Lord Sebastian of Groan gazed out blankly through a daedal liana of ivy carpeting the high walls of FlashBrighton Castle, towards the sun setting behind the cold spike of Gormenghast Mountain. Behind him, the laberinthine stone corridors of his ancestral home stretched out as though through time itself; an iron chain of ritual that bound him hand & foot to its unvarying rhythms. Not even the Earl himself was greater than FlashBrighton; history sat as heavily on him as it did the castle.

FlashBrighton’s most enduring tradition was ‘Projects Night’, upon which ordinary members of FlashBrighton – the Bright Carvers – were permitted to enter the castle to work collaboratively on Flash projects for one night every month. FlashBrighton’s lice-ridden Master of Ritual, Barquenrich, had that morning instructed Sebastian on his duty to host a Projects Night the following week. Sebastian shuddered at the memory of the peg-legged Barquenrich, swiveling on his filthy crutch, lank hair plastered to his face, as he barked commands from a mouldering tome.

‘The lore of FlashBrighton demands that you open the castle gates to the Bright Carvers for one night only. They shall be permitted to create, collaborate on, and showcase their own Flash projects. They shall be granted the freedom to work both with and without the assistance of the Earl himself. When their labours are over, they shall be granted the right to adjourn to the nearest hostelry to imbibe and carouse with the Earl, and other members of the house of Groan. If the Bright Carvers are denied this right they may take revenge by stealing the lead off the roof.’

Sebastian recalled with horror the cloud of dust that blew up as Barquenrich slammed the ancient volume shut. But, as much a prisoner to the patterns of FlashBrighton as any of the Bright Carvers under his patronage, in the dwindling light he reached for a piece of flint and scratched himself a reminder into the stone wall:

TUESDAY 9TH FEBRUARY 2010 7PM. ALLOW FLASHBRIGHTON MEMBERS INTO THE WERKS TO COLLABORATE – PROJECTS NIGHT X

Marking the X with a vengeful vehemence, Sebastian tossed the flint into the darkening penumbra, and skulked out of the room.

Remy Smiley was led through the restaurant by the waiter, and took his seat opposite Control, at a secluded table near the back.

‘Ah Smiley, `excellent restaurant choice, the lamb’s divine. Waiter, another bottle of Burgundy please.’

They searched each other’s face for signs. Nothing. After a long pause, Smiley asked ‘Do you remember HTML4, sir?’

HTML4 was the most reliable agent the Service ever had. Smiley and he had worked together many times before, on the Safari, Firefox and IE affairs. He had the knack of rendering jobs cleanly, if a little imprecisely.

‘Yes’ replied Control, in a measured tone. ‘His mark up was always excellent.’

‘Indeed. He slipped up though recently, on assignment in California, so we’re replacing him with a new chap: HTML5. HTML5 has been pitching on the Open Web as a competitor to Flash and Silverlight for the last few years, and the Browsers are picking it up. He’s got new technology we can exploit – APIs, JavaScript, but particularly native video. If he’s as good as we’re led to believe, our Flash Developers will have to raise their game.‘

Control lowered his fork, and furrowed his brow. ‘Has the Foreign Office vetted this character, Smiley? We’re co-operating with Police and government officials, and our Flash boys have maintained an even keel for years now. I won’t rock the boat without some proper intelligence.’

‘Of course sir, that’s why I’ve arranged a meeting at central HQ, next Tuesday at seven, so you can see for yourself. Come along!’

Control sipped his wine and nodded thoughtfully back at Smiley.

Renowned digital swordsman Aral d’Artagnan strode into the foyer of the hôtel on the Rue du Vieux-Colombier in Paris, his blade flashing beneath his cloak. The hôtel was the court of  legendary Adobe Evangelists ‘The Musketeers’. Entering in a state of fierce excitement, he rushed headlong into a tall Musketeer who was on his way out.

‘Upon my honour’ exclaimed the Musketeer. ‘But what have we here? A doughty young blade, come to the court of Adobe. Pray, what does this impudent rascal want with us, I wonder?’ He smiled broadly. The candlelight of the hôtel’s foyer played devilishly off his golden baldric.

‘Whom do I address?’ enquired d’Artagnan boldly, drawing himself up to his full height.

Bowing theatrically low the Musketeer introduced himself. ‘Athos M. Doherty, Musketeer and Adobe Platform Evangelist. At. Your. Service.’

D”Artagnan had not travelled from distant lands to be lightly dismissed. ‘Noble Athos’ began Aral. ‘This is an exciting time for your Flash Platform. The land is alive with talk of mobile experiences and augmented reality. But I do not necessary share Adobe’s vision of the future and I have therefore come here to challenge you to a duel.’

A look of mock incredulity appeared on Doherty’s face, as he looked around at a sea of amused comrades. ‘A duel! The young imp requests a duel!’ Laughter rose up all around but stopped suddenly as he drew his sword with lightning speed, levelling it at d’Artagnan’s chest.

‘You shall have your wish, mon petit garçon‘ replied the Musketeer. ‘But not a sword fight for they are forbidden by royal decree. No, it shall be a battle of wits. 20 minutes each, to respectively present our, as you said, “vision” of the Flash Platform. And afterwards we shall put it to the assembled, to see which of us has won the argument.’

Athos sheathed his sword. Aral nodded. ‘Agreed!’ he replied. ‘When and where shall we meet?’

Athos sauntered out into the Rue du Vieux-Colombier. ‘The evening of Tuesday the 26th of January. Meet me at The Werks in Hove at 7pm sharp. Don’t be late, or we’ll have smoked all the French fags.’ Bowing with a preposterous flourish he added ‘By your leave, sir!’ and swept away into the Parisien night.

Owen Priestley turned away from his typography work and walked outside to lean on the balcony. He sniffed at the cold night air. A sky bright with fireworks had attracted him, heralding the new year with a riot of noise and colour, and turning the snow covered square he gazed out over into an animated Jackson Pollock. The snow continued to fall, shrouding the scene in virgin vagary, as the Noughties – the first decade of the new century – drifted softly out of sight, like the smoke from the explosions.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket; a txt.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

It came straight out of the past, from someone Owen had studied typography with decades before. He stared at the pixelated lettering of the terse message and mused upon the origins of its typeface. A century of modernist design had passed by, leaving this rough excuse for a sans serif at the end of it. Where had it come from, this typeface? The mobile provider? A swanky San Fran agency? The Bauhaus?

He stepped inside and pulled a heavy typographic volume from the shelf. Flicking through, the blizzard of glyphs and chars that swirled by brought back long-forgotten memories of art history lectures, late night research, technical drawing. He realised that typography itself was deeply embedded in his psyche, an essence of his very being. He must share this, he decided! He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and began composing a reply.

Just decided to give a talk! On the history of typography, 20th century design & the emergence of Modernism, from a broad perspective. Tues 19th Jan at 7pm, at The Werks. Wanna come? Owen

He absent-mindedly strolled back onto the balcony as he hit ’send’. Outside the fireworks were moving towards a crescendo, whilst an assault of Auld Lang Syne started up from the tone-deaf neighbours next door. Owen wasn’t about to have a row on New Year’s Eve, though. In the square outside a young couple left crisp footprints in the snow, as they embraced the beginning of a new decade.

To all the ladies in the place, we’re callin’ to ya,
And all the fellas in the place, we bringin’ it to ya,
Cos my name’s Rich Dub, and SLD’s from Merton,
And Jo Rock is rock so best not be flirtin’.
We always be codin’, we always be real’,
Cos technically, we’re as hard as steel.

But one two, Oh My God, here we go,
Cos when we drop that shit it’s a party-o.
A techie talk in December would be really lame,
So instead we gettin’ fly wid’ your retro games.
We be lightin’ up The Werks wid’ your retro games.

SLD be down wid’ a Spectrum y’all,
And an N64 for your digital ball.
But wait, no, cos that’s not all!
This ain’t no hip hop chip shop, fool!

Brothers and sisters, this is a call,
For you to help us all out wid’ this digital,
Retro games night on the ground floor,
Of The Werks in Hove. Please could you all,
Bring your own consoles, to swell the hoard,
Of machines we have, to play the full,
Spectrum of games, like Asteroids,
Tetris & Pong & Breakout and all,
The games you played back in ‘94?

Gather up your old games machines,
Bring ‘em down The Werks for a yuletide treat,
And you be gettin’ fly wid’ the FB team.
Tues 8th of December, if you know what I mean?
7pm, just off Palmeira Green.

You gotta fight for your right to retro!

‘Ladies & Gentlemen, assembled dignitaries, photographers from ‘You Got Papped’: please be upstanding for the newly crowned King & Queen of this great City-State of Brighton & Hove: Their Royal Highnesses King Rich Mitch IV & Queen Sarah Bird I‘ called the Royal Announcer from the balcony, as His Majesty’s Sagbutts & Cornetts struck up a celebratory blast from nearby.

King Rich & Queen Sarah emerged onto the balcony waving and smiling, surrounded by their friends & courtiers. ‘The King!’ proclaimed the Announcer.

King Richard stepped forward. ‘Good people of Brighton & Hove‘ he began, across a sea of waving flags ‘As I stand here today with my beautiful Queen – your beautiful Queen – my fervent desire is that we celebrate this happy union together, as a united people.’ A great cheer arose from the joyous throng.

‘It is the intention of my Queen and I to invite you all great banquet, a celebration of all we stand for. My Queen, from the great house of BANG. Myself, from the noble stock of FlashBrighton. And all of you, loyal followers of both houses. Our union shall once again be marked in the only way possible: with a free evening of only the finest Animation, from this Sceptred Isle and beyond. A Big Screen Bonanza for 2009. I shall personally select my favourite works of animation for your enjoyment.‘

The King stepped back and made way for the Announcer. ‘Ladies & Gentlemen: The Queen!’ The intensity of the flag waving increased.

Waving to the jubilant crowd, Queen Sarah began her address. ‘My devoted people, it is one’s honour to serve thee, a duty we wholeheartedly embrace. Like my King – your King – one wishes that you should be united with us in this hour of celebration. Along with the King’s handpicked animations, one of the finest animators from our great Land will be joining one on the night to discuss & showcase some of his or her work. We shall not spoil the surprise by revealing the name of this individual beforehand but rest assured, t’will be a mighty talent to match ours, my dear, dear subjects. Not only that, but the evening shall resound to the sounds of merrimaking and gaiety. We shall lay on a banquet of Bell’s Whisky and Wife Beater and that, although the Royal Mint is a bit brassic at the mo’, so `best bring a few quid, eh?‘

A salvo of bugles proclaimed the return of the Royal Announcer, who unfurled and read from a mighty scroll.

‘People of Brighton & Hove: you are cordially invited to attend the seasonal celebrations of BANG & FlashBrighton this Christmas time. The Venue for this auspicious occasion is to be the only truly befitting an event of this magnitude: the Function Room of The King & Queen Coaching Inn, on the Old Steine, Brighton. The Time & Date will be 7pm, on the evening of Tuesday 15th December. Tickets are free but limited to 90 places, so please book early to avoid disappointment. King Richard & Queen Sarah humbly thank you for your warm reception, and most earnestly request your presence at their December the 15th celebration.’

The Announcer recoiled the scroll and, waving, the Royal party departed from the balcony, as the crowd continued cheering and waving their flags.

Richard Lord-Poirot stepped into the Edwardian sitting room, to discover that all the frameworks had arrived, as per his instructions. Together they represented the finest Flash Application Frameworks the world currently had to offer. Louis PureMVC paced about agitatedly. Miss Stephanie Mate was lounging on the chaise lounge, being served a gin & tonic by Robotlegs the butler. Fergus Cairngorm and Dr. Isabella Swiz sat stony faced on the couch, whilst the Reverend Parsley sat alone in an elegantly carved wooden chair, delicately sipping from a china teacup.

‘Lord-Poirot, at last!’ exclaimed Louis PureMVC, his broad midwest accent reverberating off the walls. ‘What the hell are we doing here, dammit?’

‘Indeed Mr. PureMVC, why are we here?’ Lord-Poirot tapped his temple. ‘Because of zee little grey cells, no?’ He smiled stiffly and stepped over to the fireplace, from where he could see the whole room more clearly.

Looking at each of the frameworks in turn, he said ‘Zee project zat we are focusing on requires only one of you, but which of you  will be best suited to dee job? It is zee task of Lord-Poirot to investigate and reveal zee answer to zeez curious question.’ He looked down and began circling the room, hands behind his back.

‘For a long time now, Lord-Poirot has been looking at zee core architecture behind each of you. Your ‘good’ and ‘bad’ features, no? I have been studying closely how you handle zee events, and zee dependencies. Zee different philosophies zat drive each of you on, and I will explain to you why good Flash or Flex developers should study you closely, as closely as Lord-Poirot has.’

He paused behind Stephanie Mate, and twirled his pencil moustache. Brooding under heavy eyebrows, Fergus Cairngorm asked in his thick Highland brogue ‘Let’s trash the murder mystery weekend. What are you suggesting Lord-Poirot?’

‘Just zeez Mr. Cairngorm: as you are all so interested in architecture, frameworks, and design patterns, I suggest you meet me again at Zee Werks in Hove at 7pm on Tuesday zee first of December to discuss zeez further. Zair I will show you what I know about you all.’

Smiling primly Lord-Poirot said ‘Ladies, Gentlemen: until next Tuesday’ and, bowing slightly, turned, and left them to their amusements.

———————————–

Confused by this post? Then try this link.

It was a cold night in Preston Park, but nothing would dampen the spirits of the multitude that had travelled to be there. Anticipation was high as the cry of ‘LEE DE LISLE, LEE DE LISLE’ ran through the crowd. Backstage Vice President-elect Joe Summers nudged her running mate in the back, whispering ‘Come on Seb, get out there and give them what they want.’ Straighting his tie in the mirror, Sebastian smiled back at Joe’s reflection, turned, and advanced onto the platform.

As the President-elect emerged into the spotlights, the noise level around the park rose until it felt like the very sky was about to crack. In a gesture of well rehearsed humility, Sebastian rode the wave, smiling, waving left and right, for a full five minutes. Only when the volume began to drop, did he approach the mike to address the adoring throng.

‘My fellow FlashBrightonians, I am truly humbled by your warm reception, and the backing you have given this group. This is your victory.’ The park exploded once more. Palms down, chin up, Sebastian feigned a plea for silence. A hush slowly descended.

‘We have already achieved much. These past five years we have shown the greatest speakers, presented the most fascinating topics, and hosted the finest Big Screen Bonanzas. We achieved this together, and we take the greatest pride in that achievement. But our work is not done. Tonight marks a key turning point. For the first time in history weeks of underinvestment have left our calendar empty, and we stand on the brink of the greatest crisis in Big Screen Bonanza history. If we are to remain strong we cannot allow these to divisions to proliferate. My friends, the road ahead is hard. I can do much, but no one man can triumph alone. Therefore I stand before you tonight to humbly request your help in this great task.’

‘Next Tuesday evening, at 7PM, I call upon you to attend our FlashBrighton Planning Meeting at The Werks in Hove, to help fill the gaps in the schedule and discuss the Big Screen Bonanza planned for December. Can we do it? I think you know the answer. Thank you, God bless you, and God bless the United Group of FlashBrighton.’

Seb stood away from the microphone and waved. The crowd erupted in celebration, as Jenny Lee-Delisle and Joe Summers emerged waving on the platform behind him.

His uniform immaculately pressed, Paulo Fierro entered the debriefing room, holding his officer’s cap tightly across his chest. The room was large, oak lined, and mostly empty except for an line of military portraits, a US flag draped in the corner, and a imposing wooden desk, behind which sat his commanding officer, General Jack Ryan. He saluted the General crisply. ‘Sir!’

Ryan looked up distractedly. ‘At ease Fierro’ he said, putting down his fountain pen and leaning backwards. ‘Tell me what you’ve got.’

Fierro took a few steps forward. ‘Sir, at first we thought the device was Russian but it seemed to be Norwegian made. “Bysykkel”: a bicycle app. Not commercial Sir, looks like government issue. Users sign up and are then sent a “Bysykkelkortet” through the post, a kind of card that we still haven’t figured out the purpose of. We reversed engineered the device and ran some tests in Flash & Perl, which resulted in an iPhone app we launched on the Norwegian iPhone store. The CIA boys had a team promoting the crap out of it on social networks, to smoke them out. It seems to have worked sir, it was blasted out of the sky by “Clear Channel” just recently.‘

‘Clear Channel?’ Ryan raised an eyebrow doubtfully.

‘Yes Sir. Clear Channel may have helped with the initial development. They are a Norwegian advertising agency but we figure that’s just a front. Our men in Oslo haven’t been able to penetrate them yet. `Suspect they’re tring to bring about a military coup. We’re working on that. Sir.’

General Ryan stood up and walked around the desk. ‘Fierro, I want to see everything you’ve got so far: the Flash & Perl tests, the iPhone app, plus everything you have on Bysykkel and Clear Channel. Debriefing nineteen hundred hours, at The Werks in Hove, Tuesday November 17th. Understood?’

Fierro saluted. ‘Sir, yes Sir!’ He turned neatly and marched out, closing the doors quietly behind him.