In a conference hall in Plempt, Thomas spoke to a gathering of aspiring writers. He hadn’t been invited to, obviously, but had wandered past in an effort to find a loo. Having assumed the impressive doors led to a particularly large one that flushed well, he entered at the very moment a guest speaker’s presentation was introduced.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on one’s perspective, the speaker had died in his hotel room earlier that morning and was still waiting to be discovered by hotel staff who were waiting outside it with with vacuum cleaners and a trolley of fresh towels because of the do-not-disturb sign he’d placed in leiu of the large quantity methamphetamine he’d intended to consume in preparation for said presentation. This resulted Thomas wandering into a considerable round of applause and encouraging gesticulations that he make his way to a stage and talk about writing, which he initially assumed was encouragement regarding his pending defecation.
Now, the last time Thomas had spoken about anything in front of anyone was during his court hearings, which left him not only familiar with public speaking, but also with ridicule and being spat on. As a consequence, he found the ongoing round of applause both unfamiliar and drier than previous encounters with seated members of the public. Upon the podium, he basked in their adoration until it withered into a scattering of applause, after which he claimed the genre of New Fable whilst unbottoning his trousers.
A recording of his talk can be watched here.