Rogue One and Two

Tags

anachronism, Clone Troops, First Minister, Galashiels, Isis, ISS, Jedi, Labour Party, Lord of the Flies, Lucasfilm, Mal'arg'osh, Mars Bars, Mars Mission, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Princess Leia, Rebel Alliance, Rogue One, Salmond, Sarah Brightman, The Dark Side, thrawn, Thrawn Crisis, Yoda

The Labour Party members are all but extinct; the Old Country is in

turmoil and there is a dark threat hanging over us all, remarked

Brassie, as she read The Daily Mail in Costamuchamoulah must-

seen cafe.

Sounds like the plot of the new Lucasfilm, commented Carrie.

A band of Resistance Fighters unite for a daring mission to

inflict independence.  They want to avoid imperial

entanglements…  Brassie looked up.  You’re right.  All we

need now is the return of Only-Wan Kebabi, the slimline version

of the original mentor, or Only-Wan Cannelloni as he is known in

some parts of ethnically diverse Glasgow.

The parts with the Art Deco ice cream parlours?  Carrie asked.

You got it!  Then the locals would indubitably realise that the gods

were not coming to save them.

Brassie thought for a moment.  Hmmm…the  erstwhile leader never

used to answer the questions.  In some subcultures, ‘Obi-Wan Kenobi’

means: ‘Your question doesn’t make sense.’  In Salmond’s case, it was his

answers that were the problem.

One thing that you learn in politics is that the Clone Troops usually

turn on their Jedi generals, observed Carrie.

We can only hope, agreed Brassie.  Mind you, I think the new leader

is more like Princess Leia.

How so?

Well, Leia was an accomplished senator during the civil war and

a proponent of The Rebel Alliance and was instrumental in the

creation of a New Republic.

I see what you mean.  She was a bit of a tomboy, but then she

got a makeover.  In the same way, it seems that the wee battler

has been called ‘Swanky Kranky’ now.

Wasn’t Leia a bit of a prankster?  I don’t know if Nicola has a

sense of humour.

Yes, Leia destroyed the budget for the following year, Brassie

grimaced.  But at least she did disapprove of expensive parties

being held while the poor were suffering in Galashiels… I mean,

The Galaxy. She did attend receptions for offworld personnel,

however.

Some critics felt threatened by her, but others viewed her as

being pathetically idealistic, Carrie recalled.

Yes, she was nicknamed ‘Madam Senator’ or ‘Little Miss

Inalienable Rights.’

How very similar!  Didn’t she want to find a new location for the

Rebel Base?

Brassie had a brainwave.  You know, I don’t see why the SNP

don’t go on that Mars Mission, on a one-way ticket, with the

likes of Sarah Brightman.  It’s a Red Planet, so they should feel

quite at home there.  They could confine their Thrawn Crisis to

their own planet.

‘Thrawn’: what does that mean? Carrie enquired.

Oh, it’s a Scots word which means ‘twisted’.

Anyway, The First Minister would probably seize the stone

so she could have the right to address The Council- a bit like

Ralph and Jack with the conch in ‘Lord of the Flies’.

She probably already has The Stone of Scone.  Some say it was her

lot who originally nicked it.  Affected by The Dark Side, she will probably

become Queen of the Empire.

Well, they could stuff themselves with all the Mars Bars they wished,

quipped Carrie. Deep-fried, or otherwise.  Or they could just go to Isis

Headquarters instead.

I think you mean ISS- The International Space Station, Brassie corrected

her.  It’s a common mistake.

Whatever.  Carrie was a little embarrassed by her faux pas.  But The

First Minister could do her Battle Meditation there and utilise her Jedi

skills of diverting the miasma of debating fog.  One must admit that she

sees things clearly and rarely misses a target with her blaster.

Oh, she is good at some things, conceded Brassie.  Messianic things.

That’s why she could share Leia’s nickname: Mal’arg’osh.

Meaning?

‘Daughter of the Saviour.’

What happened to Princess Leia at the end of the saga?

She died, was resurrected, but then re-located thousands of years

back in time.  A similar retrospective transportation might be fitting

for the Braveheart squad.  They love anachronism.

And what will be the final word on the one who groomed Sturgeon for office?

Brassie thought for a moment.  Let me quote Yoda:

‘Lost a planet, Master Obi-Wan Kenobi has.  How embarrassing.’

Whatever

Tags

Actimel, expressive aphasia, Game of Thrones, heritage lamp post, Hodor, irritable bowel syndrome, Jamie Oliver, Kristian Nairns, Laocoon, Lisa Faulkener, Manuel, Mocha, Pastel-de-nata, penance, Portuguese custard tart, Vicar of Dibley, Year Five

(photo by Luca Masters from Chocowinity, NC, USSA)

John Boothroyd-Smythe was winding up his mother

as usual.

It was the Easter break and he was supposed to be

revising.  However, the state of his bedroom was not

conducive to serious study, his parent felt.

She threatened to dock his allowance if he didn’t put

his dirty clothing into the laundry bin, but he just shrugged

and muttered, Whatever.

Your name isn’t Hodor, by any chance? she remonstrated.

Not a flicker.

You know- that character in Game of Thrones.  The one who

only utters a single word.

John grunted and did not avert his gaze from his computer

screen.

Oh, I give up! Gisela expostulated, depositing his underwear

and sundry soiled garments on the floor.  Some socks entwined

themselves into a tangled series of knots that would have given

Laocoon a tourniquet or two.  Why do you have to be so

monosyllabic?

Wot?

Later, in Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe, Gisela was sharing

her woes with a vaguely interested acquaintance.

Brassica had twin boys in the same class as John.  She tried to

overlook the painful fact that he had bullied her precious sons-

Castor and Pollux, causing withdrawn behaviour on their part.

Eventually she had involved Mr Milford-Haven, who had been

unable to address the issue.

It was only when he had passed the case on to Mr Augustus

Snodbury, The Senior Master, that the name-calling (‘Bastard

and Bollocks’ or ‘Custard and Pillock’) had stopped.

Maybe it was because Mr Snodbury took to abbreviating

Boothroyd-Smythe’s surname to ‘B-S’ and wrote the bully boy’s

forename initial in Latin form, as a capital ‘I‘, thus rendering the

whole I B-S, which everyone, including all the Masters, knew stood for

Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Some felt this was a trifle cruel, but Snod said that the child had the

same miserable effect on one and all and that he personally required

a probiotic Actimel from the Staffroom fridge before he could face the

bete noire on a Monday, period one.

So, Mrs Willoughby found the effort of appearing sympathetic

somewhat challenging.  She endeavoured to adjust her facial

expression when Gisela complained:

He basically only utters a single word at any one time.  Sometimes I

worry that he might have Expressive Aphasia.

What’s that?  queried Brassie, suddenly wondering if it was contagious

as her boys exhibited something very similar.

It’s a neurological condition, explained Gisela.  There can be a lesion in

the part of the brain that controls speech.

But John spoke quite fluently until Year Five, didn’t he? commented

Brassie.

Um, yes, but he did receive a blow to the head during a rugby

match recently.  Apparently this condition can be initiated by trauma.

Brassie was worried now.   At the time she and Cosmo had

congratulated Castor for tackling the bully and bringing him down.

She stared into the fern motif in the chocolate powder of her Mocha.

Gisela was in her stride now.  He doesn’t reply when I call his name.

Oh, my two are just the same, but their father calls it Selective Hearing

and he is just as bad.  She unfolded her tablet and Googled Expressive…

What did you call it again?

Aphasia, supplied Gisela.

Oh, I think there is a girl in Tiger-Lily’s class called that.  Hang on…It says

that those who have been diagnosed with it cannot form syntactically

complex sentences.

You see!  interrupted Gisela.  That’s what John is like.

No, soothed Brassie.  I’d say that everyone is on a spectrum.  Hodor

Syndrome would be at one extreme and individuals probably reveal

varying degrees of the tendency.  That gushy woman we had to wait

behind at the Parents’ Evening probably exhibited the other extreme.

We can all communicate telegraphically.  I mean, I bumped my head

badly and nearly concussed myself when I was transfixed by a dress

in the window of ‘A La Mode’.  I walked straight into a Heritage lamp

post.  Cosmo says I’ve never been the same.  But, I wouldn’t think

John is morphing into Kristian Nairns, aka Hodor, just yet.

I did drop him on his head once when he was a baby, confessed

Gisela in a whisper, which was nevertheless overheard and instantly

processed by The Suttonford Grapevine.

Most mothers have done that, absolved Brassie.  I suppose that’s

why most husbands are men of few words.  She felt like The Vicar of

Dibley, only slimmer.  Should she prescribe some penance?

But don’t girls get dropped too? asked Gisela with disarming logic.

They seem to be more robust cranially-speaking, said Brassie.

Maybe it is an evolutionary adaptation to inure them to survival

after being dumped in later life.

The minute she had tactlessly uttered this, she regretted it,

given Gisela’s recent divorce.  Have another Pastel-de-nata, she

distracted.  Go on.  You deserve it.

Pastel-de-nata?

Portuguese custard tart, after Jamie Oliver.

I think it is a Lisa Faulkener recipe, actually, clarified the barista,

removing their used plates.

Tanto faz! Gisela brightened.

Que? said Brassie, attempting a quizzical Manuel impression.

Whatever, Gisela laughed and sank her veneers into one of the

seriously moreish roundels.

The Scottish Play

Tags

banquet scene, Boris Johnson, Braveheart, Cameron, epilogue, Farage, George Osborne, Macbeth, Miliband, Mrs Thatcher, Omeprazole, Salmond, Scone, scotch'd the snake, SNP, Sturgeon, The Scottish Play, Theresa May, Tony Blair

Mrs Connolly, the housekeeper, was chopping some root vegetables

for a hearty broth.

This’ll stick tae yer ribs, she promised.

I was thinking a salad might have been more appropriate in this

clement weather, suggested Diana.

Never cast a cloot till May is oot.  There could be snow yet, Mrs

Syylk.  Aye, we could have a blizzard before the elections.

And how will you vote? Mrs C, asked Diana.  Who impressed

you in the televised debate?

Well, the wee lassie certainly wiped the flair wi’ the lot o’

them, she opined.  But jist because she could handle

hersel’ in the verbal, it disnae follow that she’s no’ speakin’

a load o’ sh…Sugar!

Mrs Connolly!  Please.  I get your drift and I must say that

I do agree with you regarding the policies she endorses.  As

for UKIP…

Pardon me, Mrs S, but Ah canna abide that Lavage mannie.

Farage, corrected Diana.  Lavage is a type of gastric

irrigation.

Mair like gastric irritation, Mrs C riposted.  Ah huv tae take

an Omeprazole efter hearing ony o’ his drivel.  Och, don’t

get me started!

Diana didn’t think she had.

Tell me aboot yer night oot wi’ Mr Syylk. She attempted to

change the subject.  All this havering jist gets me doon.

We went to see a production of Macbeth at the local school.

You should call it The Scottish Play, warned Mrs C.  She

stirred the broth as if she was First Witch: All hail McSturgeon

that shall be queen hereafter! she cackled, revealing her very

sound Scottish Senior Secondary education from The Sixties.

Diana laughed: Salmond still lives.  Why does she dress in

borrowed robes? Treason’s capital…[will] overthrow him. 

Is execution done on Miliband?

Nothing in his party would become him like the leaving of it,

quipped Mrs C.

But seriously, everyone was saying ‘What bloody woman is

that? after the debate continued Diana.  She unseamed them-

all the knaves, all the chaps; and made as if to fix their heads

upon her battlements, screeching: ‘Ay, in the catalogue ye go

for men!’

Aye, and the ither females were jist her chamberlains.  All were

too weak when faced wi’ the Braveheart lass.  She dares do all that

may become a man and some of they wumman politicians look as if

they are halfway there..  Aah, I feel faint at the thought. Don’t get

me a sturgeon, though.  After a dramatic pause, she probed: Whit

aboot that big jessie, Cameron?

He’s too busy echoing the lines: We will establish our estate upon

Boris, Theresa or George, I fear.

So, she’s tae get away wi’ pouring her sweet milk of apparent

concord into hell and causing uproar to the universal peace,

confounding all unity on earth and…

…instigating yet another bloody referendum! shrieked Diana.

Oh, Scotland, Scotland.  Fit to govern?  Even Alex has banished

himself. Mind you, we have scotch’d that snake, but no’ killed it.

O, my breast… (here she pounded her poitrine with the wooden

spoon) …Thy hope ends here.

Diana was becoming over-enthusiastic.  She stood up on her

kitchen chair.  Yes, and then Miliband says, It looks like rain

tonight…

But it always looks like rain here, Mrs S.

Suspend your disbelief as Nicola has instructed you, prompted

Diana.  Let’s fast-forward to the banquet scene.

Scone? Mrs C wrinked her brow.

No, I’m not hungry, Diana said.  Oh, I see what you mean-

No, she’s already crowned herself.

Ah hope there’ll no be ony ghosts, Mrs C wavered.

We’ve had the spectre of Blair already, but everyone pretended

he was invisible, Diana assured her. Now, like Mrs Thatcher…

God rest her soul! Mrs C bowed her head.

…The First Minister is already adopting the Royal ‘we’.

Ourself will mingle with society? queried Mrs C.

Precisely.  Then she says to herself:’Be bloody, bold and

resolute and laugh to scorn/ The power of men.

We’re into Act 4 now, nodded Mrs C., keeping her eye on the

broth.

Diana, still standing on the chair, surveyed the landscape from

her kitchen window: Scotland has not foisons enough to fill her

will.

Nor oil reserves, added Mrs C.

Diana nearly fell off the chair as there was a sudden sound of

applause.  It was Murgatroyd, who had returned early from an

auction.

Oh, but how will we end it? Diana was disappointed to be

interrupted.

Can I have the epilogue? asked her husband.  You know, the last

word that I rarely have the pleasure to express.

Go ahead, replied Diana and Mrs C sat down and mopped her brow

with the tea towel.

Murgatroyd took a deep breath and intoned:

This murderous shaft that’s shot

Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way

Is to avoid the aim.

Ah take it that ye’ll no’ be votin’ SNP then , Mr Syylk? observed

Mrs C.

You have hit the nail upon the head as usual Mrs C.  Now,

is there a bowl of broth for a hungry man?

And Mrs C reverted to her housekeeping duties and forsook

her thespian tendencies- for the moment.

Nae bother, sir.