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Quiddlenitch
Liam Notting was a product of twenty-first
century TV culture. So many famous people appeared before his
sofa each day - many famous for no obvious reason other than
their fame. ‘Why not me?’ he had thought.
Had Liam been born a generation before, he
might have assumed that fame and wealth were by-products of hard
work. Talent would be needed for many pursuits but, even then,
years of study and effort would be required to hone those natural
abilities to a level substantially beyond his peers. Such
thoughts never crossed his mind as he entered the auditions for
the latest TV ‘find a pop-star’.
He had been a little bemused when the
pianist had asked in which key he wished to sing. He requested a
medium sized one and hoped he had got away with it. The judges
waited with anticipation to discover if he could sing, though
none with greater curiosity than himself. He could not recall
having sung a note in his entire life. There had been hymns at
school but for those he had mimed.
Puccini’s Nessun Dorma had been a poor
choice. It had sounded so impressive when José Carreras had
performed it on TV, but not being too clear on the tune and
remembering just three words, and those incorrectly, had rather
let Liam down.
Liam sadly added vocal stardom to the list
of occupations to which he had aspired but from which he had been
cruelly excluded by lack of talent and application. It was just
as when he had applied as lead concert pianist for the Royal
Philharmonic. How could he have told them he couldn’t play?
He didn’t know. He’d never tried. The same at the trial
for Manchester United. Even his attempt to become a best selling
author had been snatched away from him by a liberal twentieth
century education. School had, admittedly, put emphasis on
developing his creativity, but the total lack of training in the
technical aspects of reading and writing had left him as
illiterate as other multiple A grade GCSE students.
The ironic tragedy of Liam’s life was
Quiddlenitch. It was, perhaps, a mercy that he
would never know of it. How could he, after all, as Quiddlenitch
did not exist and would never be invented in this universe? If
only that quark in the quantum vacuum had been just a fraction to
the left.
Quiddlenitch would have been a game for
which Liam possessed an uncanny natural ability which would have
required no further training or effort. Exponents of his calibre
would have been paid millions and been household names. Millions
would have watched on TV his faultless technique in rising from
the sofa (Quiddlenaa would have been the technical term). Fans
would have been thrilled by the co-ordination involved in lifting
the ring-pull (Quiddsaert) and downing the can of Guinness (Quiddat)
in one motion. His curry microwaving (Quidallon) would have
brought the auditorium to its feet.
Sadly, none of this was to be. In this
universe such breathtaking expertise was simply associated with
an idle git.
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