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I’m at work. I’m bored. Make me laugh.

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Trawl Rockall for:

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Mayor cuts ribbon

Readers must this month excuse my anger, nay apoplexy, as I am apparently to be "dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century".

Not my words, naturally, but those of my editor — a boy hardly old enough to piss in a pot, and yet sufficiently self-assured to issue pompous edicts to a man old enough to have been present at his conception.

The means by which this "kicking and screaming" is to take place is some form of mobile computing device. Indeed, as I write I can see the offending item staring blankly at me from the waste-paper basket to which it has been rightly consigned.

Allow me to explain. Yesterday's post-prandial slumber was curtailed by an excited hammering at the door as Rockall office boy Dave attempted outrageously to gain my attention on a matter of the utmost import.

Despite my sleepy and dire warnings that if, as I suspected, the matter failed to measure up in the import stakes, I would personally see to it that the fluff-chinned intruder would finish his journalistic career scrubbing toilets, Dave insisted on hurriedly untaping a singularly unpromising cardboard box with which he had arrived.

When, after several minutes of breathless activity, he was able to liberate the contents, I found myself staring incredulously at a ridiculous flat black object with no apparent purpose other than to irritate and confuse those with more important matters to which they might attend.

"It's your new laptop, Mr Sikorski," offered Dave, clearly sensitive to my confusion. "It's your new laptop, Mr Sikorski Sir," I corrected, adding that I had a perfectly adequate tray from which to eat my lunch. "You a very funny man Mr Sikorski Sir," chuckled Dave. "Now show the me nearest phone socket and we'll get you online straight away."

There then followed ten minutes of the most unspeakable and monstrous gibberish as I sat goggled-eyed in my Windsor armchair, unable even to reach the brandy, or, more importantly, some heavy and blunt object with which I might club senseless the ranting imbecile before me. I had not, I told myself, sacrificed all at the altar of journalistic excellence to have my finely-tuned intellect destroyed in one merciless blitz of obfuscation and meaningless jargon. In a rage, I cast the offending mouthpiece down the front steps of my modest domicile, poured an abnormally large gin and picked up the telephone...

There then followed the most unpleasant conversation it has ever been my misfortune to share. My editor explained — in no uncertain terms and in the language of the docks where the impregnation which resulted in his eventual birth most certainly took place — that the "laptop" I had been given, was otherwise known as a "computer", that it could be connected to the "internet", also employed to send "email", and that the resulting increase in my "workflow" would avoid my filing all future copy from the "dole office".

I cleverly enquired whether this device had been made by a man called Remington. No, I was told, it was made by a fellow called Hewlett and his associate Packard. As for me, I could reacquaint myself with my estranged partner "work" or I would presently be meeting a tall dark stranger called "sack".

By yesterday I had not yet recovered from this bruising battle. Indeed, my anger was repeatedly fuelled by curt telephonic communications from The Rockall Times' news editor asking why I had not answered the forwarded "email" inviting me to the ceremony at which the Mayor will apparently cut the ribbon on a new state-of-the-art chip manufacturing facility. And, although I was unable to fathom why it was necessary to manufacture chips in anything other than a deep fryer, I was made to understand that my presence was required at this tiresome and banal function.

Have I not, I mused as the black dog of depression descended upon me, suffered enough for these talentless medocrities who call themselves journalists and yet have not the wit and intelligence to recognise greatness among one of their own? I, a man born to significance, reduced to gleaning quotes from minor dignitaries as they gather unconvincingly for yet another meaningless photo call. André Sikorski, who might have once shared intimacies with a Sheikh's perfumed and silk-clad harem among the marble halls of the Orient, now trading tittle-tattle with the district surveyor's fat and ugly wife among the magnolia corridors of local council. This must surely be my nadir, I concluded.

But then, just as all seemed lost, the choking smog of despair began to lift. While I might be an object of ridicule to little people who had, by virtue of spending their glue-fuelled youths in amusement arcades and sprawled before video games, gained some small technological knowledge with which they now sought to humiliate me, my own scientific brilliance might yet defeat them all. For was it not I, André Sikorski, Senior Reporter, who had once, using only a Swiss Army knife and an empty bully beef tin, saved an entire city from certain apocalypse?

I dare say that older readers will clearly recall the incident, since it resulted in my being awarded the "Blue Cross of the Naval Mechanics' Institute" — the Republic of Guayacaraya's highest honour. The ceremony was widely reported at the time, and merited considerable wireless coverage across the continent.

It was as an ambitious and hungry young correspondent that I first set foot in Guayacaraya — a land of palm-fringed beaches and honey-skinned maidens who had at that time not succumbed to the ravages of the sexually-transmitted diseases which now so tragically mock their liberal proclivities.

As a slip of a lad without a care in the world and a rucksack containing only a reporter's notebook and a ticket to immortality, this must surely have been paradise. I do not believe I have ever been happier. The carefree days passed uneventfully: a handsome breakfast of red snapper and tuna fritters, eaten with the fingers from the breasts of the hotel owner's virgin daughter, as is the local custom; a leisurely swim to marvel at the unspoilt coral delights of Guayacaraya's coast; lunch followed by a short siesta after which the hungry traveller might indulge in exotic fruits pre-chewed by the female companion of his choice. Paradise indeed.

But where there is paradise, there will be trouble: For myself, the nagging feeling that while a lesser man might well hang his hammock under the azure heavens of Guayacaraya, never to stir again, I must rouse from my agreeable slumber and fulfil my destiny; for Guayacaraya, the need to improve upon a situation where the country's sole electrical system consisted of a small lamp-post in the capital Coaxialcoatl, powered by a petrol generator kindly donated by an American philatelic society.

In fact the sole purpose of my visit to Coaxialcoatl was to report on the inauguration of the Rio Maldito hydro-electric project, at that time the world's largest. The enormous undertaking, financed entirely by international loans, involved the damming of the Maldito high in the mountains seven miles upstream of the capital. No less than 250 villages had already succumbed to the rising waters, their indigenous inhabitants delighted to at last be relocated to the downtown tower blocks they had long desired.

Guayacaraya's president, Señor Gustavio Bormann, was at that time hugely proud of his nation's achievement. "Señor Sikorski," he beamed at the ribbon-cutting ceremony. "This is a great day for my nation. We are honoured to have you amongst us as the kilowatts begin to flow." Right on cue, the naval band struck up an anarchic but enthusiastic rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner", in honour of the project's main sponsors.

Readers must remember that all of this took place on a narrow walkway atop the dam, some 300 feet above the tamed Maldito below. Behind us, in excess of 8 billion cubic yards of rain-fed river water pressed relentlessly against the concrete wall. I asked Gus, I as am to this day permitted to call El Presidente, whether or not the enormous pressure might not eventually bring down the entire structure. "I see you are a man of engineering insight," he winked. "You see, the pressure is releived by the water flowing through the generator turbines. At present, these are shut off — merely for show, I assure you, for when we open the valves, the turbines will shoot their load halfway to Coaxialcoatl!"

We allowed ourselves our private laughter before the sombre moment arrived. Mounting a small ribbon-bedecked podium, President Bormann spoke a few brief words before throwing the switch to activate the valves. The crowd erupted in cheers, then fell silent, a silence broken only by the ominous groaning of the dam.

The turbine valves had failed to open, nor were the bypass valves any more inclined to function. Within minutes, the entire mass would be brought down by the merciless weight of the reservoir behind, and Coaxialcoatl completely destroyed.

I ran swiftly to the control room, to be confronted by a scene of total panic. Despite the complete lack of a mutually-intelligible language, I quickly restored order with a few apposite, well-barked commands. I have often found that other races are prone to lose their heads in a crisis, although the presence of one calm Englishman is frequently enough to restore order.

One man appeared to have identified the problem, although his semi-hysterical babbling required several good slaps from myself before we could proceed. He held up a small bi-metal strip, similar to those found in immersion heaters. This insignificant item was designed to shut off the turbines in the event of overheating. Without it, however, the system would not function at all. It had snapped, and, I understood, the nearest spares outlet was in Philadelphia. Since even the most ambitious airline will not claim to be able to travel from Guayacaraya to Philadelphia — and back — in seven minutes, the situation looked terminal.

As we stood and looked at each other with powerless resignation, I had the flash of inspiration which saved a city. Rummaging quickly through my bag, I retrieved the tin of bully beef which I always carry as insurance against particularly bad foreign a la carte menus. I swiftly peeled off the lid with my trusty Swiss Army knife and, not forgetting to set the contents aside for later consumption, looked around for a source of brass.

Unfortunately for Admiral Antonio Banderas, head of Guayacaraya's small yet proud Navy, I had not the time nor the linguistic skills to explain why I needed the bar to his Order of the Junta. Sadly, I had to render the man unconscious with my fists in order to remove the small strip of brass from the dress uniform, so great was his resistance.

Within seconds I had miraculously fashioned a new bi-metal strip which, once fitted, allowed the river of technological progress to flow inexorably on its way. The dam was saved, Coaxialcoatl was saved, and my place in engineering history assured.

I do not wish to overegg this particular pudding, so I will spare readers a full account of the subsequent celebrations. Suffice it to say, President Bormann himself presented me with the aforementioned Blue Cross of the Naval Mechanics' Institute, a great honour.

Several years back I returned to Coaxialcoatl. Sadly, the hydro-electric plant no longer works, having broken down three weeks after its commissioning. The loan repayments crippled Guayacaraya and indeed, ex-president Bormann is still paying them off at the rate of $10 a week from his unemployment benefit.

Nevertheless, I was happy to see that the country's citizens have lost none of their joie de vivre. On the anniversary of my heroic intervention, hundreds of them gathered in the main square to urinate ecstatically on a cardboard model of myself astride the dam, doubtless giving thanks for their deliverance from a watery grave.

The ribbon-cutting ceremony at the chip-manufacturing plant was duly carried out by the Mayor. Several men in suits spoke briefly about regeneration of the local economy, after which we all enjoyed a light buffet lunch. Rain threatened at one point to mar the event, but kindly passed by.

Previous insights from our Senior Reporter:

Grandmother bakes cake
Vicar opens fete
Council unveils bench
Woman has baby
Youth steals phone
Royal exits gracefully
Couple get married
Grandmother bakes cake