Lovely Sir Partridge,
What countries should I visit and why? I ask because though you think your self-published travel books don’t have a fan base, there are those of us who can’t get enough of such titles as Confessions of a Naughty Travel Writer and The Gormley Archipelago: Islands I Have Been To.
In fact, I would like to become a travel writer too. How do I do it?
Also, are you available as a travelling companion?
You’re right of course. I am a superb travel writer and it’s shocking that this has gone unnoticed by the countless publishers I’ve sent my manuscripts to.
No, I will not travel with you because I find your name disturbing and I sense in you a certain fanaticism. I imagine that were we to meet you would remain in a state of catatonic adoration, staring at me for hours with eyes the size of mad saucers.
Still, here’s some advice. I have always ensured I visit countries in clumps and that they have some kind of connection with one another. This imbues one’s journey with meaning, however spurious. For instance, in my book An Eye for an I, all of the countries I visited began with the letter ‘I’ and had vengeance as a national characteristic, namely: Iceland (Viking sagas); Italy (mafia payback); India (Hindu-Muslim tensions etc); Ireland (the Troubles); and so on. Brilliant when you think about it.
Likewise, in my book The Monosyllabic Empire, I spent a fortune visiting the five countries in the world with only one syllable (France, Guam, Greece, Laos and Chad). It turns out that they have little in common beyond this charming quirk of pronunciation.
Becoming a travel writer is quite easy as long as you have little wish to be read. I can only write against the market rather than for it and I have no regrets. All travel books are feats of colossal self-indulgence masquerading as acts of generosity. I have no truck with such hypocrisy. I prefer to nail my colours to the mast. Hence my true masterpieces include Travels with my Tract: Getting Caught Short in the World’s Most Inconvenient Places, and An Aladdin’s Cave: A Voyage into the Treasure House that is the Gormley Mind.
Here’s an excerpt from the latter:
Stone Town, Zanzibar, 14 October 2011
At 7.13am, woke up from fevered dream in which I was on a speeding train crowded with people, one of whom had decided to bring eight Irish wolfhounds. The man released the hounds and suddenly I was under desperate attack. To save myself I somehow managed to hurl most of them to their death through an open door.
At our destination, the dogs’ owner summoned the police and pressed charges. I was led away by a constable who, I noticed in shock and disgust, was none other than myself.
Constable Gormley realised the dog-killing charges wouldn’t stick so as we passed a pub, he asked the owner for advice on how to frame me. ‘Get him on trafficking prescription drugs’ was the publican’s cheery response. Then I woke up.
Spent the rest of the day thinking about why I find coins so fascinating, regretting that I haven’t joined the Navy, wishing gladiators were still an entertainment option, and wondering why life seems so hard when most of the time it really isn’t.
I also favour the 18th century tradition of putting as much in the title as possible. Of all my 34 books, my favourite is: A Long and Dreary Sojourn in Slippers across the Shetland Islands, Taking in Such Unremarkable but Absurdly-Named Villages as Grutness, Drong and Clab, in Near-Horizontal Sleet while Regretting that I’d Ended what was (in Retrospect) a Promising Relationship with a Young Lady who would have made an Excellent Travelling Companion and Mender of Broken Hire Cars.
I hope this helps.
Sir Partridge Gormley’s emissions are rendered as coherent as they can be by the ever-patient @ConanElphicke. If you are confused and bewildered, and we suspect you are, by all means send your queries to firstname.lastname@example.org.