Howdy y'all, and welcome to another of the occasionally entertaining JuicyPips tribute issues. We chuckled over the memories of Mike Treharne, we wept at the departure of Sorrel Trenchard, we smiled broadly at the splendour of the Bruce Haines era, and now… now it’s time for the venerable and unpronounceable Mr Ben ‘Jamin’ Hourahine to be leaving us, the slippery bastard.
He’s a strange one, Ben. His job title, up until this very Friday, was ‘Futures Editor’ - you picture him as a sort of cross between the eerie gurning terror of Mystic Meg and the simultaneously intriguing and off-putting three-nippled psychic from Mallrats, and you’re right to do so. That’s exactly what he’s like. He’s pretty good at predicting the future too, using a combination of crystal balls (hence the expression ‘futurology? It’s a load of balls’), tea-leaf reading, seaweed hanging from windowsills and voodoo incantations. It’s not an uncommon sight to see him dancing around in warpaint, butt-naked but for a racoon’s pelt upon his fevered brow, begging the gods for further clues to the future of mankind. This is largely effective – or, at least, confusing enough for him not to have to explain himself too much in meetings before people become unsettled – but, it must be said, he did miss one or two things. For the sake of neatness, here’s a list of things he failed to predict (and if you see him, try not to throw this in his face, he’s sensitive about it):
1) His own departure from the company
2) The recession
3) The results to any sporting event
4) Burley & Lawson’s Christmas party costumes
5) All that snow we had
6) That time he got his face mashed up playing football
7) McEwan getting us all kicked out of Treharne’s private member’s club, then having a fight with a parked car
…and various other things too.
There are more strings to his bow than just predicting about 30% of the future (and trying not to look surprised by the other 70%). He’s a superstar DJ in a Nathan Barley style, and he fucking loves an electric nose flute.
But what really goes on in the head of Hourahine? Well, I’ve managed to source a tantalising peek into his brain… I ripped a page from his notebook. Transcribed below is the enlightening shorthand I found scrawled within in thick black crayon:
Coffee, fag. Digital = no. 19? Too young. Everest.
Mighty. Digital = yes, later. Lawson’s tongue. Bouncy. Scratchy treble.
Ever? Non. Nice pear. LEDs. Fuzzbox. Motherliker. Tidy? Youth hostelling, Chris Eubank. Well plastic. Nitro.
Cymbal symbol > Byker.
Looking shit-hot in shades. Coffee, fag. Where is…?
Ah, there. Monsters. Big, nasty, dirty bass.
Can we? Fuuuuuuuuuuuck. Alligators = shoes/delicious/toothy.
Elevate. 4chan. None of this is yours. Strobe/spiral.Unusual chap. I don’t think that actually tells us anything.
So what’s next for Ben? Well, the story he’s been spreading involves him and his wife disappearing off around south-east Asia for a bit, then settling in Australia. Don’t believe a word of it. Ben is actually an accomplished inventor and time-traveller – picture the offspring of Adam Hart-Davis and Sylvester McCoy-era Doctor Who – and has been secretly beavering away in a lock-up in Camden on a machine of his own devising. It’s basically a flux-capacitor glued to an atlas, sealed inside the top-box of a Triumph Trophy. He rasps into the future (not too far, he doesn’t want to spoil the surprise), takes a stroll around, comes back and tells people about it, feeding in the odd lie here, missing out a little detail or two there to ensure that he isn’t too accurate. (This builds reverence and admiration for his prescience without getting him burned for being a witch.) So if he’s doing so well with his machine, why’s he off? Well, he’s got into a bit of trouble, you see. Having watched Back To The Future after necking a teacupful of cheap wizz, Ben hit on the concept of betting on horse races using retrospective results. Unfortunately, his natural philanthropy proved to be his undoing: in placing a vast quantity of bets in a Brixton betting shop in the late sixties, he explained his plan to the bookie and offered to cut him in on the deal. The bookie was having none of it. He told his mates, they told their mates, it’s now forty years later and Ben is a wanted man in London. Hence why he’s fleeing to the colonies – they don’t mind if you’re a criminal over there. As long as you enjoy a cold tinny and a barbie’d shrimp then you’re golden, cobber.