Some pedagogic overtones in this issue. Jim Burns reviews an oik artist who grew up a few streets away from where I did and probably went to the same school. The Oakwood Avenue Junior School. It did do art but the headmaster Vernon Rigby seemed more interested in his youth club football players. He lived alone with a parrot (like Celine p57 ) and drove a posh Triumph Mayfower. Eric Tucker, the oik artist in question, persevered in spite of Vernon’s neglect to become the town’s answer to Douanier Rousseau.  

Another inspiring tale of oik ambition is Bob Wild’s odyssey from Manc oik anonymity to the peak of academic attainment – a PhD. Yes, Bob did have to explain to an anxious air hostess worrying about a sick passenger that he was not a proper doctor merely a highly qualified sociologist. His tutor at MU was another oik contributor Dr John Lee. Even more typical was another aspirant and Oik contributor (Dr Roy Johnson - now deceased) who, shortly after getting the distinction drove to the front of a petrol queue (during the dearth) shouting that he was a doctor who must have priority. You’ve gotta larf aint yer? But are these social markers worth three years of laborious grind?

Aside from all that, one turns to Tanner’s All the Crazy Oiks (p26) where the true genius of the oik is displayed. A job-seeker offers a dog turd for analysis to prove he’s not on drugs. The invigilator, no doubt an oik himself, rejects this manoeuvre whereupon the candidate sloshes the shit pot in his face. Not quite the rigour and discipline of the doctorate procedure but somehow a replica of the presentation and critical analysis of the more distinguished award.

We can imagine the final interview: “Well Mr Braynbochs we find your 800 page submission on the strategies of unscrupulous jobseekers a little too dependent on a single incident described by Professor Tanner of John Moore’s University. You do not recruit supporting evidence revealed by Gas Chromatography or Mass Spectrometry but rely entirely on the suspicious official’s nose. However you have worked hard for three years on this demanding crux and therefore we have no hesitation in awarding you a PhD (DTD) – Doctor of Philosophy (Dog Turd Detection). Congratulations Mr Braynbochs! Or from now on Doctor Braynbochs!! I’m sure you’ll be an invaluable addition to the crew of any transcontinental airliner should a stroppy luncher doubt the authenticity of his burger’s sausage.  

Ken Clay April 2025

TANNER 

ALL THE CRAZY OIKS

 

The stooge tells us all to sit.

We all sit.

 YER ALL ERE he says

COS YER’VE BIN OUTER WERK

FER TOO LONG.

WELL the stooge chins ripple

WILL MAKE YER WERK.

AND OUT DER FORMS, TRACE. 

Tracy gravely hands out the forms. 

The stooge sits at his desk

watching us all fill in the forms . . 

Someone goes up to the stooge desk.

Done, he says. 

We know forms, us.

We’ve been out of work for too long.

Forms is all we know. 

ALRIGHT DEN

the stooge snatches the form off him

and gives him a little plastic pot.

COME BACK TERMORRAH

WITH A FAECAL SAMPLE. 

Everyone looks at each other. 

FINK AM JOKIN? stooge jiggles his head

FINK WE DOUGH KNOW

WHEN YOUSE ER ON DRUGS? 

Tracy gravely nods. 

Just then

a grim reaper sponsored by Nike

comes in dragging a pit-bull. 

Ere, he plonks his pot on the stooge’s desk.

Got the job or not den? 

The stooge holds the pot aloft.

He screws the top off

and gives it a gentle shake,

watches the lumps break apart

into the gravyesque pool at the bottom.

FFFT! he takes a long deep sniff.   

NO.  

Yer wha?

the reaper’s eyes are red pin points

in hole of his hoodie.

Why not?  

DIS IS YER DOG’S SHIT

the stooge waves the pot around

sloshing it. 

Snot! the reaper’s teeth are yellow pin points

in the hole of his hoodie.

Smy shit, honest! 

The pit-bull looks away.  

I KNOW DOG SHIT

BELIEVE YOU ME the stooge boasts

NOW DO ONE, YOU! 

The whole of the hoodie hole

goes as red as the eyes,

Fuck you den yer fat cunt!

the reaper whacks the pot

into the stooge’s face

and runs out

pit-bull cackling after him . . .

 

the stooge just sits there

the slop trickling into

the endless contours of his jowls

staring at us

this slow brown smile

bleeding around his lips

 

he seems to have found

job satisfaction at last.

 

Even Grave Tracy’s happy for him. 

I didn’t get the job.

They cut me dole off

when I missed the second interview

cos I was puking

in the hospital corridor

refluxing me belly out me nostrils

from stressing out

about them cutting me dole off.

 

In the end

we all

eat shit and die.

The trick is

to get paid for it.

 

The stooge?

He had won the victory over himself.

He loved eating shit and dying.