an inappropriate relationship with one of his female students. Arguing that their friendship was based on a shared interest in music and cinema, he refused to admit to any wrong-doing. “A society that can't accept the possibility of platonic friendship,” he insisted, “has serious problems.” Predictably, the directors of Aberfoyle High School sided with society and Cullen was suspended. I have a certain sympathy for him. British people have become enslaved to the lure of gossip. My own friendship with my niece Muriel has provoked similar sordid innuendo. “She's not your date, Hamilton!” responded Spencer when I announced my intention of asking her to accompany me to Billy Ure's wedding. Later we were subjected to various items of offensive graffiti. While I regard such sallies with indifference, Muriel's confidence has been undermined. She's recently taken to loitering in the cemetery where she tries to distance herself from me by smoking and entertaining her ghoulish new friends with Hamilton Coe impressions. I inadvertently stumbled upon one of these performances while studying the gravestones of Covenanters for which the churchyard is, rightly, renowned. If anyone was guilty of ‘spying' on that occasion, incidentally, it was Shaun Magennis who had no business clambering over the Farquharson Memorial in the first place.
Shortly after his dismissal, Cullen was offered a contract with a London publisher on the strength of the opening chapter of his first book, a children's story based on the adventures of a young, female wizard and her mentor, Timothy Coffy, Master of Grimoires at the Wizard Academy. Cullen's success was widely featured in local papers. He was photographed celebrating in a wizard's hat, brandishing a wand. Unfortunately, the offer was subsequently withdrawn when a reader employed by the publisher noted eighty seven separate incidents drawn directly from J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series.
Peter Cullen promotes his book.
CUNG-COE - Need we even discuss the moral repugnance of physical violence? Ideally, a man born with powers of intellect and logic should never need to demean himself by scufflying with adversaries. Anybody applying to attend my weekly Cung-Coe classes at the Drumfeld Community Centre (Thursday evenings, youths 6-7, seniors 7-8) must first sign a guarantee that my techniques will only be used for the purposes of self-defence. Before learning the basics of Cung Coe, the student spends three weeks studying methods of violence evasion. My potentially devastating techniques are only intended as a last resort.
The human anatomy is manifestly unsuited to the rigours of close range combat. The most effective predators of the animal kingdom have a low centre of gravity and strong, sharp teeth. The upright human, presents an easy target to any assailant, offering a choice of blows to various areas of particular vulnerability: throat, solar plexus, testicles and knees. The hand, meanwhile, wasn't designed to be used as a weapon. Its fragilities are even more pronounced when clenched into a fist. The practical reasons for avoiding physical confrontation are as compelling as the moral ones. If, however, an individual, without malign intentions of his own, and presented with no other option, is compelled to protect himself, a rudimentary knowledge of Cung-Coe will prove an invaluable asset. Whether his assailant is a boxer, wrestler or common-or-garden thug, my techniques enable the student to nullify his aggression and turn it against him. Combining the movement and intuition of animals and insects with the intelligence of man, I have assembled a range of strategy applicable to any situation.
Sensei Coe demonstrates a deflection technique
CURRAN, MADELINE (1977 - ) Nuisance, Slanderer. See FLETCHER, WILLIAM.
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