Telexforum.de

I have an addiction problem. Three years ago I started volunteering ago at Amberley Museum over here in England, and about two years ago I developed a mild interest in teleprinters. So, with no real idea how to use it, I bought one on eBay and travelled to Northern Ireland (a long way, involving an overnight ferry) for my Creed 444 and proudly brought it home, where it sat, unconnected and silent.

Then I met Sean Willams, and that fateful day proved to be my downfall, because, as many of you know, he is very enthusiastic about teleprinters, i-Telex, and many other things as well. Because of Sean, the plans I had to fit out my lovely new workshop as my amateur radio shack changed completely, and it's now a workshop to repair, restore and demonstrate teleprinters.

I caught the bug, and in those two years I have progressed from that 1 machine to a fleet of 26, with another 5 being collected in the next 2 weeks. Where will it all end!? What can I do!?

Clearly I must be going mad, and I'm desperately in need of serious medical attention to try and stop this dreadful brain disease! Please tell me that there is a Doctor I can call to help me! Failing that, can any of you give me any advice as to how I can stop collecting noisy old mechanical machines.

Or maybe there's a self-help group that can hold my hand and tell me that everything will be OK...
Oh, that's the i-Telex community. I'm saved - hurrah!
Oh, hang on... maybe they're all as mad as me!?

David (with his tongue definitely in his cheek!)

Oh yes—teleprinter fever is at least as dangerous as amateur radio or hoarding old broadcast gear. Medical help? Hard to come by. There’s no recognized cure for teletype addiction; at best you manage the relapse risk: stay off eBay, steer clear of classifieds, and don’t “just browse.” Realistically, it’s damage control—sound-proof door, a proper bench, and someone nearby who will pry the screwdriver out of your hand.

Maybe it helps to ground oneself with something old-school—this poem by Alwin Freudenberg (1873–1930) fits our theme of “symptoms + dubious therapy” a little too well:

Psst! Ich weiß was. Hört mal zu!
War einst ein Riese Timpetu.
Der arme Bursche hat - oh Graus -
im Schlafe nachts verschluckt 'ne Maus.

Er lief zum Doktor Isegrimm:
"Ach Doktor! Mir geht's heute schlimm.
ich hab' im Schlaf 'ne Maus verschluckt,
die sitzt im Leib und kneipt und druckt."

Der Doktor war ein kluger Mann,
man sah's ihm an der Nase an.
Er hat ihm in den Hals geguckt.

"Wie? Was? Ne Maus habt ihr verschluckt?
Verschluckt 'ne Miezekatz dazu.
so lässt die Maus euch gleich in Ruh."

— English translation —

Psst! I know something. Listen up!
Once there was a giant, Timpetu.
The poor fellow—oh, what a fright—
at night, asleep, he swallowed a mouse.

He ran to Doctor Isegrim:
“Ah, Doctor! I feel dreadful today.
I swallowed a mouse in my sleep;
it sits inside, pinching and pressing.”

The doctor was a clever man—
you could tell it by his nose.
He peered right down his throat.

“What? You swallowed a mouse, you say?
Then swallow a kitty cat as well—
the mouse will leave you in peace at once.”

Moral, David: once the “mouse” is in, sermons won’t help—you’ll end up needing the “cat.” In our line that means a nicely restored 444 demands a second for parts, which demands a third “for later,” and before long you’ve got a fleet. Mad? Sure. But at least it’s consistent. Keep tinkering—within reason. The i-Telex crowd will hold your hand—and the mains switch.