Glesca Koans

Tags

99 cone, bhikkuni, birlin' yer wilkies, Chi-Tien, Chick Murray, Dalai Lama, Flake, Gilmorehill, Glasgow patter, Glesca, Huanglong, Irn Bru, Iron Duke, Jakushitzu, koan, laryngitis, Nirvana, Parliamo Glesca, pokey-hat, Rab C Nesbitt, Royal Exchange Square, Saltcoats, satori, Stanley Baxter, The Drunken Buddha, Wuman

(Wikipedia Creative Commons.  99 cone with Monkey Blood sauce:

Handbridge, Chester: 31/7/2009 by nikoreto)

 

As recent readers are aware, I have been fascinated with all

things Japanese in the past month or so.  I came across Zen parables

in the midst of all my reading and was amused by the word ‘koans.’

Somehow it reminded me of a Glaswegian pronunciation of ice

cream cornets.  Then I envisaged a conversation between a ‘Glesca

philosopher’ – a glorified Rab C Nesbitt and his side-kick- and so I

thought I’d share it with you:

(Sorry about the formatting- it looks great in

Edit and then won’t transfer properly)

KOANS ‘n’ a’ that

Wullie:   So whit’s this Philosophy course yer doin’?

Jimmy:    Uch, Ah’ve always wanted tae dae some studyin’ at ra Uni.

W: Whit huv ye learnt aboot?

J: Och, this week it wiz a’ aboot koans.

W: Pokey hats?

J: Whit?  Naw – koans.  K-O-A-N-S.  No like the ice-ey, ‘n ‘at. It’s when a psychological impasse is created an’ then yer intuition takes o’wer an’ ye get a satori.

W: Don’t tell everybody – they’ll a’ be wantin’ one. Ah kwite like stories, but it disnae mak’  sense tae me, aw this.

J:    It’s no’ meant tae make sense, ya muppet. It’s supposed tae be ‘an ineffable, deeply-affecting mental flash that illuminates the cosmos.’

W:  Like when ye first realise Irn-Bru isnae really made fae girders?  Or yer wean pokes a pencil in a soaket?

J: Haud oan!  Jakushitzu achieved it when he was slapped. Wuman says…

W: Aye wummen say too much!  Wan wumman- mah mammy- used tae slap me aboot the heid and said that wid cure me o’ the wisdom o’ emptiness. If it wis a school day, she ca’d it a rude awakening.

J: Mebbe she wis a bit o’ a … philosopher?

W: Ah dinnae ken aboot that, but she was devoted tae windae  hingin.’  That wis her particular form o’ meditation.

J:  A bhikkuni?

W:  Naw, she preferred a wan piece: a piece an’ jam, actually.  She developed her mantras oan the beach.  I called it her pokey-hat philosophy.  That’s how I got it mixed up wi’ yon  koans.  See, Ah asked her why Ah could only hiv a ’99’ and no’ a ‘100.’

J:  Whit did she say?

W:  She said perfection didnae exist in sublunary Saltcoats. And when I complained that the ice cream didnae go a’ the way doon tae the bottom o’ the cone, she telt me that wiz because Ah wuz tae gie the dug the last bit o’ nothingness. Aye, an’ if Ah drapped it on the grass, she said Ah hud two choices: take it; or leave it.

J: Huanglong…..

W:  ….is a piece o’ string?  Aye, that wiz wan o’ her favourites.

J: Ach, awright, Ah’m aff tae the pub.  Comin’?

W: Ah didnae think ye’d be allowed….  Yer religion, like….

J: Nae bother.  Huv ye never heard of The Drunken Buddha?

W: Who?

J: Chi-Tien… He took aff a’ his claes until he wiz in his bare scud and then he burl’d his wulkies in front of his superiors. Granted it wiz a different culture and century.  Ye only get that type o’ behaviour at airports noo, or thirty-eight thousand feet up, but monks like Chi-Tien reckoned non-conformity wuz a good thing. Ah widnae put it past the Dalai Lama either, though he might draw a line  at burlin’ wulkies an a’ that.

W: Ach, we’re no’ Zenophobic in Glesca, but we dinna care tae let it a’ hing oot.  We’re no’ really intae the moment; we dae the past far mair effectively.  Changin’ the subject, though, if it comes tae a cone, Ah must admit tae  likin’ a Flake and some fake raspberry sauce.

(he clears his throat.)

J: Crushed nuts?

W: Naw, laryngitis!  (They laugh.)  Stanley Baxter- classic.It might huv been Chick Murray, but Ah’m no’ arguin’ the toss.

J: Naw, doan’t.  We Buddhists dinnae go in fur conflict.  Ah kin show  ye a koan, by the way.  It’s jist roon the coarner. Philosophers keep puttin’ it oan The Iron Duke’s heid.

W : Royal Exchange Square.  Right! Very funny!  Tell me whit’ they keep dain’ it fur.  Whit does it mean?

J: The same as a single end clappin’ : a tale tell’t by idiots, signifying zero.  It means we’re a’ bampots, or cone-heids.

W: Aye, well that’s hardly a revelation!  Ye don’t need tae huv been tae Gilmorehill tae work that wan oot.

J: Next week we’re dain’ Nirvana.  Literally it means ‘blowin’ oot.’

W:That puts me in the notion furra curry.

 

• pokey-hat- an ice cream cornet
• wean- child
• windae-hingin’ – leaning on a window sill to observe proceedings
• scud- ‘birthday suit’; state of nature
• birlin’ yer wulkies – somersault
• Gilmorehill- site of Glasgow University
• piece n’jam – bread and jam sandwich
• single end- type of accommodation
• ice-y – the ice cream van
• bampot- idiot

(Royal Exchange Square: Wikipedia

Image : Rept0n1x)

 

Hiyoshi Taisha

Tags

boussokusekika, Daimyo, Hiyoshi taisha, Tenka Fubu

And now for the final Eight, Lower rank, in my series of boussokusekika

on the twenty two shrines:

(Wikimedia Commons Photo:

663highland; June 2008.)

 

Hiyoshi Taisha

 

Your shrine was once burnt

when a Daimyo killed his foes

and yet he was blessed:

unification expressed

in ‘Tenka Fubu.’*

 

• ‘Rule the Empire by Force!’

Making an Omelette

Tags

cojones, Nick Clegg, omelette

(Rt Hon Nick Clegg: Wikimedia from Flickr;

Foreign and Commonwealth Office: 2010 United Nations Summit, London)

 

Nick Clegg,

you can’t make an omelette without breaking an egg.

Never mind Theresa and all her cronies.

As your wife said: show your cojones.

 

Evil Couplings

Tags

Blackburn, counterclockwise, Dangerous Woman, DNA, dockyard confetti, etymology, evil coupling, flange, gimlet, internal fixation, Jahannam, jam, Man United, Manchester, Manchester Arena, Mancunian, nuts and bolts, Ormskirk, Preston, retronym, Rochdale, Salford, Salman, screw loose, shrapnel, suicide bomber

(Manchester Arena: Image by Pitt-yacker at

Wikipedia)

 

In Hope Street they manufacture nuts, bolts…

The company is even called ‘Nail It.‘

(Man United usually does just that.)

Salford, Manchester, Blackburn, Ormskirk,

Rochdale, Preston – all ‘nuts and bolts‘ places.

Their people are frank and they don’t quibble

over distinctions between flange and jam.

They vote ‘righty-tighty; lefty loosey.‘

At weddings there’s no ‘dockyard confetti‘

and shrapnel is small change in a pocket.

They know their hardware inside out and don’t

excuse idiots who have a screw loose.

They expect ‘Salman’ to mean a ‘blessing’:

that’s what the etymology suggests.

But they can differentiate as well –

‘Dangerous Woman‘ is just a concert

and not a female suicide bomber.

When someone with internal fixation

and tensioned beyond proof starts to behave

in a counterclockwise manner, they know

that it’s not about connection, coupling,

conjunction.

But they had no time to crack

a nut who suddenly raised his own head;

someone whose helical rage respected

no one else’s DNA – who spiralled –

blasted into Jahannam’s lowest pit,

not in a blaze of glory, but in shards

of eye, shoulder, thumb, rib neck and hex bolts.

‘Human being‘ needs a modifier.

We need to qualify with retronyms:

‘compassionate‘, ‘decent‘ or ‘evil,’

for we no longer know what is ‘human‘-

neither do straight-forward Mancunians.

Yet their gimlet eyes saw glimmers of it

in the selflessness of those who helped them.

The Sub-organist’s Inamorata is Unimpressed by his Instrument

Tags

inamorata, Infant Crotch, kist o' whistles, organ stops, organ-grinder, Oxford, St John's College Chapel, sub-organist, temperament, William Crotch, Wurlitzer

Master Crotch Playing the Organ, aged 3.

 

Not for the prudish…

I saw the magnificent organ in St John’s College Chapel

yesterday and it reminded me that this piece was languishing

in a file somewhere…

 

He invited her to see his action,

presuming that hers would be pneumatic.

He hoped that his extemporisation

would be salicional. He would show her

his tuba mirabilis and swell box.

In exchange she might reveal her feeders.

Tremulant, he tried to think positif.

She might well console him voluntary,

should she have the temperament, Hautboy!

She might indulge his need for flageolet.

“O, dolce Clarabella, in the loft

I will double-touch you in a plein jeu.

Your voix celeste is moving my couplers.”

He pulled out all his stops, the flute d’amour,

but she replied, “You are no Wurlitzer.

Put away that pallet and furniture.

You are less mature than the Infant Crotch.*

and ignorant of the Fundamentals.

I’m virginal but too clavier for you.

Pipe down and stick to your kist o’ whistles.

I never go for the organ-grinder;

I’m more interested in the monkey.”

 

 

 

*Child prodigy on the organ.

Six Nations Clerihew

Tags

clerihew, Finn Russell, Six Nations, Twickenham

Finn Russell,

never heed the English muscle.

Shadow Ford at Twickenham ‘the morra.’

Can thirty four years of history be reversed? ‘Nae borra!’

P**** off, Virginia!

Tags

Angela Merkel, manneken pis, sitzpinkler, stehpinkler, Theresa May, Wisden

(Manneken Pis, 19/6/11- own work: Myrabella.  Wikimedia

Commons CC BY- SA 3.0)

Gus was meditative.  What was he going to do about the latest

development?

Retirement had been a shock to his system.  Living in Virginia’s

house had been a mistake.  He was institutionalised.  He admitted

it. He liked the company of males and thrived – throve?-in a boarding

house milieu.

Virginia was set in her ways.  As former PA to The Headmaster, she had

been used to directing operations.  Trying to accommodate both her way

and Snod’s little foibles in one domestic situation was tough.  The first

rumble of discontent had been when she had baulked at displaying his

entire Wisden collection in the sitting room.  She had suggested storing

his beloved books in the garage.

The house was hers.  She had owned it outright since widowhood.

Maybe they should have bought a separate dwelling next door for his

cricket memorabilia collection and his model railway.

But this morning was a step too far.

He had been downstairs in the Little Boys’ Room and lifted the seat.

He felt like the Manneken Pis in sub-zero temperatures.  In other words,

he froze.

From somewhere in the toilet bowl direction he heard Theresa May’s voice.

Or was it Angela Merkel’s?

There was a spooky gizmo attached to the rim and a verboten notice: Halt,

Stehpinkler! 

Snod tore the gadget off and attempted to flush it down the loo, but, of

course this was not an effective strategy.  He had to hook it out.

What are you doing, love?  Virginia’s dulcet tones could be heard

approaching. You’ve been in there for ages.  Are you all right?

Yes, dear, he replied through gritted teeth.

But he wasn’t.

If Nigel wants to transition to a sitzpinkler, let him!  Snod seethed.  I

have always told my pupils to stand up and be men! 

And he took the S.P.U.K device and crushed it underfoot.  For a

well-read individual such as himself, he wasn’t going to give up

his convictions about Cartesian mind/ body relationships- even if it

threatened other connections.  Koestleresque ghosts in the machine

ought not to invade such a monastic cell.

If Virginia thought she could follow him where no other had dared, she

was much mistaken.

Tiger Tutors

Tags

Caligula, CCTV, FT, HowToSpend It, Lamborghini Murcielago, LOL, M&S, mocks, Morris Traveller, Robert Shrimsley, silk purse sow's ear, Taylors port, Terms of Employment, tiger tutors, vocative, WTF

A re-blog, to amuse and cheer…

It was the end of a long day of nine lessons (and no carols) on the trot

and Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior Master at St Birinus Middle School

was attempting to unwind by flicking through last month’s How To

Spend It FT supplement, which only served to underscore his deep-seated

financial insecurities and general lack of self-esteem.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to drive into the staff car park in a

Lamborghini Murcielago and spray some gravel onto John

Boothroyde-Smythe and Co., accidentally on purpose?

Maybe he should get a tattoo like David Beckham, only with

correct spelling, of course.

He adjusted his frayed M&S tie and wondered why he couldn’t strike

a sartorial pose like the youthful- looking millionaire ‘Tiger Tutor’

of Hong Kong’s Beacon College.

There were just as many tiger mothers in Suttonford and environs, he

mused, as in Hong Kong.  They were just as ambitious for their-what

Robert Shrimsley of the FT termed ‘spawn’- as their oriental

counterparts.

Actually, ‘spawn‘ sounded similar to the contents of dim sum.  He felt

he was well acquainted with the term in human form, as he had to deal

with those wretched twins, often in detention.

Castor or Pollux, translate the following: Dim sum.

I am stupid, sir?

No, judging by the parental modes of transport, there was no

shortage of dollars, banked in Hong Kong, or otherwise.

Why couldn’t Snodbury and himself set up a tutorial agency and gain

significantly higher rewards from legions of costcentres?  Surely the

gratuities would be greater than a fusty and corked bottle of Taylors

Port that had been round the carousel of many a local raffle?  That was

the type of recognition of services rendered that they were wont to

receive at the end of the Autumn term.  He didn’t even drink and had to

pass it on to his mother for her Christmas drinks cabinet.

He opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet which had to be

stationed in the staff room as there was no space in his classroom,

now that several rest stations for the junior fatigued had been installed.

He fished out the Terms of Employment that he had foolishly signed.

Drat!  He was not permitted to coach any of the pupils that he had

been contracted to intravenously feed at St Birinus.  He would have to

solicit external students and that would entail hiring premises, paying

insurance and installing photocopiers etc.  He would even need to apply

for a separate child protection thingy.

If he avoided rental on premises, he would have to visit the needy in

their own homes and then he would have to drive through their

ornamental gates with CCTV, thus recording his arrival in a shabby

Morris Traveller whose wing mirror was fixed to the rusting bodywork

with duct tape.

The sniggering student watching his progress up the lime avenue would

have lost any respect for him before he had even crossed the drawbridge.

They’d be texting snaps of his vehicle with captions such as WTF and

LOL. Even Nigel knew these acronyms did not stand for, Well, that’s

fabulous! or Lots of Love!

As for Snodbury, The Senior Master did not believe in extra tuition, come

to think of it.

Other masters may invite indigestion by bolting their lunch so as to

make a silk purse out of some kid’s ear- a kid who had probably pranked

around and not paid attention when the lesson had been originally

delivered.  Snod had been heard to mutter:

Should have listened the first time.  That’ll teach ’em. Anyway, the mocks are

only an organised shipwreck to see who can swim.  He would then eye the

clock and make himself as scarce as hens’ teeth before the 1 o’clock

bell.

This was especially true on a Wednesday when there was a limited

amount of roast pork on offer in the refectory.  If one arrived in a

tardy fashion, there would be no apple sauce remaining and the little

buggers would have scoffed all the crackling.

Nigel looked at the clock: Four thirty.  Good!  The parents should

have cleared the drive by now and so he should avoid the traffic

scrum.

He gingerly opened the staffroom door and peeked outside to see if

the coast was clear.

But to his chagrin and extreme annoyance, the aforementioned

Boothroyde- Smythe was hovering, with a Maths ink exercise book

in his grubby paws.

Sir! he whined.  I didn’t understand…

Nigel wearily beckoned him towards his classroom.  He wasn’t

even paid overtime!

What exactly didn’t you understand? he asked in a scarcely disguised

attempt to sound concerned.

Oh, just something that Mr Snodbury said about some educational

establishments being loser-making factories that produce the likes of

himself, sir.

Oh yes, add the vocative ‘sir’ to any kind of impertinence and it sanctifies

bare-faced cheek, Nigel thought.  However, he judiciously replied:

I expect that he was being sardonic.  Do you know that word? I suggest

that you run along and add it to your extensive prep for this evening.

But, sir, the precocious one responded, I did all my prep last night

with my tutor.

In that case, take this declension sheet as an extension.  We don’t want

your parents to think that you are being underwhelmed, do we?

Two could play at that game.  And the exercise was in multiple

choice format, so the marking would be easy-peasy.

In some ways, this type of interaction was strangely satisfying in

a way that money couldn’t buy.  Maybe that was why, in recognition,

his pupils called him Caligula.

Who needs to be a tiger tutor when you can be a leopard that

doesn’t need to change its spots?

Addled Strop

Tags

Adlestrop, Attlesthorp, Bodleian, Dukes of Chandos, Edward Thomas, Heinz, Lord Saye and Sele, Repton, Richard Burton, Sir Thomas Leigh, Tatlestrop, Tedestrop, Tiddlestrop, Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes, You Tube

(Adlestrop station sign in bus shelter, 2007.

from geograph.org.uk

photo: Graham Horn)

 

Yes, I remember Adlestrop-

the name, because, quite uncertain,

of its precise pronunciation,

I referred to Richard Burton

 

(You Tube.)  Was that a mistake?

Once yclyped Tatlestrop, I trow-

where Repton landscaped Thomas Leigh’s lake.

‘Lee’, or ‘Lay?’  I don’t really know.

 

The church -St Mary Magdalene-

or should I call it ‘Maudlin?’

was linked to the Dukes of Chandos

(Shandos?) [ note to self:  Google the Bodleian]

 

Now I’m getting into a strop.

As for Twistleton-Wykham-Fiennes

of Tedestrop, or Attlestrop

or Tiddlestrop, it is like Heinz

 

Fifty-Seven Varieties.

It is hard to get it all off pat.

So, the present Lord Saye and Sele

shortened the whole shebang to ‘Nat.’

Sin Tax

Tags

affixation, clauses, complement, compound subject, declension, Eats Shoots and Leaves, imperatives, Lynne Truss, marriage, Robert Browning, subordination, The Grammarian's Funeral

When I was a student we had to read The Grammarian’s Funeral

by Robert Browning.

Today I have just returned from singing at a wedding and I thought

I’d re-blog this oldie, also on a grammatical note:

 

 

Sin Tax

Marriage was revered as a conjunction;

two main clauses fused by a word like and.

God-joined pairs could not, without compunction,

split an infinity forged by a band.

A compound subject was most’s intention,

instead of being the mere complement

of a life sentence (with much declension).

No male nor female, said the Testament:

the adjunct was as Christ loved the Church, so

husbands ought to love their wives as their own

bodies… but that was centuries ago:

things don’t change through imperatives alone.

Most wives still suffer subordination:

bound morphemes.  Eve’s sin tax?- affixation.