poetic justice

"Tim Bowdler is gone."
That's all it said.
An email.
Presumably from one of my fans in the Leinster Leader.
There are still a few at that august publication who occasionally try to contact me for various reasons.
(When Heelers says august, he means crapulous. - Ed note.)
The anonymous email apparently referred to Mr Timothy Bowdler, who was Chief Executive at the Johnston Press when the company fired me from the Leinster Leader on a dark November day a little over a year ago.
The 27th of November 2007 to be exact.
A day forever known to social scientists as Black Snurdsday.
And now Bowdler himself is gone.
I hadn't needed an anonymous tip off to alert me to that fact.
The Johnston Press issued a statement at least a month ago saying that Bowdler's retirement had been planned well in advance.
Personally I wouldn't believe the Lord's prayer from those people.
But why then would they claim Bowdler's retirement was long planned?
Of course!
They want to avoid speculation that Bowdler's moving on is in any way related to the decision to fire me.
Or they want to avoid speculation that Bowdler's moving on is in any way related to the collapse of the Johnston Press share price from £4 the night I was fired, to a level of a few pennies less than a year after the night I was fired.
Or perhaps they just want to avoid speculation that the collapse of the Johnston Press share price is directly and irrevocably and solely related to the decision to fire me, the ensuing price collapse being an utterly predictable end result following on from such an utterly assinine decision.
We can only wonder.
And right this minute the ghost of John Milton appears at my shoulder.
He declaims:

"Bowdler is gone.
Young Bowdler,
And hath not left his peer.
Who would not weep for Bowdler,
He knew himself to weep,
And sink the occasional beer."

Ah, you can sing it John.
And sing one for some of the other great men who departed the company soon after the decision was made to fire me.
The Managing Director of the Leinster Leader at the time I was fired left a few weeks after me.
His name hadn't been on my firing letter though.
The name on the firing letter was the name of a supposed editor of the Leinster Leader.
And the name on my firing letter had been signed with a "pp" beside it so maybe the supposed editor didn't sign it at all.
I'm told that in certain circles, putting a "pp" beside a signature on a letter is a way of conveying calculated disrespect.
It is meant to imply that someone else in the office signed the letter on behalf of the person whose name appears as signatory to the letter, because the person receiving the letter, in this instance a firing letter by God, was not entitled to the dignity of a letter actually properly signed by anyone.
Classy classy people.
Anyhoo.
Both the Managing Director and his supposed editor left the Leinster Leader shortly after me.
I wonder did they walk or were they pushed.
Perhaps the standard they had used was the standard they were measured by.
We can only hope.

Yes, a year after firing me from the job where I'd worked for ten years, the Johnston Press has gone through a lot of changes. Lots of comings and goings. Lots of Hire-ums and Fire-ums themselves getting hired and fired.
It's all very sad.

And now Bowdler marches off into the sunset along with them.
Bowdler by name and Bowdler by nature, that's what I say.
He bowdlerised the Leinster Leader anyway.
Thanks a bloody lot Tim.

And lo!
As I type this, oh my gentle travellers of the internet, the door of the computer room at the Chateau De Healy opens.
In walks the ghost of Freddie Mercury accompanied by members of the British rock group Queen.
They begin setting up their instruments in the corner.
"James do you mind if we play a song?" wonders Freddie.
"Not at all," sez I, beckoning them to proceed.
Secretly I am hoping they will play that cracking Flash Gordon song.
But no.
It's a different song.
I turn my swivel chair around. John Milton lounges on the photocopier.
(By swivel chair Heelers means kitchen chair. - Ed note.)
We smile as Freddie begins.
His song goes:

"I wanna dedicate this song to all you management types at the Johnston Press.
Dunk, dunk, dunk.
Another one bites the dust.
Dunk, dunk, dunk.
Another one bites the dust.
Another one's come and another one's gone.
Another one bites the dust.
Hoo yeahhhhhhh.
The shares are going down.
Another one bites the dust.
Hoo yeahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh."

I gotta tell you bold readers, the ghost of Freddie Mercury has still got it when it comes to this sort of thing.
No one could have sung it better.

It was a fitting tribute to the great retiring Johnston Press man.
Ah.
We will never forget you Tom Bowdler.