Suspended from school- the ultimate sanction

Tags

Amanda Holden, biological warfare, Bomb Disposal, bubonic plague, Career Advice, Catcher in the Rye, Daesh, davenport, David Cameron, eNatalNNatttck stills thout, foreskin, GCSE, hitf it about in The Boer War it abouta, Kleenex, Latin conjugation, Paracetamol, Rorke's Drift, Stoics, The Classics Quarterly, y by the collarssmetaphorical etaphoricaletaphorical collaretrrin a strnn a strhholdoeueheadlocktheae., Zeno of Citium

The Dairy of John-Boothroyd-Smythe-May 24th, 2016

(well, he is dyslexic: Editor)

 

Okay, Mum is going ballistic.  No one has a sense of humour

nowadays.  I only tied my old mobile to the pipes in the boys’

bogs for a laugh.  Mrs Fisher-Gyles should have recognised my

voice.  My Middle East accent isn’t that good and I said,’Dash‘,

instead of ‘Daesh.’

So now I am suspended- not literally, from the flagpole, but as

good as.

Snod wants to see me before Mum has to collect me, but the old

fart has flu.  Apparently it is the first time he has been off since

Rorke’s Drift, or something.

I hope I don’t catch something from him- apart from an ability

to memorise Latin verb tables, which could prove handy for

GCSE.

May 25th, 2016

Had to hand in an overdue essay to Mr Milford-Haven on the

subject: Does Art imitate Life, or vice versa?

How should I know?  I haven’t lived long enough to work it out.

Except, there was something weirdly familiar when I went up

to have my interrogation with Old Snod.  I mean, we had just

been reading ‘Catcher in the Rye‘ in English- I mean in class- and

the whole episode was a bit of a re-run of Chapter 2, when

Holden goes to call on his old History teacher who has the grippe,

but who still finds the strength to grip his student’s metaphorical

collar in a headlock manoeuvre.

The minute I knocked on his door, I wanted to leave.

He barked: Come in boy! and started to cough.

Snod was propped up on some old sofa, with his horrible white feet

with their yellow soles, right in my line of vision.

I mean, in some cultures it is rude to show the soles of your feet.

I wondered if I should tell him, but he just scowled: Sit Down! and

started coughing again.

If I catch this lurgy I am going to get my parents to sue the school,

but technically I might not be a pupil at the moment.  It depends when

the suspension- or, is it expulsion?- dates from.

I had to move a box of Kleenex off a stool before I could sit down.  There

was no hand sanitiser around, and I was getting worried, as I probably

don’t have immunity to all the shit these old guys got in their long-

distant youth.  Bubonic plague and stuff.  Lot of it about in Natal back

then.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the monogram, logo thing on his manky old

towelling dressing gown.  Sad!  It was the school crest.  It must have been

a thousand years since any of that nightwear shit was regulation uniform.

He probably nicked it from Lost Property a millennium ago.

So, you finally got the axe?  was all he said.

I was a bit taken aback, as I was sure this was a re-enactment of the

Holden interview- and I don’t mean Amanda.  I mean, he has probably

never heard of her.  Even Dad hasn’t.

(Holden in London, 2014.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/photoday 2008/15537332380/)

 

I’m talking to you, boy!

Yes, sir!

What was your game?

Just larking around, sir!

Snod trumpeted into a Kleenex and examined the effluent.  Gross! 

(Mental note: Avoid shaking hands with him at the termination of the

interview.)

He threw the rolled up tissue across the room and hit the waste paper

basket, demonstrating his famed skills as a bowler, which I personally

witnessed at last year’s Staff v Pupils match.  We still won, though.

Good aim, sir!

Snod sat bolt upright and chucked a copy of The Classics Quarterly- the

boring magazine he always tries to add to our end-of-term bills for

‘Extras’ –off his bed thingy and onto the floor.

And what exactly is your aim in life, boy?

I looked rather blank.

Because I have had to fail you on so many occasions for not making the

slightest attempt to learn any of the conjugation tables.  Amavi…he

commanded.

Eh, amavisti, amavit…

So you’re not quite as stupid as you look, he said.

I don’t think they’re allowed to say things like that now, but I took

it as I kinda respect the old buffer.  He tells it like it is.

Fetch me your mock paper!  It’s on the davenport.

I didn’t have a clue what a davenport was, so I just followed

his gaze.

Bloody h… He had looked out all my past papers, since

Transitus A.

Thirty eight percent.  What was going through that brain of yours?

I couldn’t help it, sir.  It was all the drawings.  They distracted me.

What drawings?  Do you mean the illustrations in your textbook?

Yes, sir.  I learn visually. I really liked that drawing of the retired

guy who left his plough and came back to govern after he’d retired.

 I can imagine you doing that, sir.  I thought a bit of flattery might

distract him.  I continued to gabble:  And I liked the guy who put

his hand in the fire and kept it there.  And all those guys who put baby

foxes down their togas and let them gnaw at their vitals– I said ‘vitals‘

as I wasn’t sure if ‘privates‘ was a term to use in front of one’s

Senior Master.

(Zeno of Citium, Stoic school.  Shakko-own work

pushkin.jpg ; Jan 2008. Pushkin Museum cast. Original: Naples)

 

Stoics, boy!  And it wouldn’t harm you to develop some discipline.

And perseverance, endurance…

He always goes on about that when it’s his turn to take Assembly.

Even I know he pinched it from the Apostle Paul telling everyone

that, even if you have a shitty time, it is good for you- ultimately.

Fruits of the Spirit they are called, I think. Fruits of the loom are on

a t-shirt logo and I think they represent a cornucopia.  See, I’m not

that bad at vocab.

Guys still put ferrets down their trousers, I ventured.

Nothing to do with it!  he snorted.  What I am saying is that even

when philosophers did apparently stupid things, they had some

methodology to their behaviour.

Madness, I interrupted.  Method in their madness.

He looked as if he was going to explode, but it was maybe just his

high temperature.

No.  I am wondering why you never seem to have any rationale to

your acts of random folly.

I didn’t know if this was a declarative or an interrogative.  I wondered

if I should ask him and he might be pleased that I had been listening

in English Language.

Sir?

Forethought!

Never heard of it.  Foreskin, maybe.  Hoped this wasn’t going to

become a sex talk about pubes and shit like that.

These ancient stalwarts of the Classical World did not go around playing

silly games with mobile phones, he splurted.

That was only because they didn’t have the technology, sir.

I thought he’d be pleased that I was aware of anachronism.  That

was another thing we learned in English recently.

He swallowed one Paracetamol after another, in rapid succession.

I was going to tell him that taking too many can give you liver

failure, but I reckoned his liver was probably on its way out anyway.

Do you think we all enjoy seeing you fail?

Not a lot, sir, I suppose.

The army.  That’s where you’d do well. Knock the insubordination

out of you.  Might be the making of you.  I’ll suggest the cadets to

your mother.  Bomb disposal.  Hmmm.  You might enjoy that.  You

certainly have a nerve, if not the nerve for it.

Thank you, sir.

I think the old boy still has the intuition in Career Advice.  He’s

not too wide of the mark.  I hope Mum agrees.  Dad will be pleased

that someone has an idea of what to do with me.

And it can’t be more dangerous than being in a stuffy room,

breathing in the same fug as a viral schoolmaster.

I stood up and forgot to avoid shaking his hand.  Yuck. Where’s the

nearest sanitiser?  But at least I had my revenge by touching the whole

banister and every door handle on the way down.  Biological warfare.

Revenge is sweet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A Sestina for Spideog Mhuire

Tags

Brittany, Eucharist, Flight to Egypt, Gloria, Holy Family, miracle, Mozart, Nativity, robin, Sherborne Missal, Spatzenmasse, spideog Mhuire, St Kentigern, St Mungo, St Servanus

Spideog Mhuire means robin of (Virgin) Mary

 

(image from The Sherborne Missal, c1400)

 

At Eucharist a robin, with its song,

drowns out the Gloria and brings to life

a sermon.  The Spatzenmesse, miracle

of Mozart, somehow cannot bless

the congregation more than this small bird,

who had significance in the lives of saints.

 

Kentigern and Servanus were the saints:

the former (Mungo) restored a robin’s song,

after his peers tortured and killed the bird.

The bishop had mourned its loss of life.

Some other holy men had cause to bless

robins.  In Brittany, a miracle

 

occurred when monks needed a miracle;

a robin brought a sheaf of wheat to saints,

who’d ploughed, hoping that Nature would then bless

them with a harvest.  They’d brought no seed. Song

reminded them there would have been no life,

nor church for them, by Autumn, save for that bird.

 

At the Nativity, one little bird

shielded the Christ child, in a miracle,

preserving from immolation His life

and singeing its own breast.  Honoured by saints

for perching on the cross, singing its song,

removing thorns, thus being pierced.  We bless

 

it for blushing in deference.  To bless

The Holy Family’s footsteps, this tiny bird

covered their tracks, filling their Flight with song:

their salvation a kind of miracle.

And when it warbles with the choir, saints

sense affirmation of eternal life.

 

God’s holy men-the robin and wren-give life

to small beginnings; prosper and bless;

cheer in dark days of winter all the saints,

past and present, and the fall of one bird

is known to the Divine.  The miracle

of creation imbues its warbling song.

 

May the miracle of this bird’s song,

chirruping in garden, or in hallowed space, bless

and give life to all dejected saints.

 

 

 

Slightly Stewed

(Photo: Mendhak  http://www.flickr.com/photos/69135870@NOO/3402)

 

I’m not sure we should have asked her about Mr C, said Diana

hesitantly.

Well, if you don’t ask…, replied Virginia, sipping her tea which

was slightly stewed.  Do you think Mr C is definitely deceased?

Hmmm, I remember her saying that men were only good for two

things and, when everything is over, including the shouting, at least

you get to sleep in the middle of the bed.

So, you think ‘over’ might mean he’s popped his brogues? 

Virginia considered this melancholy thought and then

brightened: What was the other thing men were good for?

In Mrs C’s book, reaching items from high shelves in the kitchen,

laughed Diana.  Wheesht!  Here she comes with clouds descending

But it was a false alarm.

I wonder where our blokes have got to? remarked Virginia, looking

at the old railway clock, which Murgatroyd had purchased for a

song when Dr Beecham was doing his worst in the Borders.

On cue, the duo appeared, looking rather sheepish.

Oh, we wanted to discuss the piper’s tunes with you, Diana stated

with a slight reprimand in her vocal tone. We’ve vetoed ‘Highland

Cathedral’ -too vulgar-and, for obvious reasons, we ruled out ‘For All

Those Endearing Young Charms’ and ‘The Cradle Song.’  I suppose

Dru might like them, however.  Nigel said he likes ‘The Maid I adore’

or ‘Cailin Mo Ruinsa.’

The chaps joined them round the table.

Gus smiled:  The latter sounds like a presagement of disaster.

Well, make some suggestions then, Virginia expostulated.

How about ‘Colin’s Cattle?’  He had obviously done his homework,

like the conscientious schoolmaster he had always been- since the

cradle.

Isn’t that a tad too…bovine? Diana asked.

It’s a very good retreat march, supplied Snod.

Murgatroyd laughed.  Where’s the tea?

Mrs C now appeared on cue, carrying a heavy tray.

Whit aboot ‘Cock O’ The North? she winked, spilling some tea.

Diana raised her eyebrows.

‘Once bitten; Twice Shy’ is another good one, Mrs C continued,

plopping four sugar cubes in a cup and handing the Diabetes

Type-1 inducing brew to Gus with a wink.

He who pays the piper calls the tune, Mrs C, nodded Snod.

And, for my money- and I believe I have agreed to take the music

expenses on myself- I have decided on ‘When The Battle’s O’er.’

So, that’s that then? queried Diana, pushing the stewed cuppa to

one side.

I think we can all agree on the semantic content of the preposition

‘over,’ Snod said, magisterially.  Now, where are those bannocks? 

Murgatroyd and I are famished.

You are not at school now, Gus! Virginia rebuked him, but everyone

knew he was never elsewhere, at least in mental terms.

So be it, Murgatroyd stood up.  I’m off to get the cheese knife. 

Then we men can fall on it, laughed Gus.  Seriously, though, it’s a

rousing tune.

Aye, and some of you need a’ the rousin’ ye can get, commented

Mrs C, who had noticed that her brew was largely under-

appreciated.

Mrs C!  I think something’s burning in the kitchen.

Och aye, that’ll be the bannocks.  She set off at her usual pace-

to wit, unhurried.

Diana shrugged:  You can’t get the staff nowadays!

It’s the same in schools, agreed Snod, downing his mugful in

one.  It was exactly as he liked tea, down to the quadruple sweeteners.

But I think she does well for her age.  She remembers how many

sugars I take.

Oh yes, Virginia butted in. And I don’t?  Is that it?

How many then? Snod  couldn’t resist an impromptu test.

Too many, replied Virginia tersely.

They all laughed.

 

 

Pokey hats

Tags

Cadbury 99, chocolate teapot, Grace Darling, ice cream bike, laryngitis, Lindisfarne, Neil Oliver, pokey hats, Robert Burns, St Cuthbert's Church, Stanley Baxter

(strawberry ice cream cone, 2010

TheCulinaryGeek from Chicago, uploaded by Mindmatrix)

 

 

The guys hadn’t returned and so the wedding preparation discussions

continued.

Ice cream bike, or not?

Virginia had suggested the latter, but Diana mixed up the tricycle concept

with a chocolate teapot.

Won’t it melt? she asked.

No, it is a bike with a fridge thingy attached to it and people can have…

Pokey hats! enthused Mrs C.

Neither Virginia nor Diana had heard of these delicacies, but Mrs C

laughed and explained that they were cones, with or without the addition

of a Cadbury’s ‘Flake.’

You mean like a ’99’? asked Virginia.

Aye, they always remind me of a Stanley Baxter joke about a young lad going

up to the ice cream van on his housing estate and hoarsely asking for a pokey

hat.

The vendor smiles and says:  Raspberry sauce, son?

Aye, the wee lad responds enthusiastically, wi’ a voice like sandpaper.

Flake?

Oh, aye!  He sounds really gravelly.

Crushed nuts?

Naw, laryngitis.

Mrs C, do remember that we are trying to be ladylike, reprimanded

Diana, who had noticed that Virginia did not really approve of such

ribaldry.

Changing the subject, Virginia broke in, where did you get married Mrs C?

Oh, St Cuthbert’s,  Lindisfarne, the housekeeper replied.  That was a long,

long time ago.

What made you choose that church?  Diana asked.  Mind you, it must have

lots of history.

Och weel, there was a line fae Burns that Ah learnt at school and it has aye

stuck wi’ me:  ‘Nae man can tether time nor tide.’  Ah didnae want himself

thinkin’ that he could tether me, so Ah suggested a wild, unpredictable place,

beyond the causeway of the normal mainland and subject tae the vagaries o’

the tides, tae tie the nuptial knot.

The causeway? Virginia was puzzled as she was not au fait with the

coastal geography of the region, never having been a fan of Neil Oliver.

She also had difficulty with the idea of a tethered Mrs C. It was not an

image she chose to reflect on for long.

Aye, Ah thought crossing the causeway fae wan world tae anither was kinda

symbolic o’ traversin’ the matrimonial threshold from spinster tae married

wumman, ken?

Tres metaphysical, murmured Virginia.

Weel, better that than onything physical developin’, fur Ah thocht that if

he put a foot wrong in the crossing, he’d be swept aff tae sea and he widnae

hae found me rowin’ aff tae rescue him, like wan o’ they Grace Darlin’-type

wummen.

Mmm, Virginia pondered the fact that Mrs C was definitely a ‘sink or

swim’ kind of female.

And did he ever put a foot wrong- then- or subsequently? Diana dared

to ask.

Nae mair questions the day, Mrs C replied and went off to fill the

teapot, which was very definitely not made of chocolate.

Portrait of Grace Darling by Thos Musgrave Joy)