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There are only certain people who can or should be inventors. As with perversity, a certain level of suaveness and a way with words will count for a lot, but there is also the extent to which you are hoping to help others rather than just yourself. I met someone else seven years ago who laid claim to being an inventor and he did not cut as impressive a figure. My landlord at the time, Sam, was a funny old cove. He’d been a low-level Cold War spook for the RAF, logging interminable weather reports and listening to shipping forecasts in a semi-clandestine manner. The many years he’d spent sat in front of a large radio transmitting dish had effected an undercurrent of psychic diversity in him. He, like all of his friends, seemed to have just enough money to get clattered on every single day. His stuttering friend known simply as 'the Architect' fancied himself as a builder of fantastical machines, who would one day file a patent that would see him set for life. The Architect disappeared one day as well, but there was no scintillating mystery when I asked Sam about it, merely the terse reply: “There was a problem with his new wanking machine. It got jammed in the 'on' position. He’s gone to stay at his mum and dad’s for a bit.” I never saw the Architect again. I saw Sam a few times after I moved out of his house. On the last time he told me that a neighbour had been murdered. He’d been stabbed multiple times in the face by a man dressed as Santa Claus. I felt bad that I wasn’t entirely surprised to hear this. It simply felt like one of those areas where that kind of thing was bound to happen sooner or later. As for the Little Rooster, well I hope it does well. There’s too much craziness, ugliness and violence in the world. I want to live in a country where open-minded women are waking up to pleasure. Hopefully it will have a knock on effect on the rest of us.