The following is taken from an article in The Times, Monday 30th November 2089...
"Here follows the obituary of Jamie Lamb Esq., composed lamentably early by the hand of his self-proclaimed illegitimate son, Frederick Archibald James Lamb, who never met the man in person, yet considers the lasting intensity of his father’s spiritual imprint source enough from which to draw the following:
* The fields of literature, micro-blogging, social criticism, woolly liberalism and, most acutely, basket weaving, have each been shaken to their very foundations and robbed of an inestimably bright spark by the recent passing of the much renowned, revered, and reproached Jamie Lamb. Above and beyond his ample collection of academic suffixes, are to be found his other, lesser known, titles, Reverend Father (the result of a colourful misunderstanding upon visiting an east-African village of less than lenient Catholicism), and Duchess of Gloucester, which aptly explains itself.
Lamb’s years at Crieff High School, professed in his best-selling autobiography to have been some of the most enjoyable of his life, were marked by scandalous social indecencies of Wildian proportions. His many enemies and critics have claimed that more than one young man left Crieff High School with the deepest of emotional scars resulting from Lamb’s ruthlessly domineering persona and heavy-handed authoritarianism, and one needn’t excavate the well publicised incident of September 2006, when a promising fifth-year girl was quite literally blinded by the man’s proficiency at Scrabble. The suspicions of supernatural, even diabolic, assistance voiced by local Parishioners were irreversibly muted by the tragic series of gas explosions which ripped through the otherwise sleepy tourist town a mere twenty-four hours before the conclusion of the official enquiry, any testimony of Lamb’s nether-worldly dealings perishing in the resultant flames.
Leaving Crieff in a dust-cloud of teenage pregnancy two years later, Lamb made the move to Edinburgh, which he was to consider his home even when spending much of the year in Oslo. Reading English Literature, he absorbed many of the greatest works in the English language. However, his extraordinary metabolism, the much speculated secret to his trim, muscular physique, was not limited to the processes of his more base organs, and the accumulated repository of knowledge which should have served him well in future life, in fact slipped through his desperately clenched academic buttocks and passed down the u-bend of inescapable memory loss. A life of bluffing, ad-libbing and sexual favours was therefore the only one which would ensure him success, and he monopolised on his late-blooming physical beauty as shamelessly as any back-street whore-biscuit.
Having been instructed by his father in the ways of hard work and honesty in his formative years, he was disowned by his immediate family for a dubious act of trade-unionism at the age of twenty-four. He was to spend the next three years travelling Europe undertaking research on behalf of the British Government. The resultant treatise, "E.U. Subsidies and their Effects on Sustainable Agriculture in Hungary and Romania", was to be his first, but certainly not his last, academic paper to receive global infamy for its border-line satanic undertones.
His health irreparably damaged by the twin rigours of national scandal and a gruelling four year divorce, Lamb executed an ignoble retreat into the life of a Daily Mail theatre critic, an embarrassment of such towering severity that, within two weeks of accepting the post, he had lost all those among his former friends who had remained loyal through his previous troubles.
One of Lamb’s less than generous reviews elicited some level of fury in the virgin breast of a practically pre-pubescent female playwright. The woman scorned him and, in an interview with the Daily Mail itself, berated him with the catalytic phrase: “Why don’t you have a go at writing a fucking play then if you’re so fucking clever?” At the behest of this disgruntled lesbian (as Lamb was to leak to the press), he was to compose his first dramatic work, entitled “The Archbishop of Canterbury: A Tale of Two Wardrobes”, for which he received extensive critical acclaim. His subsequent works, comprising six plays, four novels, an autobiography, two volumes of poetry and the script for a proposed Broadway adaptation of “Mein Kampf”, remained in print throughout his life, and contracts have been flown to the German embassy in New York to await inevitable signing.
A life, then, plagued by suspicions of devilish association, sexual and academic infamy, but illuminated by his latter day contributions to the arts, Jamie Lamb’s was one of drama from its humble beginnings to its untimely end, choked by a pair of soiled dungarees. The death is being treated as “suspicious”, and the rights to a Blockbuster biopic are presently being fought over by Universal Studios, Warner Brothers and New Line.
God speed, Jamie. God speed... *
The Duchess's belongings are to be sold at charity auction next Friday, at a time as yet unconfirmed by a rather perplexed King William."
The future, gentle reader... We never know, do we? My Wikipedia article is considerably worse...
Jamie
"Here follows the obituary of Jamie Lamb Esq., composed lamentably early by the hand of his self-proclaimed illegitimate son, Frederick Archibald James Lamb, who never met the man in person, yet considers the lasting intensity of his father’s spiritual imprint source enough from which to draw the following:
* The fields of literature, micro-blogging, social criticism, woolly liberalism and, most acutely, basket weaving, have each been shaken to their very foundations and robbed of an inestimably bright spark by the recent passing of the much renowned, revered, and reproached Jamie Lamb. Above and beyond his ample collection of academic suffixes, are to be found his other, lesser known, titles, Reverend Father (the result of a colourful misunderstanding upon visiting an east-African village of less than lenient Catholicism), and Duchess of Gloucester, which aptly explains itself.
Lamb’s years at Crieff High School, professed in his best-selling autobiography to have been some of the most enjoyable of his life, were marked by scandalous social indecencies of Wildian proportions. His many enemies and critics have claimed that more than one young man left Crieff High School with the deepest of emotional scars resulting from Lamb’s ruthlessly domineering persona and heavy-handed authoritarianism, and one needn’t excavate the well publicised incident of September 2006, when a promising fifth-year girl was quite literally blinded by the man’s proficiency at Scrabble. The suspicions of supernatural, even diabolic, assistance voiced by local Parishioners were irreversibly muted by the tragic series of gas explosions which ripped through the otherwise sleepy tourist town a mere twenty-four hours before the conclusion of the official enquiry, any testimony of Lamb’s nether-worldly dealings perishing in the resultant flames.
Leaving Crieff in a dust-cloud of teenage pregnancy two years later, Lamb made the move to Edinburgh, which he was to consider his home even when spending much of the year in Oslo. Reading English Literature, he absorbed many of the greatest works in the English language. However, his extraordinary metabolism, the much speculated secret to his trim, muscular physique, was not limited to the processes of his more base organs, and the accumulated repository of knowledge which should have served him well in future life, in fact slipped through his desperately clenched academic buttocks and passed down the u-bend of inescapable memory loss. A life of bluffing, ad-libbing and sexual favours was therefore the only one which would ensure him success, and he monopolised on his late-blooming physical beauty as shamelessly as any back-street whore-biscuit.
Having been instructed by his father in the ways of hard work and honesty in his formative years, he was disowned by his immediate family for a dubious act of trade-unionism at the age of twenty-four. He was to spend the next three years travelling Europe undertaking research on behalf of the British Government. The resultant treatise, "E.U. Subsidies and their Effects on Sustainable Agriculture in Hungary and Romania", was to be his first, but certainly not his last, academic paper to receive global infamy for its border-line satanic undertones.
His health irreparably damaged by the twin rigours of national scandal and a gruelling four year divorce, Lamb executed an ignoble retreat into the life of a Daily Mail theatre critic, an embarrassment of such towering severity that, within two weeks of accepting the post, he had lost all those among his former friends who had remained loyal through his previous troubles.
One of Lamb’s less than generous reviews elicited some level of fury in the virgin breast of a practically pre-pubescent female playwright. The woman scorned him and, in an interview with the Daily Mail itself, berated him with the catalytic phrase: “Why don’t you have a go at writing a fucking play then if you’re so fucking clever?” At the behest of this disgruntled lesbian (as Lamb was to leak to the press), he was to compose his first dramatic work, entitled “The Archbishop of Canterbury: A Tale of Two Wardrobes”, for which he received extensive critical acclaim. His subsequent works, comprising six plays, four novels, an autobiography, two volumes of poetry and the script for a proposed Broadway adaptation of “Mein Kampf”, remained in print throughout his life, and contracts have been flown to the German embassy in New York to await inevitable signing.
A life, then, plagued by suspicions of devilish association, sexual and academic infamy, but illuminated by his latter day contributions to the arts, Jamie Lamb’s was one of drama from its humble beginnings to its untimely end, choked by a pair of soiled dungarees. The death is being treated as “suspicious”, and the rights to a Blockbuster biopic are presently being fought over by Universal Studios, Warner Brothers and New Line.
God speed, Jamie. God speed... *
The Duchess's belongings are to be sold at charity auction next Friday, at a time as yet unconfirmed by a rather perplexed King William."
The future, gentle reader... We never know, do we? My Wikipedia article is considerably worse...
Jamie
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