Autocorrecting James Joyce, John Lennon and Boris Johnson

Autocorrect can be handy…but is infuriating when one lives by the colour of saying, embroidering, dovetailing, language-hopping words to suit mood, flow and rhythm (using as a medium British English…none of your ‘colors’ here.)  If there had been Autocorrect in James Joyce’s time, he could not have written Finnegan’s Wake, the darned machine would have kept coming back at him saying “Did you mean : ‘River, run past Eve and Adam’s from swerve of shore to bend of bay, bring us by commodious vices of recirculation back to Heath Castle and environs’?……”

Last week I was pondering this, and decided to investigate….could it be that Mr Joyce’s delicious train of thought could be turned back, by a robot in the cloud, to show the original spark from whence it evolved and thus offer new insight….or even intellectual craic?  I bamboozled my Beloved into showing me how to work Autocorrect on an iPad (a gift he gave me 4 months ago and which I have used, grudgingly, unenthusiastically, five times in the meantime [3 for reading Martha Stewart Living magazine on-line]) but I have befuddled his brain and he’s stormed off in a huff, bellowing that neither he nor I have time to transcribe Finnegan’s Wake and besides, the exercise is bullshit. I beg to disagree, though having one arm broken in a plaster cast – which makes every upper case, every double or shift key stroke painful – and having to type, then robotically autocorrect each divinely inspired word of the classic masterpiece in order to either a: see what Autocorrect thinks it should be and pick the first choice, or b: scroll down the options to choose what I consider the most illuminating and colourful option, does make the exercise time-consuming and could jeopardize the knitting of os. (Himself deserves a bit of exasperated bellicosity at the range and breath of my requests for quotidian aid; he bathes me, bakes me brown bread and blueberry muffins, carefully tears single images from paper napkins at my behest so I can pimp my plaster with decoupage.)

But of course, there is nothing new under the sun: someone has already Autocorrected segments of Finnegan’s Wake on an iPhone ….

So, l thought I’d do a shorter opus, as befits a One Armed Mam: John Lennon’s “In His Own Write” or “A Spaniard in the Works”

The problem with John Lennon is that he mostly used everyday words, so Autocorrect sees nothing untoward in it being “A red lettuce day” and “Speak up, come forth, you ravel me, I potty menthol shout” is also fine by the Autocorrect Police.

MR BORIS MORRIS

However Mr Boris Morris was morgan thankful for his narrow escape is largely put down to his happy knack of being in the right place at the right place. For stance, Boris was the one whom cornered Miss Pearl Staines at her impromtu but light- hearted garbage partly.

‘Miss Staines’ he had shouted ‘how come you never invited yer sister to the do?’ 

‘For the same reason I didn’t invite you Mr Morris’ she re-plight reaching for anoven helping.

Boris was no fudge, he quickly melted into the backcloth like an old cake, slighly taking candy shots of Miss Staines with her relatively.

‘She won’t invite me to the next do either’ he remarked out loud with above average clarity.

Boris was elsie the man whom got the photies of the Dupe of Bedpan doing things at the anyearly jap festival, much to the supper of the Duchess set. Thus then was Boris Morris a man of great reknown and familiarity, accepted at do’s of the wealthy and the poor alike hell. He was knew as the jew with a view, and he had. Not long after one of his more well known esca-pades, he was unfortunable to recieve a terrible blow to his ego. He was shot in the face at a Hunt Ball but nobody peaple found out till the end becaugh they all thought it was a clever mask.

‘What a clever mask that man has on,’ was heard once or twig.

It was not the end of Boris as you might well imargin, but even before his face set he was to easily recognizable at most places, with peaple pointing at him saying thing like ‘What a good shot’ and other. All this set Boris thinking, specially in the morning when he was shaving his scabs, as only he knew how.

‘Must fix this blob of mine’ he’d smile over a faceful of blot-ting paper.

‘You certainly must dear’ said his amiable old wife, ‘what with me not getting any younger.’ John Lennon “A Spaniard in the Works”

To-day, nearly half a century after this was written, we’re not often reduced to giggling in grass induced glee at the goings-on of Mr Boris Morris, but as this is an exercise in contemporary thought, let’s manually change Mr Morris to Mr Johnson, and allow a robot do the rest:

“How Mr Boris Johnson was more than thankful for his narrow escape is largely put down to his happy knack of being in the right place at the right place. For instance, Boris was the one whom cornered Miss Pearl Stains at her impromptu but light-hearted garbage partly.

‘Miss Staines’ he had shouted ‘how come you never invited

your sister to the do?’

‘For the same reason I didn’t invite you Mr Johnson ‘ she re-

plight reaching for an oven helping.

Boris was no fudge, he quickly melted into the backcloth

like an old cake, slightly taking candy shots of Miss Staines with her relatively.

‘She won’t invite me to the next do either’ he remarked out

loud with above average clarity.

Boris was else the man who got the phonies of the Dupe of

Bedpan doing things at any early jape festival, much to the

supper of the Duchess set. Thus then was Boris Johnson a man of great renown and familiarity, accepted at do’s of the wealthy and the poor alike hell. He was knew as the jaw with a view, and he had. Not long after one of his more well known escapades, he was unfortunable to recieve a terrible blow to his ego. He was shot in the face at a Hunt Ball but nobody people found out till the end besought they all thought it was a clever mask.

‘What a clever mask that man has on,’ was heard once or

twig.

It was not the end of Boris as you might well margin, but

even before his face set he was to easily recognizable at most

places, with people pointing at him saying thing like ‘What a

good shot’ and other. All this set Boris thinking, specially in the morning when he was shaving his scabs, as only he knew how.

‘Must fix this blob of mine’ he’d smile over a faceful of blot-

ting paper.

‘You certainly must dear’ said his amiable old wife, ‘what

with me not getting any younger.’

PS : I love love love love love Boris Johnson (Himself always refers to the Mayor of London as “your boyfriend”) and I would never wish anything untoward to befall his clever mask, his jaw with a view…or indeed that of his amiable old wife.