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RACISM - Throughout my career, my enemies have sought to discredit my work and opinions by means of childishly sly defamations. At various times I've been referred to as a pervert, a schizophrenic and a fantasist. Christians have threatened me with forcible baptism while Satanists have nailed hexes to my door. My own brother has threatened to kill me on numerous occasions while my successes have earned me the undying hostility of celebrity driven psychics who vainly consider themselves my 'rivals'. Not even a lifetime of execration, however, prepared me for the onslaught provoked by my use of the word 'niggardly' on the Rob McCaskill show.
With hindsight, I should probably have anticipated the furore. Rob immediately reddened and stammered something about an "inappropriate choice of words" while his other guest of the evening, the astrologer Patrick Rice babbled ominously about Mars circling Neptune. Neither was mollified by my assurance that 'niggardly', meaning 'miserly', bears no relation to the repulsive and archaic racial pejorative contained within its first syllables. "Will you please just stop saying it," implored McCaskill, his voice cracking with apprehension, as I offered a definition to illustrate that my use of the word had been entirely appropriate. "It's just not acceptable." Rather than persist in such a fat-headed debate, I negotiated a change of subject. The mood for the remainder of the show, however, was subdued.
Returning to the house, I was immediately confronted by a jubilant Spencer. Transfixed as he is in a semi-permanent state of self-loathing, my brother is unbearable on the rare occasions he considers himself vindicated. "You've really done it now," he drooled. "If there's one thing everyone hates it's a racist." A repetition of my earlier explanation was met with a slurred, "Why don't you take your racist thesaurus, jump on your penny farthing and f__k off back to the 1950's?"
The next day, I was contacted by several newspapers. Naturally, I refused to apologise for the offence of possessing a larger vocubulary than my interlocutors. Within a week, the issue had assumed monstrous proportions. I was banned from the Rob McCaskill show 'pending an investigation' (which, as I pointed out, might have been conducted by a straightforward inspection of a dictionary) and Muriel's school contacted Christine to cancel my proposed appearance at their careers' day. Spencer, meanwhile, became a leading light in the organisation of a preposterous 'Love Know No Color' (sic) festival to be held in the Town Hall.
"We're here to silence the voice of hate," Spencer babbled excitedly when interviewed about the project on Radio Scotland. "Hamilton might be my brother, but I can't defend the indefensible. As an artist my primary allegiance is to the human spirit." While I'd hesitate to comment on Spencer's 'artistic' allegiances, I know that as a scoundrel, his primary, in fact, only allegiance has invariably been to his own bruised ego.
No student of history can be surprised by the misappropriation of altruism to cloak vindictiveness. "Down with Hamilton!" cried my enemies, not one caring a hoot about the cause they purported to cherish as they paraded through Drumfeld, terrifying children with their nasty, screwed up faces. For successive Saturdays, a hard corps of about twenty descended upon the town where they made themselves objectionable by brandishing placards on which my own features were juxtaposed with Adolf Hitler's. Encouraged by P.C. Jackson's craven refusal to apply reasonable force, the agitators made their way to the House of Coe itself, sprawling across the front lawn, drinking super-lager and thrashing arryhthmically at their bongos. Several, aided by Spencer, even entered the house, citing medical conditions that demanded toilet access. My relectance to acknowledge their doctors' letters was, naturally, interpreted as further evidence of fascistic tendencies.
The identity of leading protesters (apart from Spencer, Jason Barr, Matthew Davidson and Heather Spink were all prominent) betrayed the transparency of their motives. Local minority groups, many of whose members had enjoyed my friendship and assistance, staged counter demonstrations, brandishing unadulterated pictures of Hamilton Coe and singing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow", a sentiment countered by boos and and obscenities. As opinion turned in my favour, the protesters, unable to coherently argue their case, started to lose interest. By week four, only five appeared. Spencer was particularly agitated by accusations of 'political correctness', charges he attemped to refute in a second Radio Scotland interview, over the course of which he referred to my supporters as 'Uncle Toms', a genuinely offensive turn of phrase that resulted in his being barred from three local restaurants.
A week later, I marked my return to the Rob McCaskill show with a plea for reconcilation that was favourably compared to Martin Luther King's 'I Have a Dream' speech.
RESTRAINING ORDERS - Spencer has always made much of the three restraining orders I was subjected to in my teens. These were heavy handed instances of police over-exuberance and on each occasion my 'harassment' was eventually vindicated. The measures taken against Spencer were of an entirely different type. In a matter of weeks he managed to destroy a family that, apart from a little public teasing, had only shown him kindness. Spencer was no longer welcome in Musselburgh and all contact between the estranged semi-siblings was being conducted through lawyers. The local papers ran a story about Spencer's demands that the Patersons hand over items of sentimental value from the mother he never knew. The story was accompanied by Spencer standing at her grave, looking the worse for wear. For their part, the Patersons alluded to sexual indiscretions, drunken rages and soiled sheets. Having already rejected Spencer thirty years ago, they now took legal steps to ensure the distance between them remain permanent.
The court order banning Spencer from approaching the Patersons was imposed three days before our mother's death. Few people, I think, can have had to bury their mother on an afternoon and then endure their brother's death threats in the evening. At the time, I resolved never to speak to Spencer again. Six months later I refused to attend his wedding, to which, admittedly, I'd not been invited, preferring to observe the ridiculous beach service from a pedalo, a ruse that nearly resulted in tragedy when an unexpected tide pulled me toward the open ocean. Christine, thankfully, forewarned of my intentions, noticed my predicament and called the coast guard.
RESTRAINT, ABSENCE OF – See PASSION
RIPPEROLOGY - A tasteless and prurient interest in the crimes of the Whitechapel Murderer. The fact that the deviant(s) behind the so-called 'ripper' murders remained undetected was an undoubted boon to their subsequent celebrity. Similar sprees have been largely forgotten on account of the negligible personalities of the nondescripts responsible.
The Whitechapel slayings were almost certainly committed by the 19th century equivalent of a Rotary Club events' committee. Revelation would, naturally, be disastrous for the thriving 'Ripper' industry.
ROTARY CLUB, THE – I'm not in the habit of blowing my trumpet. My record speaks for itself. Any reasonable person surveying the most cursory list of my accomplishments would acknowledge my contribution to society. My endeavours in the realm of investigation have been well recorded, but when future generations mention Hamilton Coe, I'm confident they'll also allude to qualities of philosophy, philanthropy and goodwill. The Rotary Club of Callander and West Perthshire, however, despite being offered leather bound dossiers and video presentations containing evidence of accomplishment, have rejected my application for membership on three separate occasions. “You're not a professional person,” explained district secretary CALUM LIVINGSTONE on the last of these occasions, “and you've been harassing our members.” To the first of these charges, I'd respond that my purpose transcends the inconceivable, office-bound pettiness of such labelling. If however, I'm forced to argue the point, I'd contend that BILLY URE, a Round Table member for the past two years (and, co-incidentally, Mr Livingstone's sister's fiancé at the time of his induction) works at the Drumfeld Museum on a voluntary capacity. If Billy qualifies as a ‘professional' person then so does the octogenarian who welcomes me into the supermarket. The allegation of harassment is more serious: if I've ‘harassed' members of the Round Table, it's on account of criminal or anti-social activities on their part. The suggestion that my investigations have been prompted by petty motives of jealousy or resentment is offensive, not only to me, but the victims of transgression I've dedicated my life to representing. See also ADAMSON, PETER; LIVINGSTONE, CALUM; LUCIFER SECT; SONS OF THE MORNING and URE, WILLIAM
ROWLING, JOANNE Author. See CULLEN, PETER
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