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| The Critic | |
| By Leo | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 30 May 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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This piece was created after i was inundated by a single request to provide a back story to 'The death of a critic' Nigel Napier. Shall I tell you about Nigel Napier? His personal history is shrouded in mystery. There is never any mention of a wife or any children. It seems Mr Napier has always been a solitary creature. Rumour has it, that once upon a time he was an English master at a boy’s school. The whisper is, that he was forced out after a scandal with a young boarder. It was never substantiated, and I’m only mentioning now, because I feel it’s safe to do so. Nobody knows where he went next; whatever he did I’m sure he was painfully alone. There is one indisputable fact about our Mr Napier, and that is this; he is ill built to function alongside others. His sneering sense of superiority, along with his lack of courtesy and charm set him apart from normal people. I think, that to this day, he genuinely feels hard done by. I’m sure he still blames the boy. It was probably his fault, he was asking for it. If you ask me, I think that it was his sense of isolation and his enduring bitterness that drove him to that most lonely of professions; the critic. I must make it clear; I’m not completely biased, I do actually believe he has talent. His ability to assemble words on and page, and co-ordinate sentences into a meaningful whole, is very, very impressive. It’s just the vindictiveness with which he wields his talent that is so very.. disappointing. It’s like a big, ugly stick in the hands of a bully. And like a bully, he doesn’t set out to kill his prey, merely wound them. Then with a sneering glee, he watches on, as they stumble or crawl, broken and bruised, back to their place of sanctuary. The years have clearly fermented his disdain for others. The older he gets the lonelier he feels, the more poisonous his writings become. So it was that that Nigel Napier entered my life. I didn’t invite him. He just blundered in. I had published my own novel; a true labour of love. It had taken almost three years of my life and had finally cost me £800 to get printed. This might not sound much, but it was to me. I had taken it out of the meagre savings that I had set aside for my son. To me this was going to be an investment in his future. If I could get an agent, get a proper publishing deal, maybe an advance of a couple of thousand pounds – I would be happy. I could then put his money back with interest. I hoped one day my son would be proud. Friends and family had been very supportive. And so it was that I took that leap of faith that only the young or foolhardy can, without looking. I handed in my notice and pinned everything on giving others my voice. He needn’t have bothered himself with my meagre effort. I had put up on my own website, and was just trying to publicise it. But to him, I guess it was a piece of sport. ‘How not to write’, had been the title of the piece in his column. “This shambolic effort lacks any identifiable thread, or offers any meaningful thesis… the author, and I will use that term lightly, is clumsy, inept, inarticulate and wholly unsuited to writing… he should do us all a favour, go back to his pointless meaningless existence..” And that was it. My hopes and dreams had been torn brutally into tiny pieces before my very eyes. I never sold another copy of my book. My career was at an end, before it had started. My parents advised me to put my writing to one side. They offered kind words of support, before gently pointing out that some people were just not cut out to be writers. They implored me to return to work. Other family members were less kind, they made fun of me at those gatherings we all have from time to time; birthdays and barbeques etc. For me, the worst thing of all was that I never replaced my son’s savings. To him I would forever be a failure. After the pain, and embarrassment, I felt dead inside. I became empty, lonely and without purpose. And then one night, as I used a bottle of cheap vodka to deaden the pain, I had my flash of inspiration. In a heartbeat, I had discovered my purpose. I, me-yes me, would make sure Nigel Napier didn’t dash another hope or shatter another dream. If I achieved this I would truly have served some useful function. My son could be proud. My life would really, and I mean really, have had some meaning. The critic had to die. And so it is that I sit in this pub. I’m waiting for him to assume his normal seat. He’s a creature of habit. So predictable. I know he will materialise soon. And then I will have my vengeance. Hang on.. yes.. yes.. it’s him!.. guess who’s just walked through the door..
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