Duncan Harley

Underneath the atlas - which I found yesterday upon the beach, I discovered a sodden Tom Stoppard script dating from 1977 or thereabouts. I have no idea how or even why it turned up on this distant shore. Signed by none other than Andre Previn it bears the inscription:  ‘To Tom and thank you for the lovely wirds. Hope you liked my wee tunes - your pal Andre xx.' The script of course is long and quite tortuous. In fact, it bears a date-stamp from another age and if truth be told there are lines which even Stoppard might now cringe at. But no matter, even BBC Garnet was eventually made to eat his own words. But back to 1977. The script concerns a Soviet dissident, Alexander Ivanov, who is imprisoned in a mental hospital from which he will not be released until he admits that his statements against the government were caused by a non-existent mental disorder. It’s the ultimate in denial and he shares a cell with a genuinely disturbed schizophrenic also called Ivano...

My first instinct regarding Man March’s philosophical abilities was in fact accurate. He is indeed a dull and uneducated savage. I set him several more philosophical problems and each time he answered me 57. Finally, I realised that I had completely overestimated my skills as an English as a foreign language teacher. His native name is in fact Fifty-seven-mobunga-usaba the 3rd. His family seemingly owned an ice production plant in Norway prior to the Minoan takeover and his grandmother headed up the Mark Cadbury Committee as CEO for the Proposed Invasion of Mars. I mean, you couldn’t make it up! What a complete fool I am and must be in his eyes also. I have told him that my own given name is Alexander and I  now hope that he will still be my friend despite the confusion in sharing our respective nomenclatures. In comparison to Fifty-seven-mobunga-usaba the 3 rd , Alexander Selkirk the 1 st must seem such a bland and unpromising label. As an aside, a tattered internation...

Following the unfortunate parrot shooting, Man March and I have this day made our way around the headland where the wreck of my ship, or what lies left of it, sits broken upon the reef. The captain’s lifeless body – once strapped firmly to the aft-mast, has long been consigned to the deep and even the soggy remnants of the ship’s dog have been consumed by that unforgiving Pacific Ocean. I think his name was Rufus – the dog, not the captain and certainly not the ocean, but I am not entirely sure. Shipwrecks naturally have a habit of emptying both the mind and - dare I say it, the bladder. But unless you once experience them first hand, most of you my good readers, might doubt this as a fact and attribute my scribbles to some delusion brought on by some pandemic panic or other. Nonetheless, Man March and I today combed the foreshore in the hope of finding more in the way of handy tools and provisions with which to enhance our chances of survival. Perhaps some oranges, even a grapef...

Molly the parrot finally and irretrievably signed her death warrant today with her rendering of yet another unwarranted and unwanted joke and I must warn you that this is quite the most terrible parrot joke I have ever had the displeasure to stumble across on this deserted and god forsaken island. Even my new companion Man March seemed pleased at my action despite the fact that - at least as far as I am aware, he understands little or nothing about either the English language or syntax: ‘Squawk. After more than 40 years of marriage, a woman’s husband suddenly dies. Squawk Squawk For several months she sat alone in her house with the shades pulled and the doors locked. Finally she decided she needed to do something about her situation. The loneliness was killing her. Squawk Squawk. Squawk Squawk. She remembered that her husband had a friend who owned a nice pet store — a pet might be good company. So, Squawk Squawk, she dropped in one afternoon to look over the pet selection. S...

The parrot has become something of a problem. I have now recognised that, alongside my grammatical failings regarding the fiendish flesh-eating heathens whom I misconstrued as cannonballs Molly has been – dare I say it, taking the piss!   I put my cannibal error down to both exhaustion and to long and crazily confusing over-complicated sentence structures replete with ungrammatical asides and convoluted syntax infused as often as not with unstructured paragraphs replete with made up spelling rules and excessive and unnecessary-instances of hyphenation.  On-land I had a challenging sub-editor who would, for a favour, correct my syntax and my often-unintended attacks on the English language. Here, on this god-forsaken island there is not even a copy of the Abridged Oxford English Dictionary with which to bolster my prose! But back to Molly. The parrot has what I can only describe as a somewhat offbeat sense of humour. Her suggestion that we name my injured heathen ...

It was only by luck that I managed to drive off the screaming savages. Outnumbered some eighteen to one I was at first fearful for my very life. However, my fearsome appearance, plus the fact that I brandished a loaded rifle, proved sufficient to ward them off and I had only to scream back at them in my native tongue to startle even the boldest of them. ‘Awa ye go ye nasty wee radgies! Awa wi ye before I take this wee sharp blade and cut ye a Glesga smile and maybe perchance a new bum! Am no kiddin an at’s a fact ya filthy bunch o’ heathens!! Plus, a've got a big gun and you've no got one between the whole lot of you!' At this, the largest of the savages - a sheer giant of a man,  raised his club as if to counter my threatening tone. So, I instantly shot him through the throat and followed up with several facial thrusts of my dagger. He grinned widely and dropped down dead at my feet with blood spewing furiously from his wounds. It was a classic case of gaining domin...

Mixed joy indeed! I have not only found a supply of potable water, but have by some strangeness of fate stumbled upon a dreadful sight.  I had, since early dawn, been heading inland via a narrow and quite steep wild animal trail when, just as the sun reached its zenith, I detected a familiar sound. I was at once paralysed with the fear that this was just some ghastly resurgence of those lurid and unwelcome hallucinations of yesterday. But as I approached the source of the noise my fears seemed without solid foundation. Before me lay a thin but quite stunning waterfall. A splendid stream of foaming water lay before me  and I immediately threw off my goat-stained apparel (remember the goat from day four of this pandemic?) and rendering some exited version of The Lord is My Shepherd  plunged into the foaming pool which lay beneath the thundering waterfall. My spirits were entirely lifted. I drank my fill from the tumbling waters and bathed completely naked in the clear...

I t is as I suspected. Today is almost certainly not Friday and yesterday was not Thursday. In fact, it was all a lurid dream brought on no doubt by remnants of that fever from which I am now mainly recovered. Or at least I think I am. And now of course, my priorities have changed. I am intent on taking to the sea again and am determined to return to my native Largo come what may. Meantime personal survival must be my focus. Alongside my need for potable water I will need a supply of meat to provide sustenance while I plan my escape from this island. And I now realise that the shooting of the feral goat was at best a jerk reaction and I now regret not having tamed and fattened the angry beast before firing that fatal shot. The corpse was at best thin and stringy. The meat was tough and my scurvy made chewing difficult. In short, the goat was not up to expectations. But since all now done and dusted, I cannot now make amends for my miscalculation other than to vow that next time...

When I awoke today at first light my fever had completely and miraculously vanished and, despite the rigours of the past few days, I felt able to eat and drink a little from my meagre store of salvaged provisions which consist mainly of a damaged water barrel and some soggy ships biscuits. The water however tasted brackish and even the parrot declined to take more than a beak full of wet biscuit. We must find more sustenance and soon! Also, in the cold light of day, I have decided that Gertrude is not a good name for a parrot and will henceforth address her, if indeed she is a she, as Molly. Quite what made me consider calling her Gertrude eludes me now that I am clearer in thought and I can only assume that it was down to my fevered state of mind. Mid-morning, I again scoured the beach for salvage and was pleasantly surprised to stumble upon an intact timber box containing what must surely be the first mates set of engraved pistols. Undamaged and complete with both flints and le...

Today I resisted the urge to return to the shipwreck, which still lies firmly on the reef just some hundred yards offshore. To say that I lacked the energy for the trip would not be completely accurate since in truth, the beach is littered with the washed-up remains of my fellow shipmates and through the lens of my telescope I was able to spot the shattered body of the ship’s captain still lashed to the foremast alongside the limp form of the ships dog. I confess I found this sight to be too much for my already overwhelmed senses and will hold off until the ghastly remains are claimed by the sea before venturing out to salvage what little remains on-board. In any case, there is ample treasure to salvage onshore. A washed-up wooden chest revealed a still dry supply of gun-powder and a tea-chest from the ships hold contained both an ample supply of flour and sufficient yeast to make a sourdough starter. Both items will I think aid my chances of survival. That is of course shoul...

This fending for oneself in a tropical paradise is one thing, but I now need to keep track of time before it runs out or indeed, I go utterly and completely bonkers. For this purpose, I have erected a driftwood timber cross at the north end of the island to record the date of my arrival on this foreign shore. I will, if I am able, cut a single notch each day so as to record the passing of time prior to my rescue from this ghastly place of solitude. Today, in the absence of both bread and meat, I feasted on fermented coconuts. There is an abundance of them on the foreshore. In fact, so many that if one were not careful, they might well prove fatal since if one was to suffer even a glancing blow from a falling fruit, death might well result. Oddly, there is a warning sign advising of the danger. I may have eaten too many of them however since I imagined in my sleep that the Virgin Mary had delivered me from both this place and that my original sins – the gathering of slaves, were...