UBU awaits

If you like, the staircase is always a series of mythological Gnostic steps, and, if you are lucky, a troubadouring Bob Dylan will be waiting for you in the minstrels’ gallery, to sing you through five hundred verses of Desolation Row, though whether or not you find the minstrels’ gallery is another question. Something to do with fate or history or alternatively, to be more personal, who were your people? Did your people clear the thorn entangled path so that you might steal a march on the opposition and your own inveterate laziness. Without further ado I think I should mention that Ubu awaits you in the throne room. And it’s not for me say whether the throne room is up the stairs or down in the extensive cellars. Though one might hazard a guess that as the cellars are where the wine is (was) kept – that might be the place to begin your search.

    Ubu is much bigger than he used to be: a gargantuan waistline, little short legs, a face apoplectically red and purple and his arms waving in rage. It will soon be apparent that all you have to do is follow the noise; a thin weaselling sort of noise, plus explosions of hoarse, enraged grief. Madame Ubu has long since abandoned him and taken most of the staff with her, leaving him only a couple of weasels to hose him down once or twice a day.

    An audience with le Roi is a pressing necessity; better not delay it too long before you set off for the cellars. Ignore, for now, those inviting stairs and don’t forget to drink a couple of bottles on your through the early stages of the labyrinth. Don’t worry I know you are no Theseus – no gorgonzola awaits you. Only the demented Ubi. By the way, he likes to be called Ubi. Ubu is more formal, so I would advise you to stick to Ubi. And do bow low as you enter the throne room. It will be dark, so you might not spot him right away but he will spot you. In fact he will have sniffed your approach two days ago. He is ready. His little red eyes almost bursting with excited anticipation. And do take along your collected works of Walter Benjamin. I can assure you that Uncle Wally is one of his favourite authors. He is very fond of quoting huge chunks to any who come within spitting difference. And that’s something else of course – better to keep beyond spitting difference if you know what’s good for you. And do try to resist his siren calls to divest yourself of your protective clothing.

    Once you find your way out of there (hopefully not needing too much in the way of medical intervention) you will be more than (psychologically, speaking) ready to mount the famous staircase. And hopefully with the physical prowess to lift one foot up on to the next tread.

    To really and truly find out where it leads.