A pigeons religion

The tale of good old Rawk

Rawk the wizen pigeon emerged from the rubble. his perch was reduced to rubble just one day before. Funny how earthquakes can do that to certain train station buildings. Twenty six hours Rawk had to sit there trapped. The first five minutes were panic. Then  fifty five minutes of acceptance. Then twenty hours of despair and waiting.

Then there was four hours of enlightenment, probably due to hunger and a thinness of oxygen. In this four hours Rawk encountered a vision. He found it strange because every pigeon knows that you have visions, you don't encounter them. This must not have been his own vision, but one of a creature so powerful that it could summon it's visions. 

"You look like a blue and purple version of me with a few extra ounces of size. What are you?" Squawked Rawk.

"I HAM HIMPORTANT. YOU H'ARE HIMPORTANT. YOU MUST SURVIVE. YOU MUST TELL PIGEONKIND OF WHAT'S IMPORTANT. JUST INCASE THEY'VE FORGOTTEN."

"Whoat?"

"TELL THEM. TELL THEM WHAT YOU KNOW H'IS HIMPORTANT TO YOU, TO THEM TO THE WORLD. TELL THEM SO THAT THEY CAN PASS H'ON YOUR WORDS TO HOTHERS THEY MEET SO THAT HEXPONENTIAL GROWTH OF YOUR WISDOM IS HACHIEVED AND THUS, THE PIGEON CAN THRIVE."

"But... What's important?"

"TWENTY FIVE HOURS YOU HAVE BEEN HERE. DURING YOUR FIRST FIVE MINUTES OF PANIC WHAT DID YOU WANT? WHY DID YOU WANT WHAT YOU WANT? YOU HALREADY HAVE THE HANSWERS! NOW GO FOURTH AND HEDUCATE THE WORLD!" The vision then turned into the world just before disappearing, which thrilled Rawk with the revelation that the world was round, not like a rectangle with teleportation devices at the edges.

Powered and inspired by this knowledge and quest, Rawk set to struggling and bravely persevered for forty five minutes. And got nowhere. His feet were neatly pinned by the devices that thwart pigeons from hanging out under train stations: The ouch-spikes. 

Suddenly Rawk had a glimpse of his first memory. He was terrified and the first thing he saw was two black beasts chew on a wailing smaller grey beast. He stayed hidden whilst peeping under his half a shell that had fallen on the floor. He noticed how easy it was for the beasts to peck through the now silent grey beast. Then he realised that the two big beasts weren't beast's at all. They were Mam and Dad! He called to them whilst pushing the eggshell from on top of him. "Rawk" they said and they picked him up and took him to their nest.

That's it! That's what Rawk had to do. He had to bite through his legs. He'd seen some older pigeons that had only one foot but he always had too much respect to ask them what happened. Rawk now looked at his legs and went to work on his left, getting as close to the ankle as possible whilst minding that an ouch-spike didn't poke his eye out. The harder he bit, the more pain he was in, which resulted in him biting harder to deal with it. The pain was fierce but he'd pecked himself a stump. Now it was time for the more awkward right foot. Two ouch-spikes to avoid, one protruding towards his face. He had to bend around in an uncomfortable position to get to his ankle, and even then an ouch-spike scratched at his breast. Rawk remained committed and cut through, leaving him with two stumps and a red line etched diagonally across his breast.

But at last he was free! And the freedom of flying came with a pang of mighty hunger. He stuck to the plan and flew to the nearest and most popular city centre. Then his mission took a back seat while he pecked at loose chips and seeds and cigarette buts, making sure to eat the edible things and discard the litter.

When his hunger was satiated the mission took the front seat once again. He flew for twenty seconds and the mission took another back seat while Rawk flew to a roof of a building, carrying a leaf of newspaper. He huddled into a corner, hiding under the paper and balanced neatly on his sore breast and he slept, dreamless.

Basic need fulfilled he flew back to the city centre and positioned himself under the large, black, unmoving, wingless beast (statue) and called to his kin.

With his wings akimbo and his eyes passionately closed he squawk the words:

"Fellow pigeons, hear me. I am Rawk and I have to tell you what you are here for. You see i nearly died yesterday but i was inspired and saved by the vision of something incredible. The vision sent me on an hurgent path to tell you all what's himportant! You must all listen to my words and be reassured lest you have forgotten what is significant in life!"

Rawks confidence grew with his words and he opened his eyes. The sight deflated him but he kept his wings out. No pigeon was listening. They were all bobbing on the ground looking for some food. Rawk looked at his stumps and his scar to remind himself of the severity of his life. He then looked out again.

"I will persist, for you may hear this even though you may not be listening. You all have beautiful lives and you must never forget this. Please know that what im about to tell you is imperative to our way of life and you must never forget it!"

As he said this a wingless beast threw some delicious bread to the ground and stirred his crowd into a frenzy. Rawk smiled. He realised that they already lived what he was about to say.

"Pigeons" Rawk commanded impotently, "Just coo what you need to coo!" And with that, he flew off for some free bread.

*****

A Pigeon's Religion

Herein I shall endeavour to relay to you the TRUE nature of the faith-leanings of our winged cousins.  All efforts should be made to shield yourselves from the widespread showering of ill-informed dreck which is being ploughed into you wholesale by none other than THE MAN.  This is the only true pigeon's religion.  Disbelieve all others.

As everybody well knows, the path to pigeon heaven can only be discovered by the enlightened and educated pigeon-fathers of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC).  Here I will explain the, to the outsider, peculiar tic which infiltrates the faithful when they talk of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC).  The suffix '(TKTC)' which MUST ALWAYS follow the name of The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) is an honorific which, when fully revealed, reads 'They Killed the Cat'.  The cat has always been a fearful demon to the pigeon community, and The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) became the renowned force they are today by proving their divinity, by the slaying of the cat.  Word of their deeds is has even been seen infiltrating the world of the speaking-monkeys, though quite clearly they do not fully appreciate it's import.  The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) is the One True Way to pigeon heaven.

The Cult of Curiosity (TKTC) was founded by SkKwarr Flangeahgh, who was subsequently canonised as Saint Rupert, The Planner of the Killing of the Cat.  He was a very clever pigeon.  The miraculous deeds of his youth are popular yarns at the stolen-chip parties of all the teen pigeons.  Perhaps the most widely spake is the Tale of the Mocking Jumbo.  The story is a long and shaggy beast, but in the interest of time I will inform you that the denouement involves old Saint Roop stealing a jumbo sausage from a fatty at Brighton Pier, tossing it into the sea, and then returning to gloat.  Such malice was the frequent vice of Saint Rupert, which proves that he was the ideal candidate for plotting the killing of the cat.

But it is not Saint Rupert himself who did the deed.  Nonononononononononono.  It fell to a much younger piggyjin to Do the Deed.  Her name was Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn.  It was she who slew the feline.  She was a celebrity in the pigeon world long before the act which is unambiguously considered the zenith of her activity.  She was Champion of the Order of the Oncoming Car, High-Priestess of the Movement of the Toilet-Statues, Full-Caan of the Stolen Chip.  It was she who slew the feline.

Cats are near impregnable, this is well known.  The inner layers of the cat may be wet, weak and greasy like reheated cottage pie, but it's thick outer crust is firmer than any natural material known to pigeon.  It is said in the holy manual of the Order of the Oncoming Car that even if a pigeon's beak attains maximum velocity and is tipped with the Diamond Nib of Gwak Lv. 5, still it is not a sure thing that the cat will be scratched.  A pigeon will sooner break through superadamantanium than a cat's shell.

But therein lay the rub.  The true genius of Saint Rupert, and the impeccable skill of Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn, who was able to perform the deed.

Much like the Death Star, every cat is known to have a small, vulnerable aperture which, if it can be breached, will spell the end of it.  Saint Rupert discovered this, and calmly, evilly, he drew his plans against it.  This is how it went down.

First they scared the cat.  Different pigeon factions disagree vehemently on the method used for the distraction.  It is very important how it was done.  Pigeons are often killed for believing the wrong way.  It is right that they should be put to death.  ONE TRUE WAY.

So, yes, they distracted the cat.  It was done with a scary picture of a screaming dog.  The picture was dive-bombed into the cat's vicinity by a magpie POW who'd been promised her freedom for doing this task.  Afterwards, she was freed.  What I mean by this, of course, is that she was freed from life by the merciless fangs of a cat.  Duly distracted by its meal, the cat did not see the sure descent of Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn.

WHOOOOOOOOOSH!

She buried herself bodily in the anus of the cat, not even a smidgeon of her pigeon toes remained in sight.  Well, let me tell you, the cat was surprised.  She began to caper around the garden, mewling and screeching.  "Shut up, you bugger!", a nearby monkey yelled.  But still, on she went, wailing and careening hither and thither in the greenery.

Have you ever wondered what it might feel like to have an entire pigeon forcibly dive-bomb its way twixt your innards?  Let me tell you, the idea only occurred to me roughly halfway through this story, and I wish it hadn't.  It seems to me that there are few more horrendous end-game scenarios than having a small, ugly bird wedged in your intestines.  If you can imagine it, stretch yourself further and imagine how bad a cat would feel in the situation, possessing as it does, a much smaller beefhoop than you.

The cat died.  Not from shock or anything short term like that.  No, the cat spent the best part of 3 months uncomfortably smudging around, being poked fun at by the other cats, who knew full well what Tibbles was concealing in her faecal womb.  A grown up pigeon.  Gfarreeelezzkuhbaaahhwwn died on impact, thank goodness gracious, but she took her sweet time rotting.  She slowly souped into a green, deathly sleeper cell which poisoned the living cat from within.  Sleeper cell, more like sleeper smell! (hysterical laughter and applause).

This is a pretty horrible story.  In the end, all the pigeons went to heaven, where there were lotsanlots of stolen, traditional British food for them to gorge on, and they did.  The Ned.

*****

Hello and welcome to the new format blog entry from ACRE member Luke ‘Handsome Boy Aint He’ Sampson, wherein I actually try to write a fucking blog and not leave it months and months before writing one (even if the one I write is in fact funnier than the other threes combined efforts for the entire year). So apparently some arsehole decided that the first entry would be titled ‘a pigeon’s religion’. I have no idea what that even means because I don’t know two of those words already and I’ve eaten the other one so there. Anyway, I thought I would give it a go and see where it goes (hopefully a tunnel to the bottom of a tub of meatballs in Subway…mmm).

Let me first try to make sense of the word that I do know, Pigeon. This is not to be mistaken with the flying rodent that congregate around Ponty square and plot about shitting on poor, defenceless OAP’s and passing avian flu on to sickly, pale children. They are to my knowledge called Pijuns, which is a homophone of Pigeon but sadly that is where the similarities end (and no I don’t mean a Blackberry Curve or a Samsung Galaxy, a homophone is when two words sound the same, fucking idiot). No, a Pigeon is of course a measurement of time. This is plain to see if we look closer at the word. Segment the word into two and we have: Pig, a farm yard animal usually kept for meat and recreation and Eon, a long time. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Ye, stupid, we can all see that it is two words and we know what both of them mean but what does the word mean put together, div?”

Well, it is clearly the largest amount of time imaginable by a pig (or a billion years whether the pig likes it or not, whichever comes first). But to really fathom just how large we need to look at how a pig perceives the other three dimensions in his life (because time is the forth dimension, not fucking wind or snow or cold seats like Ice Age will try and have you believe, smug cunts). To do this I put 100 pairs of 3D glasses on 100 pigs then made them watch The Avengers. The results were very surprising. After only an hour of the film half the pigs had fallen asleep (or comma, I’m not a doctor of animals), about five per cent had started screwing and the rest were rooting for Loki to win. When I put this through my fancy computer programme it told me that the reason for this was that pigs see 3D in super slow motion which was making the film very boring (except for the Loki bits). With this in mind I was able to come up with an hypothesis on the Pigeon. It is as follows:

A Pigeon is a very long time. Too long in the opinion of the pig. It’s like watching Titanic or the new King Kong when you’re already tired. It transcends time as a linear factor and takes into account  the emotional state of the pig. As a term to be used by humans it would be the expression of something taking longer to do than you have the energy for at that particular time. Like sex before breakfast. 

So, being pleased with my understanding of the word Pigeon I have pondered as to its relevance in the title. But having still no idea what the other two words mean I decided to do some research. And wouldn’t you bloody know it, I found the word religion. Apparently it refers to a group or organization that all follow a set of rules that were laid out by someone called God. They do the same things all the time except for a Sunday (or a Friday if they are the curly haired ones) when they have a rest and pat themselves on the back for getting tickets to see God in concert. From what I can see the title cannot be referring to the Muslim ones because they think pigs are filthy (which they are, that’s a fact rather than a religious pillar). If I didn’t know any better (which I do) I would say the title makes more sense with Pijuns since they are organized and terrorists. But, alas, it is not so I’ve taken my research along a different path. I asked some famous people from ‘religion’ what was the longest thing imaginable to judge which of them had feelings most closely resembling a pig. 

First up was Big Bad Ratigan from the Vatican, Pope Benedict 16^th. His idea of a pigeon was absolution. He felt that it would take more time than he had energy to forgive all the sinners in the world (which is fair enough since it would take several days just to cover the wanks I’ve had writing this entry). Next to be put on the hot seat was Dai Lama, King of the Buddhi. He said it was a pigeon to eat solid food after midday. I understood what he meant straight away because I remembered Napoleon Dynamite trying to feed him in that film he was in and he was having none of it (although he looked a lot better after a shave I must say). Lastly I spoke with a strange magician on the street called Henry Christopher. He had an haircut like Tung Po from Kick Boxer and wore a shit pair of jeans under his costume. Also he said that he wasn’t greedy which was a lie because we was eyeing up my pasty pen (details to be revealed at a later date) the whole time I was eating it/writing with it. Anyway, he said that he always had energy to do all the tasks that needed to be done (possible ADHD) but that people he stopped in the street often said that it was a pigeon to even contemplate stopping for him (I would agree with this).

So the religion that was most pigeon was the Henry Christophers because if nobody is willing to stop for them, they have no flying hope of following them (especially on one of their stupid conga lines through town). All that was left to get to the bottom of the title was the word ‘A’. Now, unfortunately, I checked the dictionary and discovered that the word ‘A’ does not exist. It’s just not in there. Therefore, after all that research, I have had to discontinue the investigation so I guess we will never know what was meant by ‘A Pigeon’s Religion’.

*****

Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

Luke Sampson

The Smell of a Good Book

When I was younger, I was obsessed with maintaining some sort of lifestyle that predated my own. I would refuse to type anything, stating that I preferred to hand write my work (since entering the teaching profession, I have apologised to my old English teacher, having had the experience of marking hand written course work) and that typing is just not as expressive and is too cold a medium.

Long story short, I'm writing this on my ipad, which I bought to replace my netbook, which I find rather slow and clunky. Im frustrated because my desktop pc is broken, and my kindle is my portable library. So there we have it, I am a techno fiend (not the music, that's just awful.)

How does this link to the smell of a good book? Well, let's consider books. They're aesthetically very pleasing in all their shapes and sizes, from slim volumes of poetry, to thick novels and huge tomes. They can make a room feel more homely, when they populate it's shelves. And, as an open and avid bibliophile, the smell of a good book is divine; it is ambrosia. But that is the mere object of a book. A book is merely a box full of paper, but what it represents is knowledge, communication.

I love books and I love the way they smell, but we're living in a digital age and the physical object of a book is becoming archaic and, in some cases, obsolete. It has come to a point now, where i have filled almost three rooms with my books, and my collection is

expanding steadily. If it weren't for my Kindle and ipad, then I feel confident in saying that my love of books, coupled with my love of hoarding, would overrun my life.

Perhaps the main reason I find books so homely and so comforting is that they represent journeys. Not always physical journeys, but journeys of learning, of emotional development, of growth. A great book is like a ballet; it doesn't matter whether or not you know whats coming next, it's about the beauty of watching the plot unfold. The smell of a good book is, in my opinion, a psychological side effect to the comfort one takes from the familiar; a mere symptom.

It is a symptom from which I suffer greatly, and yet I am aware of it's nature and I am willing to embrace the future. Really speaking, there's more to a book than what you hold; thats mere aestheticism. I think that people who really love reading will not shy away from the advent of electronic book. Rather, they will embrace it, as it takes us that one step closer to universal inclusion, because books will be even easier to access.

The smell of a good book is a wonderful thing,but it is a mere by-product of that for which a true bibliophile searches: understanding.

*****

It starts in a forest. A vast forest where all kinds of beautiful wildlife lives and dies.

Each tree in this forest is significant for life to thrive. Anything from the smallest mite to the mightiest ape. Each tree gives it's all to not only survive but feed and shelter each living organism that surrounds it.

And the trees are happy to do this. They know that by treating the encompassing life well. By giving a squirrel it's nuts, by giving a woodpecker it's hide-y hole, by giving the possum it's tree sap, it is also giving itself the means to carry on. It has a purpose. It gives life so it's species can carry on.

For every animal it helps, it is one step closer to creating and sowing it's seeds, using the animals around it to spread its life-pellets further and further so it can grow and grow. And grow some more.

This beautifully simple idea, yet delightfully complex action is not only true for the trees in the forest, but every plant and weed.

Then modern man came along with a yearning for information. Information about everything. Any information about any process, any technique, any thing. Anything.

They developed a way to preserve this information. The written word. They also found a way to preserve the written word. They developed papyrus.

This papyrus was made out of the very trees and plants that grew in the vast forest. On this papyrus, they wrote how to make papyrus using the vast forest. And then they wrote all sorts of things, factual or fictitious. All types of information that could be absorbed and used or enjoyed.

Papyrus that was filled with as much information about a topic was bound, and then called a book.

If you are to flick through a book, close to your nose, there's a mysterious and enchanting smell. That smell is the memory of the vast forest and it's truly beautiful. It's filled with the combined wisdom and life of the forest and the scribe of the documenter. It is "The smell of a good book".

The amount of information that was documented grew exponentially which sadly resulted in the decrease of the vast forest. So much so that it was then renamed; the forest.

An attempt to preserve the forest is currently ongoing. A process called recycling is being utilized. The process is also written on papyrus. Recycling is technique which involves cleaning and reusing older materials and it's used for a great variety of materials used today.

In the case of papyrus, the recycling process dilutes the beautiful smell of life and wisdom that's bestowed in by the forest. And that is why books today will never be truly great, for they will never have, The smell of a good book.

*****

Hello and welcome back to the very first episode of Smell That Book. I hope you all enjoyed the ad break, made yourself a cup of tea and put the dog out the back because there will be little opportunity for such things from this point on.

Now, to me, the smell of a good book means nothing. I was never a very strong reader (I’m still not) nor have I had such an amazing moment with a book that its odour has stuck with me. I have such memories with food, especially food that I have painstakingly cooked from scratch but as much as I have loved the recipe book the dish came from I could not tell you what it smelt of (other than grease and flour). I can recall the smell of important people from my life, be it a perfume they wore or the cigars they smoked, but smelling the books they once owned that now reside on my shelves do not conjure up feelings or emotions. Even as I write this, I am nose deep in a tome I have taken from my cupboard trying to gain some insight into the wondrous world of Eau de Novelle but all I can think of is that Silverfish must not suffer from body odour.

So what am I going to write about? (I pause to think, as the question was as much for me as it was for you, the reader). It could be, now that I take a second glance at the title, that I have been getting this all wrong. The phrase is ‘the smell of a GOOD book’. Could it be that what I have been doing is smelling books that are not considered good? How does one judge this? I have always been of the mind that a book is good if the reader has enjoyed it, and that one person may consider a book good while someone else may think the opposite. But perhaps this is not the case. Perhaps a book is put through its paces even before it’s published (picture a little library assault course) to determine where on a scale of 1 to Stephanie Mayer the book should be, 1 being very good and Stephanie Mayer being fucking awful. And perhaps depending on a books position on the scale they are given different scents, immediately altering our perception on a book. Maybe a good book is given an appealing aroma, enticing us to read on, tricking the senses, whereas a bad book would be given a stench designed to force our subconscious into finding problems with the book, such as bad grammar or ridiculous sentence structure, leading us to discard the book. Perhaps this is the origin of ‘That book stinks’, a phrase commonly used by overzealous American book critics.

Does this theory explain why I cannot recall the smell of a single book? No. Although, perhaps at the centre of the scale, where the books are neither good nor bad, they have no added scent, leaving the readers to make their own minds up. It’s a possibility for sure, but I don’t think it would stand up in a court of law. You see, a lot of the books I have read are the same books that my friends have read. Friends that have fond memories of smelling said books for the first time. I have been there and had their copies wafted under my nose, and while they’ve writhed in ecstasy I have sat there, unmoved by the gust of wind rushing up my nostrils.

Here is another theory (I am a scientist after all) which I think fits the scenario a little better. Maybe the term good book is used in the same way as it is when referring to religious texts. To understand this, I had to first think about what makes a religious text ‘good’. Firstly, what do all these books have in common? (That’s right, you clever bastards) They’re all big. So big is good. They are also the most circulated texts in existence with millions of copies made daily. So high sales is also a good thing. Lastly, they all have catchy titles e.g. The Bible, The Torah, The Origin of Species (that’s a joke for all the atheists in the room). So titles that start with ‘The’ are epic good. The other thing with religious texts is that they are appreciated and cared for by the people that read them. So if we now compare these to the books that, hypothetically, are in question. Most of these books are large books, if not in volume then in word count. Most of them are books that are widely read and have huge sales worldwide. They also fit the description of having catchy titles e.g. The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Complete Collection of Conan (the last one is kind of cheating as it’s a descriptive title but it’s the book that most resembles a religious text). My friends take care of their books and really know how to appreciate the prose. Like I said at the start, I was always a weak reader and have lost more books than I’ve actually read.

What I think is happening, if the latter theory is correct, is that I have been cursed with an inability to sniff the scripture. Whoever the divine power is, be it God, Allah or Edgar Allan Poe, they have deemed me unworthy to enjoy the full experience of a good book. Through neglecting the written word in its purest form I have lost my right to its gratifying fragrance. Perhaps, as I write this and expect others to appreciate what I’ve written, I may at some point in the future be gifted a pardon and for once experience that ever elusive book-uet (like bouquet but with books).

Or maybe I’ll never get this Kindle to work properly. Good night.

*****

I have a kindle, I like gadgets, and I embrace progressive technology enabling books to be read in a progressive way. As technology improves, books as a medium will evolve. It was noted on Stephen Fry's Planet Word documentary that as handheld e-readers improve we will see books that incorporate video and extensive footnotes, clips of music and similar. There are already books rife with hyperlinks, and it isn't difficult to imagine the benefits of textbooks where the references in the bibliography lead to the actual articles or papers themselves. These improvements would make studying easier and reading more fun.

Already on the kindle it is possible to see sections of text underlined if they have been highlighted by a number of readers. I'm not sure how I feel about that, hopefully it's a feature that can be turned off; I'd like to come to my own conclusions, and how I read a section of text will definitely be affected if I am aware many people felt it noteworthy.

As much as I enjoy e-readers, for me, personally, they are currently missing something. However this is not informed by practicality or sense, rather it is a hipster coolwank pretention. Much like musos who prefer cds to mp3, and the older who prefer cassette to cd, and the older who prefer vinyl to cassette, and the yet older who prefer music boxes to vinyl, I prefer books. I think it's likely a preference which will take longer to shift culturally, for in comparison to these evolving music recording formats which evolved over a comparatively short period the book has existed in a largely unchanged format for a large number of years.

So, in what ways do books differ to e-readers? In every material dimension the variety of books make them artefacts I delight in, and while the all-in-one nature of e-readers is also something that pleases me, books of paper and ink stimulate so many more of my senses. I have a colossal gospel tome of the Lord of the Rings, with tiny print despite its giant size, a long bound bookmark fraying at the edge, bounteous illustrations taking up entire pages. It is a beautiful book. It frustrates me somewhat as its size excludes it from one of my favourite pastimes: reading in the bath, however it makes up for this by sitting unused for months, years, and then upon re-discovery it has amassed a layer of dust, allowing me to blow it off, imagining that this is an ancient text I have discovered in an ancient ruin or storehouse. On the other end of the scale I have books from the Penguin Popular Classics series, which were printed cheaply in order to make them more available. Old plays and novels have in this way been shrunk into tiny, thin volumes that suit my pastime magnificently. In this way old bastions of literature stand pamphlet sized, and are a far more valuable and rewarding than anything committed to a flyer. I'd be more likely to frequent a pizza place or an indian restaurant which posted The Picture of Dorian Gray around the neighbourhood instead of their own tacky lists of food.

As well as their dimensions, the texture of books are also wildly varied. The plastic smoothness of dustsheets, the childish joy of running your hands over raised title text, like finding a shiny Ole Solskjaer in a packet of stickers. The simple pleasure of running your finger down the edge of the body of pages, watching them flick quickly back, enjoying the whirr of the motion and the breeze created. Joy. There is no better way to up the anticipation of a new journey about to begin within the pages.

But of all our senses, the most strangely powerful is smell. The olfactory stimulus can drag us back in time like no other. Perhaps that's slightly exaggerating; a film watched in childhood rewatched much later can warp us as well, and an album or a song repeatedly listened to can warp us back to the time and place when we hear it years later. For example Ghostbusters 2 turns me into a child as I watch it, and Tenacious D's Tribute takes my back to my teenage bedroom, playing Championship Manager 01/02 on an old PC. But from my experience so many more books can achieve this effect.

And regardless of this effect, I fucking love the smell of a good book. Even the smell of a shit one. I was shocked when I smelt a Twilight book, as despite knowing that it was a collection of written parp, I was shocked to discover that it smelt like a real book. Such is the power of smell, it can positively augment a good book, and it can even cover the reek of a poor book and bestow upon it the credibility of paper, glue and ink.

I recently re-read the first R.A. Salvatore book, The Crystal Shard, and as well as being pleased at how well it stood the test of time and very much enjoying it, I was surprised by its smell. 'Oh yes' I thought, 'this is the smell of fantasy'. And I was surprised by how right I was. Perusing the limited stock I have at my disposal, I am right now smelling Weis & Hickman's Dragon Wing (raised golden title text - delicious) and though it is, of course, the smell of paper, ink and glue, it also smells of fantasy. Also at hand I have Raymond E. Feist's Magician, and it smells exactly the same way. Why should this be!? All these books are from different publishers, and yet they smell exactly the same way. It is as though a secret council of fantasy elders convened and decided "this is how we want fantasy to smell", and so it does.

Koushun Takami's Battle Royale has pages which are unusually white. It has a cold smell, slightly sanitise and lacking in personality. Like a hospital ward or a government building. The cover is a deep red, glossy with a dimpled title. It fits the story magnificently. I have a number of Haruki Murakami books, mostly through the Vintage label, and to me the smell of them is the ultimate smell of comfort. It is the nasal equivalent of putting on the comfiest of pyjamas and hibernating deep in bed. Final Fantasy VII is my gaming equivalent of this. Thanks to the portableness of books, and FF7s release on the PSP I can have this sensation whilst actually in comfy pyjamas and in bed, but I daren't risk it lest I slip into an eternal coma of comfort. Or die as it is also known.

The book which has most moved me nasally recently is Richard Dawkins' The Magic of Reality. Ostensibly a book for older children it is, frankly, utterly majestic. Each page is glossy and rich with colour, and smells of recent redecoration. If you like reading and sniffing paint, I would suggest firstly that you stop sniffing paint, but while you're going cold turkey you can work your way intellectually and olfactorily through this tome. With it's dustsheet off it is a pleasing pale yellow, and at the risk of looking like a lunatic I could very easily simply touch it for an entire hour and be pleased. I would argue that e-readers simply aren't a substitute for that.

E-readers are cool and functional, but they simply don't (yet) have the capacity for exciting me fully in the material world. My kindle doesn't smell of anything. Of course, being human beings we are problem solving animals and we, as we have always done, have thought our way around the problem. We have covers for these e-readers. I have three, for reasons which parallel the Goldilocks tale. One came with the device, a cheap black leather case, and was functional but a little loose and it did not please me. The second, which I bought, was a purple latex sheath which attracted dust like a bugger and was therefore unpleasant to the touch. My final purchase, which so far has pleased me, is a brown hemp cover which is delightful to the touch, and also to the nose.

I am sometimes moving with the times, but I hope that it will be awhile yet until the smell of fantasy is eradicated.

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Gethin Down

Dafydd Evans

Luke Sampson

Adam Gilder

Introduction

So here you are. The ACRE Forethought. A sweet experiment of entertainment that should have you rolling if not reading on floor laughing. The intellectual ROFL, if you will. Saying that, There's nothing intellectual about anything I write.

So what exactly is this experiment aiming to achieve?

Well i'll tell you by explaining what this is. 

The four members of the ACRE have each been given a topic to write about each month. We're given a word count cap of 1500 words (NO MORE LUKE!). Each entry is then posted on the same feed at the same time. You can now experience (hopefully) four different views/experiences that are inspired by the months topic.

And that's it. There will be a very funny/moving/interesting/nonsensical update at the end of each month. Not necessarily in that order. 

P.s. mine will be the awesomest one.

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What would you get if you asked four close friends to write about the same topic?  Would they overlap, or would they be wildly different?  Would it be interesting to see?  If you read this blog then you will find out what happens when these specific four friends do just that.

This is The ACREs FourThoughts; we pick a topic every month and the four of us who make up The ACRE write about it.

It could be funny, it could be interesting, it could be pointless and it could be Rotterdam.

It could be anything, and it will be.

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The four men sat huddled, swathed in darkness in the back of the tavern.

"We shall each of us pick four topics and place them hence, unto the sacred recepticle."  

They pulled the cowls about their faces and rocked in excitement.

"Following this, each shall draw out three snippets of parchment, travelling widdershins until the writing year  hath been planned for we four."

All of a sudden, in burst The ACRE, and, ululating their fuckulence, destryed the four cowled  imposters in a flash of awesomness that made Lion-O seem like Lame-O (oho!).

"This is a tidy good idea that youse four are implementing! We'se gonna nick it!"

"Yeah, you lot are fucking sods!"

What you read here is the result of that night's murderous coup d'etat.  

We are The ACRE, we are fucking top guys and mad cunts.  Read this, or else.  

(Please read this, we try very hard.) 

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So, as I was saying, if you need something done right you have to do it four times. That’s what this is. A blog done right, wherein the four members of the ACRE each take a stab at the same topic (No, not the chocolate bar. You eat them with your fingers.) and see how very different they actually are. It might be awful, it might be repetitive and it might be time consuming but it will be right. Or is it wrong (I always get those two mixed up). Well, fuck off and don’t come knocking round these parts again. Pervert. The nerve of some people. Sorry, that wasn’t aimed at you, just him and he knows what he’s done. This is a worthy experiment and if you are willing to give it the time we will too and this shit is real. Four view points on the same subject every month (like a life drawing class but with words. Sure, one of us will be staring at the arse but you wouldn’t want a lady without one.) so there will be something for everyone. So why don’t you have some forethought and come read this before you ruin your appetite on that Stumble button (other buttons are available). Thank you.

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Dafydd Evans

Adam Gilder

Gethin Down

Luke Sampson