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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FACIAL GROWTH – A beard invariably indicates sloth, vanity or furtiveness. Sloth can be determined by the presence of discoloration by food stains, vanity by excessive luxuriance and furtiveness by a reluctance of the wearer to make eye contact. One should also note the appearance of the beard wearer's lips. Excessive redness indicates carnal or sadistic tendencies.
While the growth of a beard might, on occasion, by necessitated by incapacity, the experienced investigator will always regard a moustache with caution: there's nothing to prevent a man who can shave his chin from shaving his upper lip. The presence of a moustache indicates the same personality defects as the beard along with sexual deviancy and narcissistic personality disorder. This does not apply to the three countries in which the moustache is still considered fashionable, i.e. Uzbekistan, Armenia and Iraq.
FEAR – At an early age, I learned from my Grandfather SNEDDON that a guiltless man need never be troubled by fear. What makes most people quiver other than the promptings of a guilty conscience? “Always be honest, upright and brave,” advised my grandfather, and with that in mind, I've always endeavoured to walk erect, my chin in the air. Spencer, on the other hand, stoops, hands thrust deep into his pockets.
Fear, it should be noted, is infectious. Billy Ure was largely raised by his grandmother, a foolish woman whose own choices were determined by irrational terrors. Today, her behaviour might have attracted the interest of clinical psychologists and been diagnosed as an obsessive disorder. At the time, though, it was attributed to superstition. Much of her belief system was absorbed by Billy who, to this day, won't wear a hat in the bathroom lest his head fall off.
FERGUSON, CRAIG (1962 - ) Talk Show Host. Originally hailing from the injudiciously situated new town of Cumbernauld, Ferguson has established himself as a 'wit' in another locality constructed against the dictates of nature: Los Angeles.
I was tricked into appearing on Ferguson's television show while by associates of Pamela's with whom I was negotiating the Hamilton Coe television series. At the timr I was pre-occupied with negotiations and only the assurance that Ferguson was a serious journalist with a long-standing interest in my work convinced me that I should apear on his show. Never having previously heard of him, I was only alerted to the deception when, minutes into the interview, he embarked upon a succession of 'comical' observations about my personal appearance. Anyone familiar with Ferguson's television persona will appreciate that these were delivered with the charm and comic timing of a drunk loitering outside a chip shop. For some reason, he was particularly attracted to the zipper on my cardigan, tugging on it like a curious chimp while the fatheads in the audience hooted encouragement.
Many individuals in my position, particularly those with a practical knowledge of Cung-Coe, might have taken it upon themselves to teach Mr Ferguson better manners. Throughout my career, however, I've learned the benefits of forbearance and merely retorted with some good natured 'cracks' of my own. That I was holding my own in the verbal sparring became apparent as Ferguson's audience, confused by the spectacle of a tethered goat mauling a tiger, fell silent. Ferguson's smile became strained before suddenly collapsing into a grimace of startling malevolence."Get this f__king idiot out of here before I break his jaw," he screamed before leaping from his seat and stalking off-stage. Even by the standards of his profession,this seemed grossly unprofessional. Had I not possessed the presence of mind to divert the audience with an improvised lecture, their shock might have turned to disgruntlement.
Ferguson eventually returned to the stage five minutes later and, interrupting me, delivered a remarkable speech in the course of which he referred to marriage difficulties, a drinking problem and the death of his dog. Concluding by again referring to me as "this f___king idiot", he returned to his seat and resumed the interview, an edited version of which was later broadcast omitting both Ferguson's outburst and my own wittier sallies.
FINDLAY, GEORGE (1928 - 1997) Educationalist. Rector of Meredith House, the only Kester approved facility in Scotland, Dr Findlay devoted the best part of his career to the promotion of the Kester ethos. In return for his years of dedication, rivals within the Kester community subjected Dr Findlay to slanders which persisted from the time of my own acceptance as a 'Kester Kid' in 1979 until his death.
I was, in fact, the last prospective pupil to be interviewed by Dr Findlay before his scandalously enforced sabbatical. Having stared into the eyes of madness on numerous occasions, I can attest that, regardless of apparent eccentricities, the doctor was in full command of his faculties. Conducting the interview from the interior of a large wicker basket, an expedient necessitated by a skin complaint exacerbated by sunlight, he nevertheless impressed me as a man of sense and compassion. Fixing me with a shrewd and kindly eye pressed against an gap between the basket's lid and handle, he assured me of a position in the school. This promise was reneged upon by his predecessor, Murray Kemp, whose 'interim' stewardship lasted for fifteen years and eventually resulted in the school's closure.
FIFE, KINGDOM OF (Nest of pests and anarchy)– According to tradition, the Kingdom of Fife was created when the giant Hamish McAlpine dammed the Firth of Forth using his own effluence.
FLATTERY –
Be wary of the flatterer
His words are set like snares
He lathers you with compliments
To catch you unawares
While his right hand pats your back
His left hand steals your purse
The blade with which he cuts your throat
Will tickle your tummy first!
William Sneddon
FLETCHER, WILLIAM (1940 – 2003) Teacher, Mischief Maker, Pervert. The slanders I endured as a youth were obviously damaging on a personal level. No adolescent enjoys being alluded to as possessing “a face like a malevolent planet”. My brother, Spencer, and his friends rejoiced in imitating the freakish version of myself featured in The People Who Saw Tomorrow and there was a brief craze amongst the district's ‘alternative' set of Hamilton Coe themed parties, one of which Spencer tricked me into attending. I received anonymous letters threatening to have me killed, exorcised or forcibly baptised and the Children of Courage and Achievement Award at which I was honoured (after a long campaign to have my talent recognised) was sabotaged by demonstrators and orchestrated egg throwers. I left the stage triumphant but covered in yolk. The Hamilton Coe Society formed by my aunt to keep well-wishers updated on my activities was deluged by enquiries from unsavoury characters demanding Hamilton Coe information packs and lapel badges. Rival societies were established by unauthorised persons disseminating completely false information and my aunt was eventually so destabilised by the pressure that the official society ceased operation, leaving six bogus versions competing to invent increasingly sordid and ridiculous Hamilton Coe adventures. These, incidentally, were the original source of many of the rumours propagated about my activities, several of which have been recounted as actual occurrences in Nina's recent book. While all of the authors united in predictably crude innuendo (that Hamilton Coe is a chronic masturbator, that he is a peeping Tom, etc) some indulged in extravagant flights of fancy that suggested I was a superman. One in particular sent out weekly cliff-hangers, each of which was produced with intricate attention to detail. I remember one in which a villainous confectioner baked me into a cheesecake, another in which I was lured into a so-called Chamber of Feculence in which I was slowly asphyxiated by foul emissions. Each of these episodes would conclude with the query, “Is this the end for Hamilton Coe, boy of mystery?” and, in truth, for most people it would have been. To construct a false identity for someone is a form of black magic. You force your victim into a limbo between his real self and the image you have constructed for him. It's a dangerous experiment, particularly when conducted by those too stupid to appreciate the consequences. I was determined, however, not to be overwhelmed by malice. When my aunt recovered from her stress induced breakdown we set about the grim task of identifying the various authors, compiling a dossier on each and distributing the information in a special thirty page newsletter, incorporating particularly foul samples of their handiwork. These newsletters were sent not only to our regular subscribers, but also friends, colleagues and employers of the perpetrators, not one of whom was under the age of twenty- five. The most obsessive, the author of the weekly cliff-hangers, was William Fletcher, an art teacher from Callander. Stripped of his cloak of anonymity he first protested that he was, in fact, an ardent admirer of Hamilton Coe and intended his work as a tribute. When this tactic failed, he resigned, attempted suicide and eventually left the area entirely to live with his sister. I often say that this is the Age of the Man-child: I might add that William Fletcher was one of its first prophets. The current Harrison Poe website, incidentally, is run by his niece, Madeline Curran, a young woman who is, apparently, not ashamed of the fact that she has dedicated her entire life to the construction of mischievously perverse images of myself.
FOCHABER'S ACADEMY – Boarding school in the Drumfeld area, now defunct. According to a recent survey, former pupils of Fochaber's are the most brutalised in the country. This information popularised the school's putrid red and yellow tie which was suddenly sported by the sort of frail and ghoulish teenagers who frequent art galleries and attempt to attract soul-mates by adopting the paraphernalia of physical disability.
Many Fochaber's pupils spent their Saturday afternoons in Drumfeld. Their behaviour and appearance confirmed the suspicion that its main function was as a depository for the sons of nonentity, sent there for no reason other than that they were unpleasant to have around the house. The name remains a by-word locally for an absence of aptitude or intelligence: “Are you fresh out of Fochaber's?” it might enquired of someone who's just spilled coffee over himself or walked into a lamp-post. In the aftermath of the scandals that eventually closed the school, many former pupils have sought the solidarity provided by support groups.
Many years ago, I infiltrated the premises in the course of an investigation. Billy, his hyper-active survival instinct for once deserting him, was apprehended by a group of prefects and briefly ‘roasted' over an open fire, an ordeal from which, I suspect, he has never fully recovered.
FORGIVENESS - Is it possible to overstate the importance of the quality of forgiveness? A soft heart can be wounded, but it recovers. When we harden our hearts against others, however, we abandon ourselves to a darkness from which there is no hope of dawn. However gross an insult or profound a betrayal, we must endeavour to forgive it. Likewise when our best efforts are ignored or rejected in favour of something tawdry and pathetic, it remains incumbent upon us to force a smile and to persevere.
FORREST, ANDREW (1976 - ) Matricide. The Andrew Forrest case remains something of a cause celebre. Readers with even the slightest interest in crime will be familiar with the basic story: Forrest, the morbid outsider with his poetry, experimental facial growth and inappropriate obsessions. Criminals of that type tend to attract an unmerited level of interest. Journalists of Nina's calibre like to trot out their ‘modern day Clyde Barrow' type stories. Not one of them, naturally, has the slightest inkling of what Clyde Barrow was actually like. The comparison is completely meaningless. If truth be told, Forrest probably had more in common with Lizzie Borden. We needn't dwell on the specifics of the case, though. My adventures have been extensively recorded elsewhere and, despite the level of interest that particular investigation continues to inspire, the details were pretty mundane. I'm not here to blow my trumpet. There are enough braggarts in the world. My purpose in life, at that time, was detection, so it ill-behoves me to expect praise for fulfilling it successfully. Suffice to say that my independent investigation was instrumental in securing Forrest's conviction. The Midlands police, sadly, refuse to acknowledge this. Few, if any, policemen will concede the fact that their role is largely janitorial. Their talents are adequate to the apprehension of muggers and wife-beaters and in this realm of what I refer to as basic criminality, their diligence is invaluable. In dealing with more complex issues, however, the average policeman, immaterial of how many courses he's been through, is hopelessly out of his depth. I've no intention, at this time, of further debating the potential role of gifted amateurs in detection. The facts speak for themselves. More often than not, entrusting a complicated investigation to a police officer is like putting a microwave in charge of a kitchen. He is functional, but lacks inspiration. Of course, since television writers encouraged policemen to construct images of themselves as mavericks, the issue has become even more confused. Fifteen years ago, a policeman could be identified by the combination of scowl and moustache. They were robotic but, by and large, competent. Now they've assumed artistic licence. They gel their hair, wear clothes their predecessors would have considered grounds for suspicion and openly discuss personal crises. They consider themselves creative, a terrible misconception that has undermined the quality of justice in this country to the extent that the very word elicits involuntary smirks.
FREUD, SIGMUND - A great deal is made of analysis: why is a man thus? What led him here? This sort of thinking, in my experience, leads to the logic of the scoundrel. Any offence can be exculpated by referring to some damage inflicted in childhood or adolescence. The effective investigator shuns analysis. He merely observes. His interest lies entirely in what a man is. Any fool can conjecture why. I'm constantly reminded of this in my work with depressives. Our universities are churning out smart-alecks eminently qualified to point out what causes an aberration without having the slightest notion of how it might be resolved. Most of the depressives I encounter through my sister's group are, in fact, merely responding to circumstances. Their lives are unsatisfactory: there's no reason why they wouldn't be depressed. Their symptoms don't indicate a clinical disorder, merely unhappiness. What's more, in many instances my research has revealed that culpability lies entirely with the individual in question. Time after time I've established a pattern of bad behaviour: sloth, drunkenness, infidelity. It became apparent to me that many of my ‘depressives' were actually victims of bad character. Members of the psychiatric establishment have, predictably, pooh-poohed my conclusion. They continue to drug people who actually need guidance and, in many instances, physical exercise.
FRIENDSHIP - Anyone who peers into the abyss must be prepared to confront whatever stares back at him. The neophyte investigator naturally braces himself to confront monsters. He must, however, prepare himself for the inevitable occasion on which the torch of revelation illuminates the face of a friend. How does he reconcile the demands of frienship with his duty to the truth? The answer, to the conscientious investigator, is straightforward: regardless of his relationship to the participants, it's incumbent upon him remain a dispassionate observer of events.
In attempting to cause Billy Ure to reassess his relationship with me, Karen Balsillie made much of the three hundred page dossier I freely acknowledge having maintained on him since he was charged with plagiarism. "What sort of person," she demanded, "treats his friends as suspects?" "What sort of person," I responded, "presents someone else's work as his own?" The fact that Billy is my friend doesn't blind me to a pronounced tendency to certain types of transgression. Karen's ire, I suggested, would have been better targetted at those who snubbed and mocked him in the wake of his humiliation. It didn't seem to occur to her, however, that I had remained resolute despite repeated indications of Billy's defective character.
More recently, Muriel's various misdemeanours, rapidly escalating on my patented 'Teen Concern Scale' from insolence to smoking and petty theft, have necessitated the opening of a new file. This has become a bone of contention with my sister, though, as I reminded her, my intervention in the Mystery of the Missing Necklace was sufficient to deter her from further delinquencies.
FUNERALS - I have often attended funerals in the course of investigations. While sensitive to the occasion, the effective investigator retains a pragmatic detachment. An empathetic nature is laudable, but how many scoundrels have executed their depredations in the full confidence that any potential observers are blinded by tears? The eyes of Coe might radiate compassion but, nonetheless, remain dry. While others might make a virtue out of grief, any unhappiness I feel remains subservient to the demands of truth. Accordingly, at funerals, I'm less likely to be brandishing a handkerchief than a Dictaphone into which I can discretely murmur observations for future reference (a notepad, of course, would serve the same purpose but with the disadvantage of causing the investigator to avert his eyes in order to write coherently. At funerals, as I have found to my expense, noting mourners' responses occasionally causes offence.)
I often attend such events in disguise. The presence of an internationally renowned psychic can have a stifling effect on people's behaviour. It's essential, of course, that any disguise is appropriate to the occasion. ‘Tommy the Punk' will blend in at a business meeting as effectively as ‘Boris the Banker' does a rave, i.e. not at all.
FURNITURE - The personality of an item of furniture is, as one might expect, absorbed from the individuals who inhabit its vicinity. This applies to a wardrobe constructed from a B&Q flat pack as much as it does an Elizabethan dresser. Antiquity, in fact, is no guarantee of psychic resonance. While my analysis of a bed reputedly used by Mary Queen of Scots produced negligible results, an aluminium breakfast stool inherited by Christine from a recently divorced colleague transmitted such levels of malevolence that I took it upon myself to destroy it.
Impressions from inanimate objects can be only read by skilled psychometrists: one must be wary of the hack who simply delves into his own subconscious, responding to preconception or his own prevailing mood.
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