Sunday, April the 30th, 2006
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Episode two of the serial story Testimony Of A Tundist
The most thorough account of Tundism in the English language is probably Binder's magnificent survey Wrought-Iron Rigour : The World Of The Tundists (Chumpot & Throwback, 19--). A flavour of this astonishing book is perhaps best given by reproducing the table of contents, thus:
The above gives some indication not only of the breadth of Binder's research but also, to some extent, his piercing intensity. The truly surprising thing is that Binder himself was not a Tundist. It seems to me that the acuity of his insight would put to shame many of those who wear the Vest—myself included.Space prevents me from reprinting whole swathes of Binder's work, which is unmatched elsewhere in the literature devoted to Tundism. Sadly, in the Anti-Tundist crackdown of the last decade, Binder's book has become almost impossible to obtain. I urge readers to scan carefully the shelves of secondhand bookdealers, especially those in and around O'Houlihan's Wharf, if they are to root out a copy.
Let me take you back to that soggy November morning. As I say, I was still in my pyjamas. I had had a night of frightful dreams and, on waking, cursing the corncrakes, I could not bring myself, as I usually did, to set about retuning my banjo ready for the lunchtime wassail. Instead, plumping into my wheelchair, I decided to take a turn around the pond and to hurl used batteries at my feathered tormentors. Five minutes into this sport, I was accosted by a fellow I had never seen before. He came hurtling towards me from the direction of the corrugated cardboard stacks, grabbed what batteries I had left in my lap, and jammed them into his trouser-pockets.
I was astounded by his vest. It seemed to shimmer. Despite the autumn chill, he wore no shirt, no jumper nor jacket. His vest was resplendent and numinous.
He had turned on his heel, and was about to bound away as swiftly as he had come, but I called out to him, involuntarily, “My, what a vest!”, or some such words. He stopped, swivelled round to face me, and said—oh! and I remember every last nuance, as if he had spoken but a moment ago—“I wear the Tundist's vest”.
Now this was most irregular. I am the most slavish of Tundists, and one thing we absolutely forbid is to announce our identity so blatantly. In retrospect, it has to be said that Glew—the wearer of the Vest, whose name was tattooed on his forearm—was lax, obtuse… yes, lax and obtuse. Yet however unforgivable his lapse, I cannot find it in my heart to scold his memory. Had he not spoken those words, had he continued to hare away from me, my batteries in his pockets, and me dumbfounded, thunderstruck, well, I would probably never have become a Tundist in my turn, and my life would have been very different, my life would have been unbearable.
At the time, of course, I was unaware of all this. For me, what Glew had said was irregular, not the fact that he had said it at all. I thought I had misheard him. He was already turning away from me again. “I beg your pardon?” I shouted, rather too loudly, to forestall him. My eyes were still glued to the shining vest. He turned back once more, and repeated the mysterious words.
I was young and garrulous. The vest, and curiosity, had driven the stolen batteries from my mind. “And who or what, pray, is the Tundist?” I asked. He realised the error he had made, came to his senses, and, dissembling, mumbled some hogwash, then sprang away. In my ignorance, I thought him a cracker-brain, and resolved to warn the fireworks factory sentries to keep a look-out for him. I wheeled myself back to my hut, my ablutions, and my banjo. But I did not forget him.
Who or what is the Tundist? Without realising it, I had asked a stupendous and world-shuddering question. The simple answer—the best answer—is to dig out Binder, but as I have said, nowadays that is not so easy. Make do, then, with these words, scribbled on the back of a fag packet by the great theorist of Tundism, Diocletian Birdbag: “You will know a Tundist by these signs: an upside-down badger tattoo on the torso; a punnet carried by means of a looped string hung from the right shoulder; worldly wisdom; a Tundist Hat and a Tundist Vest; the breath of unknown planets; the gait of unknown stars. The Tundist is a woman or man who has cut loose from all peasant frailty, who has knelt before the Tundist flag, who has crushed beneath balletic feet the paltry scrimscrums of time and space. But no cult we! All can seek the rigours of Tundism, though many will fall by the wayside. The true Tundist is one who has sucked on spangles, fluttered as a moth, ascended the Ladder of Sibodnedwab, crackled, sparked, and spun. A web is a window. A fact is a truce. A brain is a nest. Know the Tundist through cargpan and stitchery, through what the Tundist is and was and did and does and dares and daren't and digs. Soil sanctified—sanctity soiled. Yes, wear a balaclava, chew a twig, rail at flies and foundries. The Tundist wears another hat, a special Vest… a Tundist's Vest.”
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