Once More With Footnotes

he?
     
                  I've always had to do Wayne's fighting for him, ever since we were at prim ary school, and this had gone far enough and I grabbed Mr. Friend's shoulder and went to lay a punch right in the middle of that grinning mask.
     
                  And he raised his hand and I felt my fist hit an invisible wall which yielded like treacle, and he took off hi s mask and he said two words to me and then he reached across and took Wayne's hand, very gently ...
     
                  And then the power amp exploded because, like I said, Wayne wasn't very good with connectors and the church hall had electrical wiring that dated back pr actically to 1800 or something, and then what with the decorations catching fire and everyone screaming and rushing about I didn't really know much about anything until they brought me round in the car park with half my hair burned off and the hall going u p like a firework.
     
                  No. I don't know why they haven't found him either. Not so much as a tooth?
     
                  No. I don't know where he is. No, I don't think he owed anyone any money.
     
                  (But I think he's got a new job. There's a collector who's got them all — Presley, Hendrix, Lennon, Holly — and he's the only collector who'll ever get a complete collection, anywhere. And Wayne wouldn't pass up a chance like that. Wherever he is now, he's taking them out of their jackets with incredible care and spinning them with love o n the turntables of the night ...)
     
                  Sorry. Talking to myself, there.
     
                  I'm just puzzled about one thing. Well, millions of things, actually, but just one thing right at the moment.
     
                  I can't imagine why Mr. Friend bothered to wear a mask.
     
                  Because he loo ked just the same underneath, idio — officer.
     
                  What did he say? Well, I daresay he comes to everyone in some sort of familiar way. Perhaps he just wanted to give me a hint. He said DRIVE SAFELY.
     
                  No. No, really. I'll walk home, thanks. Yes. I'll mind how I go.
     

Hmm. When this was first published, US critics said I was being too populist in complaining about the critics' (other critics, that is) attitude to The Lord of the Rings.
     
    Well, they were wrong. Tolkien had many fans in academia, it's true but in th e UK at least it was, up until a couple of years ago, quite normal for the London media-rocracy to be dismissive of Tolkien and the "sad people" who read him. Then the movies happened, were very popular, and the carping got very muted indeed.
     
    This was wri tten pre-movie.
     
     
     
     
     
C ult C lassic
     
                  The Lord of the Rings is a cult classic. I know that's true, because I read it in the newspapers, saw it on TV, heard it on the radio.
     
                  We know what cult means. It's a put-down word. It means "inexplicably popular bu t unworthy." It's a word used by the guardians of the one true flame to dismiss anything that is liked by the wrong kind of people. It also means "small, hermetic, impenetrable to outsiders." It has associations with cool drinks in Jonestown.
     
                  The Lord of the Rings has well over one hundred million readers. How big will it have to be to emerge from cult status? Or, once having been a cult — that is to say, once having borne the mark of Cain — is it actually possible that anything can ever be allowed to become a full-fledged Classic?
     
                  But democracy has been in action over the past few years. A British bookshop chain held a vote to find the country's favourite book. It was The Lord of the Rings. Another one not long afterward, held this time to find the favourit e author, came up with J. R. R. Tolkien.
     
                  The critics carped, which was expected but nevertheless strange. After all, the bookshops were merely using the word "favourite". That's a very personal word. No one ever said it was a synonym for "best". But a cr itic's chorus hailed the results as a terrible indictment on the taste of the British public, who'd been given the precious gift of democracy and were wasting it on quite unsuitable choices. There were hints of a conspiracy amongst the furry-footed fans. B ut there was