Oprah's Fans, part 1: And Here it Begins.

What is it with the audience on Oprah? In every episode I've ever seen they've been whipped into a kind of religious fervour. Normal housewives displayed the kind of inability to rein themselves in which once characterised the more orgiastic of the cults of the classical world. Who does this to them? Are drugs involved? Sensory deprivation? Flickering images accompanied by the Oprah theme music? I had a pet theory that it was Oprah herself who did the whipping, clad in black, carrying the badges of her office, inciting the crowd. The answer, I was to discover was both tamer and more wild than anything I could have conceived.
When you're unemployed, Oprah takes on a kind of mystical significance. For some she becomes a household god, her prescriptions for living followed dutifully, even slavishly, worshipped at the same appointed hour each day. For others she becomes a demon, briefly glimpsed between channels, cutting into valuable real estate which should be the domain of Quincy and Dr Mark Sloane, brave doctors both, men who let nothing stand in the way of their relentless pursuit of the truth. Oprah was wrong, but on closer inspection, how can something so wrong command such devotion? Further information was needed.
I thought about it for a while and since, 4 days later, I had an appointment to leave the house, I decided to do some research. I worked out a two-pronged approach:
1) I would ask the guys in the pub.
2) I would send an e-mail to Oprah herself.
The e-mail sent, I went to the pub and asked some hard questions of the regulars. They either didn't know, or they weren't talking. I thought I saw some shifted glances among the grazers at the bar, indicating they knew more than they were letting on. I was getting nowhere, and, additionally, I was being derided for my interest. Cursing the narrow breadth of knowledge of your average pub-dweller, I retreated and slept.
If the 1pm sun was anything to judge by, the next day dawned bright and clear, full of the promise of answers to be revealed. Revitalised, I decided on a dangerously short TV break of two hours before heading out. I even, in the interest of fairness, managed to force my way through 10 minutes of Oprah, despite the fact that the menopause is of extremely limited interest to me.
I hit the library and while waiting for an internet terminal to free up I browsed through references to ancient fertility cults. These were exclusively female, and composed entirely of desperate women. The parallels to Oprah's audience were clear. Excited, sensing a breakthrough, I continued on. Their Bacchanalian frenzy was aided by the ingestion of certain poisonous plants, cut at awn on days where the magic of the moon was strongest. An image flashed into my mind: Oprah, silhouetted against a full moon the colour of drying blood, holding her silver sickle aloft, striking down at a branch of poison oak, ripping it and secreting it in her already full basket. I was close; I could feel it.
At that moment, as if preordained, a computer became free and I fell on it with a silent cry of triumph. I hurriedly entered my details and discovered that Oprah thanked me for my interest. I was gutted, and for a second the fight went out of me. I took a deep breath and read on discovering, at the bottom of the page, a phone-number for further information. This was better, I wrote it down and left as silently and mysteriously as I'd arrived, like the wind through the dread hunting grounds of Thessaly and Lesbos all those years ago.
A problem remained. How was I going to pay for a call to America? The question drifted in and out of my consciousness over the next few calorie starved days. Then it hit me: I didn't need to. I could go home to my parents' and use the phone there, maybe even get a good meal. With meat. Oh truth! What sacrifices I make for thee.
'Hello parents' I said, as they opened the door, the smell of clean living wafting temptingly out.
'Hello son' they replied, with slightly less enthusiasm than I might have wished for.
I sat by the fire, waiting for my chance. Finally, in order to work up an appetite, they went for a pre-dinner walk. I snatched up the phone, dialing the number with a feverishness born of desperation.
'This is Oprah,' a voice said.
'Excellent, I've got...' I was cut off by the continuation of the message. The devious cretins had employed electronic devices to conceal their secrets.
'Your call is important to me,' her voice was soothing, like honey. 'If you wish to request a transcript, press 1 now. If you would like further information on the issues raised in today's show, press 2 now.' And so it went on, but there was nothing that I wanted to know. I mashed the buttons impotently and vented my rage at the telephone. I had been so close. Bitter tears welled in my eyes and I went to hang up. It was then that I heard the voice, masculine yet strangely subjugated.
'Mr. James,' he said, and I waited with bated breath. 'We've been expecting your call.'

I'm back

I had hoped to delay this until I was sober, but I realised that this would mean an abnormally long wait, even by my lax standards. So, I have one question: What is Tia Maria supposed to taste like?

PS: A story about Oprah will appear soon, and shock everyone with it's brilliance.