Beware the curse of Dabbs, stomping where karma fears to tread

I do not write names in a little black book of vengeance. I don’t need to.

As I clumsily steer my skiff across the seas of existence, marauders who take pleasure in puncturing holes in my fragile hull before careering into the distance, cackling away, invariably end up dashed against the rocks of karma. No need to lure them on. They do it all by themselves, just give them time.

Despite me not maintaining a physical list of miscreants, several do spring to mind. There was that self-important arse in my early days of customer publishing who would call 15 times a day to harangue me about inconsequential problems with the print production of his IT client’s magazine – caused, I should add, by the very same arse interrupting everyone else 15 times a day with calls to harangue them about imaginary minutiae as well.

Then there was that editor of a computer mag who commissioned me to write a detailed piece based on some information she was going to send me; didn’t send it to me; then complained bitterly that I hadn’t written anything; proceeded to strike me off her rota of regular freelancers for “being difficult”.

And there was that bloke who became editor of another computer magazine I’d been working on for years; immediately halted all work from being sent my way; gave all commissions to his friends instead.

That garage in the Pyrenees that sold me dodgy snowchains for the car. Oh and the newly arrived post office employee who refused to fetch my envelope as doing so would be "an impossible task" even through it was on the shelf right behind him.

OK, I don’t think any of these individuals died a cruel, unusual or (my personal preference) amusing death. In fact, I have no idea if they’re alive or dead. But I do know that those computer magazines didn’t last long afterwards, the garage in the Pyrenees went out of business and Post Office Ponce is first in line for redundancy. And if the arse in my first story has died, I do know that while he may have passed away peacefully in his own bed and surrounded by his loving family, he will have done so while remembered as being an arse, because he was one. A massive arse.

There you have it: karma done and dusted, thank you very much.

I first noticed my karmic gift shortly after graduating from the education system. As an unwilling alumnus attending an ‘old-boy’ afternoon at the behest of a class buddy, I was cheered up enormously to discover that the year bully (and Head Boy, of course) from my time there had become that most woeful of creatures – a Geography teacher, leatherette elbow patches and all – back at the very same school.

Beware the curse of Dabbs. It might be passive but it’s a bastard.

Nor am I alone in inflicting unwitting revenge upon the deserving with almost Game of Thrones-like helpings of just deserts. Proper Karma usually takes a bit longer to kick in – at least one lifetime’s return is required to experience its effect – but it can all happen more quickly if you’re in a hurry.

I’m thinking of the man in South Carolina who was sentenced to the electric chair in 1981 for murder but had this commuted to life imprisonment. Just eight years later, he accidentally electrocuted himself by trying to repair some headphones while sitting on a metal toilet.

Ker-ching go the scales.

What’s fascinating these days is you can die a hero and still, much later, be remembered as an arse; and vice versa of course.

This radical shift in attitudes over time as karma creeps up on the unwary, especially the already-dead, is manifest in the current trend for tipping into nearby rivers the statues of elaborately attired bigwigs of yesteryear who accumulated their fortunes through participation in the trading or ownership of slaves.

I appreciate there is a bit of a polemic over such actions: should these statues remain on their plinths, be moved to a museum, or left on the riverbed? Surely the answer is to do all three: open an underwater river museum where the statues can be viewed in situ on their plinths in soggy, historical splendour/iniquity.

These bigwigs are learning that it takes more than funding the building of a municipal library and public toilets to fool karma.

On that note, here follows a collection of statues of 20th century figures that were erected around a decade ago in my home city. I’d like you to evaluate them. They are installed in a circular space lost within the sprawl of an outdoor shopping and entertainment park. It’s known as the Place of Great Men, even though one of them is of a woman.

So… Snog, Marry or Arse? Or Turf Into The River? You decide.

You will need some context. The guy above-right is not the gesticulating weirdo from the Moulin Rouge posters but Jean Jaurès, a politican who is celebrated/condemned in France for founding the modern Socialist Party and frequently memorialised for being assassinated while trying to use diplomacy to prevent the outbreak of World War I.

The guy above-left is not The Hood from Thunderbirds or Cain from Kung Fu. It’s Gandhi, apparently hunting warily for his lost spectacles. One imagines that if Gandhi had lost his contact lenses instead, he would have been depicted on all fours. Such dubious mastery of sculptural caricature should prepare you for what follows.

The El Greco-esque figure on the left might look like Roald Dahl but is in fact supposed to be Franklin D Roosevelt. Hopefully this helps you guess who the dashing slim fella in uniform is next to him. That’s right, it’s Winston Churchill. I bet you recognised him by his hat.

Keeping this detail in mind, I bet you can guess this next bloke:

Perhaps it’s written somewhere in Sculpting For Dummies: "If you can’t get the body or face right, do like Barbie and accessorise." General De Gaulle is essentially Roald Dahl in a hat. And really short legs.

But who’s this coming up?

Sorry he’s in shadow; my fault. It’s Lenin. If I had photographed him properly, you’d have been able to recognise him straight away by his slaphead and Marvo The Magician beard.

Hang on, Lenin? Victims of the Soviet regime were tearing down statues of Lenin only 30 years ago. Who in their right mind would spend public money on erecting a new one in 2010? Hero to zero to hero. This question was put to the mayor who commissioned it and he insisted: "Lenin never killed anyone." I suspect at least Trotsky, not to mention the Tzar and his immediately family, would beg to differ.

On this theme, who do you think this lithe, skinny young dude in a miner’s helmet might be?

Well guessed! It is, of course, Chairman Mao Zedong. Yup, I’d recoghise him anywhere.

Fair enough, I don’t recall seeing much tearing-down of Mao statues on telly but nor can I think of any reason why anyone would put one up, least of all this one. Again, the major’s response was to troll readers of the local newspaper by threatening to install one of Stalin. But what possessed the sculptor to portray Mao like this? Maybe he was on drugs.

That would certainly explain why Nelson Mandela, Golda Meir and Abdel Nasser are getting into the groove on the dance floor. Shake that booty, Golda!

Given the current wave of horror over public statues, it’s unlikely this motley ring of diplomats and dictators will welcome any newbies to their ranks anytime soon. This is a shame as I think I’d quite enjoy admiring a moonwalking Saddam Hussein, a getting-jiggy Bin Laden or a scrawny, gaunt Kim Jong-Un as I pass on my way to Ikea.

One of these three particular heroic men of modern times is still with us, mind you, and continues to amass karmic debt.

Just as long as he stays in the Dabbsy good books, he should be OK.

ALISTAIR DABBS is a freelance technology tart, juggling tech journalism, training and digital publishing. He has no idea whether you bother to read this bit at the end. In case you do, he pleads that you don’t just nod and murmur to yourself "Ho ho, it looks like Gold Meir is dancing" but take a moment share a link to this chronicle with your friends and colleagues.