Decline and Fall

I apologise for interrupting the breakneck narrative flow of my most recent article, but a few incidents have just occurred which are entirely indicative of the kind of thing I have to put up with here.

I was dawdling in a flaneurlike fashion round the luxuriously appointed Decline and Fall office when I happened to notice the Editor standing proudly next to the desk of a man I hadn’t seen before. The newcomer was heavily moustachioed and on seeing me looked up and smiled with a kind of ineffable cavalry-type dash. He looked…well, foreign, in other words.

“Sziya” said the man, revealing a mouthful of gold teeth. I rubbed my eyes, just to make sure my brain hadn’t finally given up even the pretence of representing reality.

“What’s this?” I said.

“Our new sub,” said the Editor. “This is Tibor. Make him feel welcome, or something.” A sub, or sub-editor, is a kind of journalist employed to correct the angry gibberish submitted by the other staff, I should explain for the benefit of my non-journalistic reader (stet).

“Magyarul?” asked Tibor. I opened my mouth and a feeble squeak of some kind came out. I turned to the Editor.

“Isn’t he…er…ah…Hungarian?”

“I know! Isn’t it a brilliant idea” the Editor replied, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I was looking at my plumber the other day and thinking, you know, they’re so very cheap, and damn hard-working too, and I had this sudden inspiration…I mean, there are plumbers, dentists, nurses, little Noah’s nanny, so why not…?”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” I said. Tibor looked at us with happy incomprehension. “I’m sure he’s a wonderful individual and everything, but are you sure his language skills are up to the job?

“Tibor’s worked for all kinds of papers back home,” said the Editor, breezily flapping his hand at me in a dismissive gesture. “He’s worked on the, um, the Pesto…”

“The Pesti Hirlap?” I said.

“Whatever. Anyway he’s a highly-skilled individual.” I looked at the highly-skilled individual doubtfully. I was just about to make a further comment, but the Editor was already striding off to his office, shouting “it’s showtime!” in that charming way of his.

“I see you’ve met the management,” I commented to Tibor.

“Nem értem,” he shrugged, and returned to correcting a piece about Sienna Miller.

Pester Power

“What do you think of this Tibor character?” I asked our Chief Sub, later on. Our Chief Sub, I should add, is the only employee in the building I regard with anything above contempt; anyone capable of making sense of the Editor’s occasional forays into prose is probably gifted with superhuman powers of comprehension.

“I’m not sure. Apparently he’s got a lot of experience.”

“What’s with all the gold teeth, anyway? It’s not some kind of exotic Eastern European local colour thing, is it?”

“The Editor told me that he had to have his front teeth replaced after he crashed his car back in Budapest. He’d bought a dodgy Citroen off a guy from Byelorussia - you’ve heard about the car smuggling rings going through there - and the brakes went. Mind you, Hungary’s the place de nos jours for dental work right now…”

“Yes, I’ve seen the adverts,” I said.

“…and he got those gold ones put in. He says they’re even better than the real thing.” I noticed the light of inspiration suddenly flicker in the Chief Sub’s eyes.

“Come to think of it,” she said, “we could always do a feature on his experiences. We could use the headline Tibor’s Minsk Xsara Meant He Bit Stronger“.

“That,” I said, “is terrible.” I turned on my heel and walked into the Editor’s office.

“The Chief Sub’s unhinged,” I said. “You can’t make her work with someone from the Hungarian steppes! You’ve puszta over the edge.”

“Get out!” he screamed.