The Bosch Power Drill
The city of 's-Hertogenbosch, Brabant, the Netherlands; early sixteenth century, Thursday evening, about seven o'clock. A painter, one Jheronimous Anthonissen van Aken, also known and hereinafter referred to as Bosch, is hard at work on the centre panel of The Garden of Earthly Delights. His wife, Mrs. Bosch, enters with his dinner, a fine repast of Lobster Thermidor a Crevette with a mornay sauce served in a Provencale manner with shallots and aubergines garnished with truffle pate, brandy and with a fried egg on top and no Spam, which she plonks down on the table beside him.
Bosch now finds that he has a big problem; he wants to eat his dinner, but to do so he has to put down his brush and palette so that he can pick up his knife and fork; he wants to continue painting while there is still light, but to do so he has to put down his fork and knife so that he can pick up his palette and brush. After several minutes of interchanging eating implements with painting implements Bosch becomes totally confused, slaps mornay sauce all over a particularly interesting couple near the bottom-centre of the painting and paints his mouth a rather nice shade of strawberry red. Bosch has had enough; he gives up and, chopper in hand, heads off down to the pigsty.
Mrs. Bosch spent that night alone in the marriage bed, awakened occasionally by loud, porcine squeals emanating from the pigsty. Mrs. Bosch, having seen some of her husband's paintings, quite naturally assumed that he now preferred dalliance with pigs to a bit of rumpy-pumpy with her. Not until the morning, when she walked into the kitchen, did she discover the whole awful truth. There stood Mr. Bosch, chopper still in hand, covered, head to foot, with mud, blood and gore. Then she saw it - there on the table was a pink, meat-like cube. (Many modern art critics have used this incident to claim that Bosch was, in fact, the first Cubist; this, of course, is complete balls.)
"Oh my God!" exclaimed Mrs. Bosch in fluent mediaeval Flemish, "What is it?"
"It's my chop - oh, that, you mean? 'Tis a new cold meat product what I have invented; I call it Spam." explained Mr. Bosch, also in fluent mediaeval Flemish.
With that, Bosch took his chopper and cut two, thick slices of bread and an even thicker slice of Spam; he placed the slice of Spam between the two slices of bread.
"There you are, my dear," he said, "a cold snack which I can eat with one hand while continuing to paint with the other. I shall call it a boschich."
(Many early commentators have argued that the name boschich did not enter into common parlance because Bosch was neither an Earl nor a card player. The real reason, as modern researchers have shown, is that boschich was a bloody silly name for a sandwich.)
Our story now takes a detour; a few hundred miles to the Northeast; a few weeks later. In a 'greasy spoon' in a dingy back street in Koebenhavn a group of Vikings are gathered. Still smarting badly from their less than successful takeover attempt of England several hundred years earlier, they plot a new, more subtle, strategy for another attempt. What they plan to do is to open a fast food restaurant in every major city in England. However, they have heard of the recent discovery of America by Columbus and realize that they will have to act quickly to beat the MacWimpy King burger chain to the shores of England. What they need is a product which is simple to prepare and quick to serve; one Viking mentioned taste, but he was quickly silenced.
Inspiration sometimes arrives from the most unexpected sources. The waiter arrived and dumped several plates of 'food' on the table. On each and every plate, amid the eggs, bacon, sausages and tomatoes, (baked beans are off), floating in bacon fat and lard, was a rectangular slice of processed meat. Viking No.1 takes a bite of the slice on his plate.
"That's it!" he exclaims in fluent mediaeval Danish, "That is just what we need." He calls for the waiter; "Waiter! Waiter!"
Twenty minutes later ...
"Que?" asks the waiter.
"What is this stuff?"
"That is the Spam. I gets it off a painter bloke in Brabant. You like, yes?"
"Spam?" says Viking No.1, taking another bite.
The other Vikings taste the Spam and nod their approval. Soon a chorus of Spams, like some war cry, runs round the table -
"Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam ..."
Back to 's-Hertogenbosch; a few weeks later. Mrs. Bosch now has a nice little earner supplying processed pork and ham products to the people of the city. Bosch, in view of the fact that his wife often runs amok with a very large meat cleaver, has taken to wearing a reinforced codpiece. (Nothing to do with the plot; just some gratuitous smut.) Into Mrs. Bosch's little shop, one day, walks a very large man, clad in animal furs, with a horned helmet on his head, clutching a couple of Linguaphone tapes and a phrase book. After making a few small chinks in the language barrier, it emerges that he has come to negotiate the purchase of several tons of Spam, which Mrs. Bosch agrees to supply at a considerable discount for cash. The Viking plays with the idea of indulging in the usual rape, just to celebrate the deal, but, on noticing the size of Mrs. Bosch's cleaver, decides against it and, setting fire to his socks, hot-foots it back to Denmark.
Bosch completes The Garden of Earthly Delights, which fetches a very handsome price in the auction house; no, not that one - the other one. With the capital Bosch ramps up production of Spam, taking on many workers. Things go well; the camels arrive from Marco Polo Asian Imports, Spam production is on schedule, the city's jobless total is at an all-time low, Bosch is elected as mayor. The great day arrives: everyone turns out to watch the camels being loaded with Spam for their journey to Koebenhavn. In their elation, no one foresaw what would happen next.
This being the early sixteenth century, tin cans had not yet been invented, so the Spam was cased in boxes made from some of Bosch's unsuccessful paintings. After a long journey, in the heat of Summer, the Spam arrived in Koebenhavn in a rather more mature state than even the Vikings cared for. Understandably, the Vikings were more than a little bit miffed; actually, they were bloody furious. After flogging the Spam, and the camels, cheap to the local kebab house, the Vikings call a pow-wow in the 'greasy spoon', where they decide that some wanton rape and pillage is in order. Using the cash from the sale of the Spam, they kit themselves out with full battle gear and set off for Brabant.
In 's-Hertogenbosch the locals are enjoying the fruits of their new-found wealth; the whole city is engaged in a drunken revelry and is ill-prepared for the approaching visitors. The first inkling they have that something may be amiss is when they hear the faint call of 'Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam Spam ...' carried on the breeze. The call gets ever louder, until it is heard to be just outside the city - 'Spam SPam SPAm SPAM ...'
The Vikings have arrived. Their temper has not been improved any by having to row a longboat across a few hundred miles of dry land. After ensuring that they are legally parked, the Vikings attack. The ensuing scene of mayhem and carnage is far too horrible to describe, so I won't. (Many art historians are now of the opinion that the sight that greeted Bosch when the battle was over and the Vikings were gone inspired the grimmest of all his paintings, The Last Judgement.)
Bosch was a broken man; his Spam factory had been razed to the ground, none of the Vikings had raped his wife, though one of the few remaining pigs had a surprised look on its face, and, to cap it all, he had a delegation of city elders in his living room with frowns that went all the way down to the floor. They made Bosch an offer he couldn't refuse; either he would clear up the mess and ensure the future security of the city, or they would strip him of his chain and robes and throw him, with Mrs. Bosch, into the darkest dungeon they could find, to spend the rest of their lives on a diet of Spam and water. Bosch had no choice.
The next day, on the market square, Bosch assembled the few of his workers that had remained faithful to him. His plan was to take this motley crew and train them until they became a lean, mean, cleaning, fighting machine. The big problem with this plan was that Bosch, being a small, meek man, lacked the air of authority to discipline his men and, after a week, the crew was as motley as ever. Come Friday evening, Bosch, on the point of giving up, decided to go drown his sorrows in the local tavern.
Inspiration sometimes arrives from the most unexpected sources. Bosch is sat in the corner with his nose buried in a tankard of the landlord's finest cooking lager. He looks up to find that he has been joined by a dandily-dressed gentleman who introduces himself as Chris. The gentleman explains to Bosch that he has been on a trip of discovery to America, but is having problems finding his way back to Spain. Bosch points him South-west in the direction of Spain. Chris insists, rather forcefully, in thanking Bosch by selling him, at a special introductory price, a copy of the book Aggressive Techniques in Employee Management, which he had obtained in America. Bosch, being too meek and too pissed-off to argue, gives Chris his last gold piece, takes the book and bids farewell to both Chris and the landlord.
Bosch staggers home and, deciding that, in his present state, jumping into bed for some rumpy-pumpy with Mrs. Bosch is not a good idea, cuts himself several Spam sandwiches, takes his new book and locks himself away in his studio. Monday morning he emerges, downs a quick seltzer, decides not to kiss Mrs. Bosch, leaves the house and strides toward the market square.
On his arrival he finds the motley crew waiting for him. Bosch clears his throat and bellows in a voice that would put Frank Windsor to shame:
"RIGHT, YOU 'ORRIBLE LOT, LET'S BE 'AVING YOU. ATTENTION! RIGHT TURN! BY THE RIGHT, wait for it boy, QUICK MARCH! LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT ..."
And thus was born the Bosch Power Drill.