The darker side of the Cub Scout movement

When I was eight, a great-uncle offered me the princely sum of 50p to join the local Cub Scouts. I'd never had that much money before and was sorely tempted, but I couldn't bear the idea of having to wear a silly uniform and take part in team activities. I had enough of that at school.

I politely declined and never heard from him again.

The following year my best friend joined and, although I still had no urge to be a Cub, I was rather jealous of his badges. We spent rainy afternoons in his attic bedroom, poring over the Cub Scout handbook and I secretly yearned to have a Scientist badge. I owned a chemistry set and had performed several life-threatening experiments. Surely I would qualify?

In the end I resisted temptation. The Cub Scout movement seemed far too goody-goody to be any fun.

However, I was unaware of these badges, as featured in the Ladybird Book of Cub Scouts:


1. The Obscene Telephone Call badge:


Normal heavy breathing achieves the standard bronze award. Extra marks are given for reversing the charges and asking questions about the colour of underwear.


2. The Narcotics Cultivation badge:


This highly prestigious badge takes the Cub Scout through the whole process, from successfully cultivating a plant in secret, to refining it in the laboratory and selling the finished product to members of the public.


3. The Urban Degeneration Badge:


To qualify for this award, candidates are required to distribute litter around residential areas without being detected. Later, they will offer to remove the rubbish as part of a lucrative bob-a-job exercise.


4. The Pornography badge:


This badge is awarded to Scouts who can find disgarded pornographic material in parks and woodlands. Since the advent of the internet, this once common skill is increasingly rare.


5. The Abduction badge:


This badge requires the abduction of at least five children and one adult for a minimum of two hours.


6. The Church Desecration badge:


Armed with nothing more than the Ladybird book What To Look For Inside a Church, these young cubs can steal valuable medieval artefacts without arousing suspicion. Their theft of a Tudor silver chalice raised enough money to pay for plane tickets to the 97th International Scout Jamboree in Oregon.

I apologise to Ladybird books and the artist John Berry, but I can't look at their idyllic illustrations without thinking of a darker alternative, particularly when they depict a fine, upstanding organisation like the Boy Scout movement.

As for the Girl Guides...

This morning in Brighton...

Baby ray performing a routine from High School Musical
(Baby Ray would be a great stage name for it)

Somebody with one leg enjoying a walk on the beach

Ever wondered what happened to the Milk Tray man?

Hermans' Hermit

I wonder how many novels were published in English between 1966 and 2006? Hundreds of thousands, I expect. Perhaps even millions. The only thing I can say with any certainty is that nearly all of them will now be out of print, sometimes deservedly so.

With so many new novels appearing every year, it is scandalous that it has taken 40 years for someone to publish the Dutch writer W F Hermans' masterpiece Beyond Sleep. Still, better late than never; particularly when the translation is as good as Ina Rilke's.

Beyond Sleep is narrated by Alfred Issendorf, a geologist in his mid-20s who has travelled to Norway to join an expedition to the far north of the country. Alfred hopes that in the barren, rocky wastelands of Finnmark, he will find evidence that will vindicate his mentor's bizarre theories about the origins of certain holes, but from early on he is frustrated by events.

To make things worse, Alfred discovers that his Norwegian companions are much fitter than he is and manage to hike across the rough terrain with great ease, leaving him straggling behind, frequently losing his balance as they effortlessly cross rivers and marshes.

Alfred looks forward to settling down to a good night's rest, but in the land of the midnight sun there is no respite from the day. No matter how tired he feels, the constant daylight and loud snoring of his friend Arne take their toll on Alfred's state of mind. Beyond sleep, Alfred becomes increasingly paranoid about his companions.

Exhausted, covered in mosquito bites and frequently wet, Alfred knows that he is on a journey that will end in failure and becomes increasingly preoccupied with the futility of his search to find meaning in his life:

I know that I am nothing but a chemical compound in a particular state of equilibrium, strictly confined within distinct, incontrovertible boundaries...I do not feel sad, only profound pity for all those people who are so distant from me, and even if I had a radio...there would be no point telling them what I think. They are beyond my understanding and I am beyond theirs.

Stamped indelibly on their minds are the craziest fairy tales...And even if they do not believe in fairy tales that does not mean that they have given up hope of gaining spiritual revelations from manifest mumbo jumbo. Because, they say, we cannot go on living like this, we are lost souls and we need consolation (I go on living, don't I. And who's consoling me?)

Beyond Sleep could easily have been a bleak, existential novel in which nothing happens (not that that's a bad thing), but Hermans' sense of the absurd makes this a very funny book that continually delights and surprises. Just when you think you have the measure of the novel, Hermans suddenly changes gear.

Masterpiece is a dangerous word to use, but I think that I can safely apply it to this novel. If you want a more learned second opinion, read John Self's comments here.

Hermans' author photos usually give an impression of him as a miserable old bugger, so here are a couple of pictures to redress the balance:



And here's Hermans during his failed audition for the role of Blofeld in You Only Live Twice:


Ina Rilke has also translated Hermans' The Darkroom of Damocles, which I enjoyed almost as much as Beyond Sleep. Both novels are only available in hardback, but they're worth every penny.

Let's hope that the rest of Hermans' ouevre becomes available in English, otherwise I'll have to invest in a copy of Teach Yourself Dutch.

Empty World

With his smart, Brylcreamed hair and sensible clothes, this man looks like a bank manager from the days when the job was synonymous with dependability, integrity and prudence. I can imagine him pouring me a whisky in his office before discussing the ungentlemanly business of borrowing money. He looks far too genial to be the author of post-apocalyptic fiction.

Empty World is a novel written for young adults about a virus that wipes out almost the entire human population. Like John Christopher's fiction for adults it offers a fairly bleak view of human nature, but as Puffin don't usually publish novels with gang rape scenes (with the possible exception of Melvyn Burgess), the drama is a little more restrained.

As with everything written by Sam Youd (John Christopher's real name), Empty World is an enjoyable work of escapist fiction that is consistently gripping and thoughtful. The average customer review on Amazon is five stars - a rare accolade for any novel - so why is it out of print?

The simple answer is that however good a novel is, unless it is heralded as a great work of literature or the author is commercially successful, it will probably go out of print.

When I worked in bookselling I remember the dreaded acronym RPUC - reprint under consideration. At first I used to convey this information to customers, who would then plague me for months, to the point where I had to hide in the stock cupboard until they left. I soon realised that RPUC was as good as OP - out of print.

It's depressing seeing a much-loved book fade into obscurity, but the beauty of the internet is that readers now have a voice. I have no doubt that Penguin's decision to reissue John Christopher's The Death of Grass has something to do with the huge demand for secondhand copies on the internet. As for Empty World, I'm sure that it will sell if only someone can come up with a better jacket than this:


The artist, David Chestnutt, has produced some highly-acclaimed psychedelic record covers, but this illustration looks like he's had some bad acid.