No Such Thing….

Tags

David Cameron, Decameron, Juncker, Theresa May

(Image from Decameron- no, not David Cameron, though he got us into this farce.)

Juncker:   No such thing

as a free lunch, chere

Therese.

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Young Cockerel’s Stone

Tags

a cockerel's stone, Baz Luhrmann, David Cameron, Krapp's Last Tape, Lammas Tide, Lanzarote, Pele Tower, pigeon egg ruby, SamCam, selfie, The Nurse Romeo and Juliet, wet nurse, wormwood

Augustus Snodbury was very glad that he had made it to the end of term.

Virginia had been very happy with the pigeon’s egg ruby engagement

ring.  Personally, like Dru, he had thought it a tad vulgar- its stone of

proportions more like the bump on Susan’s head.

Susan?  I hear you query, Dear Reader.

Candia: Yes, the one who was/is with God.

Reader: I’m still no wiser.

Candia: Folk don’t seem to read ‘Romeo and Juliet’ now.  Even the kids

just watch the Baz Luhrmann film.  The Nurse’s child who died. 

You know, that was why the old gal could be a wet nurse.  Geddit?

Susan died when she fell and sustained a bump as big as a young

cockerel’s stone.

Reader: Stone?

Candia: Testicle to you.

Reader: Ah!  But what’s this to do with Virginia’s ring?   Oh, yes!

Anyway, Virginia had clearly thought it was no more than she

deserved, as she quoted The Book of Proverbs– the bit about a virtuous

woman’s price being above rubies.

Reader:  She is getting rather full of herself.

Candia: I agree.  I could make her fall off her stilettos, if you like. I needn’t

wait till Lammas Tide.

Male Reader: No, don’t do that.  We like to read about her ankles.  Do you

think she will fall backwards in the near future?

Candia:  Not so long as I can tease this sorry saga out!  But, at least, Gus

is not ‘a man of wax.’

Reader (of either gender-or even both): No, we think that phrase refers

to Nigel.

Candia:  Oh, don’t be too hard on Nigel.  He’s got enough on his plate. 

His mother is trying to create difficulties about the wedding.

Reader:  She has wormwood on her dug?

Candia:  Her dug is all right.  She’s prepared to check him into kennels

for the occasion. 

Reader:  Something is lost in translation here.

Candia:  It is just that she feels she is losing a son rather than gaining

a daughter-in-law.  She also thinks that she will have to hire a decorator

in future, as Nigel is bound to be more occupied as a married man.

Reader:  So where are they all, in their Easter holidays?

Candia: Snod and Virginia are with Diana and Murgatroyd in the

Borders, sorting out the guest lists and logistics, but Dru and Nigel

have taken themselves off to Lanzarote.  They bumped into David

Cameron the other day.  Dru took a selfie with SamCam and invited

her-and Dave- to the wedding(s).

Reader (impressed):  Did they accept?

Candia:  No, they politely responded with the equivalent of:  It is an

honour that we dream not of.

Reader:  He might be free by then. By the way, is Snod happier about

things now?

Candia:  I believe that he took Virginia’s hands and said:  ‘Perhaps

my best years are gone.  When there was a chance of happiness.  But

I  wouldn’t want them back.  Not with the fire in me now.’

Reader:  That’s from Krapp’s Last Tape and Embers.

Candia:  Typical. One of his obsessions. He always talks…you know…

stuff like:  ‘I can’t go on like this.’

Reader:  And then he does?

Candia:  Precisely.  But Virginia can handle him.  At least, I think she

can.

Virginia:  Yes, I can.

Sin of Presumption

Tags

Alice in Wonderland, Bathsheba, Boldwood, builders' tea, David Cameron, hagiography, Lucozade, martyrology, misogyny, Neutral Tones, Proust, Prufrock, sin of commission, sin of presumption, Sods' Law, St Brigid, St Patrick, Thomas Hardy

Fortunately Snod had a double free period before Lower Five and so

he slumped into his favourite lumpy chintz armchair and waited till

he could be sure that the rest of the staff were in Lesson One.

Virginia came in sheepishly, carrying a tray with some builders’ tea

and a plate with two Bourbon biscuits.  He was allowed two since it

was not every day that one became affianced.

He didn’t look up at first.  He felt that she had committed a sin of

presumption, or at least commission, but he wasn’t going to split

theological hairs at this point.  Taking  a sledgehammer to break

a walnut came into his mind too, but he felt that was a violent

metaphor.  Still, he probably would never have succumbed to a

more gentle persuasive technique.

Yes, he had heard of St Brigid and her relationship with St Patrick.

He simply didn’t want Virginia to activate any of the ideas that the

female saint of yore had favoured, such as giving away all her

counterpart’s worldly goods and so on.  Virginia would probably never

understand the vital importance of his oiled cricket bat, or piles

of Wisdens.  He wasn’t swayed by aspirations to a ranking in the

hagiography through denial in any shape or form, and, if he was

to wed, then it might be more appropriate to consider an entry

in a martyrology.

He looked at the cup of tea.  There was no such thing as a free drink.

He felt like Alice, in Wonderland– a novel concept.  The eponymous

heroine had been confronted with a phial which was labelled: Drink Me.

If he accepted the bone china mug and its contents, did it imply an

acceptance of the proposal?  Was he about to drain hemlock?

He risked a sip.  Aaah!  Just the way he liked it: slightly stewed.

He swirled it round his mouth in a Proustian reverie.  It wasn’t too

disagreeable, after all- the whole idea and not just the cuppa.  It

took him back to reminiscenses of past times of security, as when

Matron had brought him just such a beverage when he was in San with

measles.  She had warmed his jammies on the radiator and had

given him Lucozade.  He remembered looking at the confines of

his life through the orange cellophane, which he picked off the bottle,

and feeling that life was still an adventure, if only for Boys’ Own

readers.

Virginia tiptoed out, knowing that he needed a little space.

He gazed at the poster of Thomas Hardy alongside the English

Department noticeboard.  That wretched man had caused him a

lot of trouble over the years.  (see the original misdirected Valentine

which had ended up between the underlay and the carpet of a boarding

house-mistress’ apartment, many moons previously.)

And now he had to ask himself a typically Hardyean question:

Was he, like Boldwood, being set up by a teasing woman?  Virginia

did have some Bathsheban tendencies.  He tried to resist thinking of

her in a state of deshabillement for the moment, as it distracted him

from the thrust of his current thought processes.

Then Hardy came to the rescue.

How so? you ask, Dear Reader.

Boldwood gave him the idea.

Gus took his hymnbook from the side table and threw it into the air.

Virginia came into the room again, having given him what she

considered was sufficient time- to hang himself, some would have

added.  She carried some correspondence as justification.

What are you doing with that book? she reprimanded.  You’ll break its

spine!

Snod inwardly whispered, Open-to wed; Shut-to…

Sods’ Law: it fell open.  Or was it Snod’s Law?

Virginia picked it up and placed it in his pigeonhole.

Then she came over and took his plate and mug, spat on her

hanky  and wiped an indeterminate stain from his tie.

So, that’s settled then, she pronounced.

And he knew that it jolly well was. But a quote from Neutral

Tones,  one of Hardy’s finest, suddenly sprang to mind:

The smile on [his]mouth was the deadest thing

alive enough to have strength to die…

No, although he felt chidden of God, it couldn’t be as bad as all

that, surely?

Could it? Happy misogyny, here we come, he mused.

He had measured out his life, unlike Prufrock, in oxymorons,

rather than coffee spoons.

 

Blue Murder

Tags

Boris Johnson, Brussels, Bullingdon club, David Cameron, George Osborne, Gove

Brassica laughed, It’s the English teacher in you.  You

can’t stop relating everything to literature.

I know, but hark at this.  Et tu, Brute and all that!

I pushed my scribblings over the table, for her to read.

ACT 3:3

Boris:  If there be any in this assembly,

any dear friend of Cameron’s, to him say

that Boris’ love to Cameron was no less than his.

If then that friend demand why Boris rose against

Cameron, this is my answer:

Not that I loved Cameron less,

but that I loved Britain more….as he was

valiant, I honour him: but as

he was ambitious, I slew him.

Here comes his corpse,

mourned by those who shall receive

the benefits of his dying:

a place in Parliament.  With this I depart,

pleading that I slew my Bullingdon pal,

for Britain’s good.

Citizen;:  This Cameron was a traitor.

Osborne:  Friends, MPs, Countrymen, lend me your wallets.

The noble Boris hath told you Cameron was ambitious.

If it were so, it was a grievous fault

and grievously hath Cameron answered it.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me,

but Boris says he was ambitious- and Boris is an honourable man.

Cameron brought favours back from Brussels,

whose ransoms the general coffers might have filled.

When the poor have cried, Cameron hath wept.

You all did love him once, not without cause.

What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?

O judgement!  thou art fled to brutish beasts

and men have lost their reason.

Citizen:  I fear there will a worse come in his place.

Osborne:  Yesterday the word of Cameron might

have influenced the world; now lies he there.

You all know Gove and Boris are honourable men.

And here’s a parchment with the seal of Cameron.

Let but The Commons hear this testament.

Some may go and kiss dead Cameron’s wounds-

yea, beg a law of him for memory

and, dying, mention it within their wills,

bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto their issue.

I fear I wrong the honourable men

whose daggers have stabb’d Cameron.

Citizens: They are traitors!

Osborne:  Boris, as you know, was Cameron’s angel,

so this is the most unkindest cut of all.

Citizens:  Let’s hear his bequest!

Osborne:  To every British citizen he gives 75 drachmas.

Citizen:  Most noble Cameron!  We’ll avenge his death.

(Revolution ensues)

Osborne: Now mischief, thou art afoot.

Take what course you will.

 

Act 4   tbc

 

The Wrong Wellies

Tags

barista, Botticelli, Brassica, Brunetti's, Chinese New Year, Commissario Brunetti, Commissario Montelbano, David Cameron, Donna Leon, Donna Tartt, Hunter wellies, kiddychino, Nicola Sturgeon, Rebekah Brooks, salted caramel eclair, SamCam, Singapore Sling

(image by abc 10)

 

So basically you have been unfaithful to ‘Costamuchamoulah’ cafe here in

Suttonford? Brassica accused me.

It wasn’t like that, I tried to defend myself. No bog-brush bearded baristas

were involved, I assure you.  It’s just that ‘Brunetti’s’ salted caramel eclairs in

Melbourne were so tempting.

That Italian name’s familiar, Brassie interrupted.

You’re thinking of Donna Leon’s Commissario Brunetti, I surmised, knowing

she’d read a couple of the volumes in the series at her ‘Bookworm’ group.

But, you know, I’d prefer to make a tangential mental leap to summon up a

vision of Commissario Montelbano- the young one, I mused.  Actually, one

of the waiters who brought me extra marshmallows was kind of like him. He

had the same bandy legs, but Botticelli curls.

Mmm, quite a lot of Italian guys do.  Yet, you’ve been swanning round the

globe while the rest of us were generating mould in our ‘Hunter’ wellies from

the condensation build-up of Apocalyptic precipitation levels?

Join Nicola Sturgeon’s clan.  But not David Cameron’s.

How so?

She shares your taste in trending wellies.  Apparently Cameron wore a cheap

pair when he visited the flooded areas.

Oh, that was for the press, she exclaimed.  Do you think SamCam would

let him out in anything cheap if he was (say) visiting Rebekah Brooks for a bit

of a pot supper, after helping her to muck out at her stables?

Okay, I’m sorry.  By the by, I would be surprised if SamCam, as you call her,

allowed him out at all, when he is off-duty.  She would probably prefer him to

come home smelling of roses.

Why do I always get Donna Leon and Donna Tartt mixed up?

Dunno. Easily done. I took my tablet out of its case.

Look! This was us on our final evening at ‘Raffles’, on the way home.

Put it away, barked Brassie.  I’m not interested.  Anyway, you said you

went there twice, so I can’t forgive you.

She couldn’t resist a peek.

What were you trying to do?  Live up to your gravatar?

No, I was just having a ‘Singapore Sling.’

She drew me an even greater disapproving look.

Not a ‘fling’. You can get virgin ones, you know, I pleaded.

Silence.

No, actually.  Look, I’m not trying to be elitist.  Nowadays

it is a virtual extension of a creche.  Kids everywhere.  All these

special venues are commandeered by fathers in baseball caps

and shorts and mothers pushing giant buggies with babes who

only require feeder cups.  You dress for dinner and they throw theirs

on the floor- or ground-, if we are referring to the outside courtyard. 

Sometimes the infant accessories even manage to project their

regurgitations into your lap.

I do so agree on the distinction you make between ‘floor’ and

‘ground’, Brassie reflected. But, have you always been irritated

by kids, Candia?  I mean, didn’t you once teach the little darlings? 

Surely teachers like children?

Don’t bank on that, I replied.  D’habitude, we only like the well-behaved

ones, of which there are fewer and fewer.  I don’t mind them at informal

eateries at lunchtime, but if I am spending a mint on a rare grown-up

treat, I prefer a kiddychino-free zone.

Kiddychino?

Coming to ‘Costamuchamoulah’ by Chinese New Year, I predict.

We both sighed.

 

Back to the Future

Tags

Assumption, BBC Director General, Bento box, Born Again, Canon Dr Judith Maltby, Celts, crystal ball, David Cameron, Dean of St Paul's, divine imprimatur, Eastenders, Evan Davis, Gordon Brown, Helen Boaden, Hilary Benn, Horatio Hornblower, Hugh Grant, Ioan Gruffudd, James Bond, Last Judgement, Leroy Rosenior, Linda Carter, Mark Ford, Martha Lane Fox, Miliband, Nicola Sturgeon, Pandora's Box, Pepuzians, Piers Brosnan, Priscillians, Queen Vic, Recording Angel, Rev Giles Fraser, Sean Connery, Shriti Vadera, The Guardian, Timothy Dalton, University of Cambridge Vice-Chancellor, wasabi

So, how are you getting on with your belated Spring cleaning and

general clear-out?  Brassica asked me.

It’s too difficult.  Every time I investigate a box, I start reading

its contents.  Today, for instance, I found a ‘Guardian’ supplement

from 2004 which was all about predictions for 2020.

Hmm…crystal ball gazing.  Did they get things right?  she enquired,

munching something out of her Bento box- Costamuchamoulah’s

latest fad.

Well, there was an article in Part Two, dated 28th September,

2004, called ‘Who Will Be Who?

Ooh, do spill the beans!

It predicted that Ioan Gruffudd would be James Bond.

You mean that guy who was Horatio Hornblower?

Yip.  Timothy Dalton was Welsh, remember!  So, they may have

been thinking in similar terms.

Brassie looked sceptical.  She has always liked Sean Connery,

followed by Piers Brosnan.

Then it advocated Martha Lane Fox as possible Vice Chancellor

of the University of Cambridge.

Because she is big on marketing and global brands?

I was surprised that Brassie had heard of her.

Yes, students are customers now, you must realise.

What about the monarch?

Oh, they assumed The Queen would be carrying on.

Charles will be 71 then.  The Queen will be 94.

Who did they think would take over from Miliband?

They didn’t know then that Ed would have been Leader!

Of course not.  Who did they back?

Hilary Benn.

They might be right.  Could do worse.  They backed David Cameron

for Leader of the Conservatives.  Back then he was a fresh-faced

Chief Policy Co-ordinator, aged 37.  They said he was leader of The

Notting Hill set.

I thought that was Hugh Grant.

They did mention his ‘raffish good looks.’

No, they must have mixed him up with Hugh Grant.  Anyway, who

else was nominated?

Leroy Rosenior as England Football Manager; Helen Boaden as BBC

Director General.

I do like their clothes, Brassie sighed.

Different Boden, I explained.

Really?

Ask me another.  I pinched a sliver of sea cucumber from her

lacquered top layer.

Poet Laureate?  She shut the lid.

Mark Ford.

Who?…  Archbishop of Canterbury?

Canon Dr Judith Maltby.

Oh, I like her, approved Brassie.  I heard her in Wintonchester

Cathedral.

Only trouble is that she was nominated by Rev Giles Fraser.

And look what happened to him.

(Photo by Kaihsu Tai)

Brassie chewed reflectively.  Wasn’t he the Dean of St Paul’s?

The one that is a Real Christian.

Brassie has her own categories of Christians- ranging from Born

Again to Brain Dead and then, suddenly she will find one to whom

she will give a Divine Imprimatur, almost as if she is standing in the

wings at The Last Judgement as The Recording Angel.

See, in 2004, women couldn’t be ordained as bishops.  So, it was quite

a bold statement, I pointed out. Mind you, I think that there were three

major groups in post-Nicene Christianity that supported women priests

in powerful positions-the Pepuzians, Priscillians and some Celtic

Christians…

The Celts!  Brassie spat out a fibrous shred of something vegetable.

She doesn’t like Nicola Sturgeon and doesn’t believe she should be

encouraged in any Assumption to any powerful position.  (Women

can be so mean about other women, n’est-ce-pas?)

What about soap stars?  She changed the subject.

(Photo by Matt Pearson)

Oh, Kevin O’Sullivan of ‘The Daily Mirror’ thought that Sonia Jackson’s

baby should be kept in the ‘Eastenders’ script and could be a future

landlady, if Barbara Windsor stopped clinging to the post.

So that was two Windsors still in power, in their estimation? 

Yes.  But they were wrong about that.  The current landlady is Linda

Carter, I believe- though I never watch it.

I looked around Costamuchamoulah nervously.

(Photo by Portlandvillage)

I could tell Brassie was losing focus now.  She was more interested in

opening the Pandora’s Box- I mean the Bento box.  I wondered what she

had in there.  Maybe it would be like a Goya nightmare, with all sorts of

weird and frightening creatures escaping and circling our heads.  And that

was only the sociological prophecies, not the contents of her lunchbox!

She took off the top layer.  Yum!  Beef and noodles!

Don’t you want to know who they thought would be Governor of The

Bank of England?

Not especially.

Well, it was the then economic adviser to Gordon Brown.

(Photo-Wikimedia Commons.  Official gov.uk portrait)

She looked sardonical.  Here!  Try a wasabi-flavoured forkful of this!

My throat was on fire, so I didn’t tell her Evan Davis’ recommendation:

Shriti Vadera.

I bet they didn’t have Bento boxes in Suttonford in 2004.

The Lion and the Unicorn

Tags

Acorn Antiques, Adam Smith, Aesop, Bishop of Rochester, David Cameron, Edmund Spenser, heraldic beasts, Lewis Carroll, Lion and Unicorn, Mrs Overall, narwhal, Orwell, plum cake, sovereignty, Through the Looking Glass, White King

Murgatroyd was contemplating the crest over his lintel.  As in so many Border

areas, it featured a lion and a unicorn.  Pity the unicorn was losing its gilding.

The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown;

the lion beat the unicorn all round about the town.

Some gave them white bread and some gave them brown;

some gave them plumb [sic] cake and drummed them out of town.

recited Diana.

Murgatroyd’s curiosity was aroused.  What’s all that about?

Oh, it’s an old nursery rhyme.  I think it refers to the fact that the Union was

less than amicable.  There are various stories about which animal achieved

ascendency.  Like a certain First Minister, the unicorn believed its horn-oil?-

was a universal panacea.  I think it was the poet, Edmund Spenser, who

relayed how the unicorn was trapped in a tree and impaled itself by its horn

when it made a rash assault on the lion.

Murgatroyd looked thoughtful: I think that George Orwell published

something called ‘The Lion and the Unicorn’, come to think of it.  He thought

that the conflict between them would create a new kind of democratic

socialism.  I seem to remember that he wanted to retain the Royal Family,

though, and he cautioned that everyone considers themselves British, as

soon as the need for defence arises.

Hmm, interesting, replied Diana.  Lewis Carroll in ‘Through the Looking

Glass’ referred to the rhyme.  Both heraldic beasts belong to the same

king and are supposed to be on the same side, making their rivalry

absurd.  The Unicorn, like the Adam Smith wannabe, the Great Narwhal-

-cum Pinocchio porky pie eater, nay porcine teller himself, appeals to Alice,

aka the electorate, for mutual trust.  David Cameron seems to be positively

leonine, as he asks for the cake to be handed round first and cut in slices

afterwards.

Oh, I remember that, enthused Murgatroyd.  The cake kept returning to its

unified whole, didn’t it?  Even when divided into three.

Mrs Connolly came out into the garden carrying a tray, very much in the

manner of Mrs Overall from Acorn Antiques.  A pot of tea and a fine plum

cake was sliding precariously to one side.

What do you know about the lion and the unicorn, Mrs C? asked

Murgatroyd, relieving her of the weight of the comestibles.

Weel now, my understanding is that they represented the union of two

warring nations and they showed that the natural order was supported

by the balanced forces of Nature-ie/ the sun and the moon, held in

harmony.  Individually they are imbalanced, but together no other creature

can match their strength, because they are a union of opposites.  Their

styles of sovereignty may be different, but they are complimentary.

Well expressed, Mrs C! cheered Murgatroyd, pouring the tea himself and

forgetting that she liked to play ‘mother.’

Encouraged by the response, Mrs C continued:

Wert thou the unicorn, pride and wrath would confine thee,

and make thine own self the conquest of thy fury.

Who said that? asked Diana.

Och, The Bishop of Rochester, when he recorded an obscure Aesop’s

fable concerning the twa beasties.  Aye, the lion can be tricky when he

appears to be conciliatory.  The unicorn should never relinquish its horn

to him, even on the appeal for a crutch.  She’ll just be hoisted with her

own petard.  They should all listen to Her Majesty and think very carefully.

Well, it’s late in the day now, Mrs C, volunteered Diana.  But the White

King had the last word in Carroll’s story:  ‘Fair play with the cake!’  If they

don’t justly divide the spoils they’ll both be drummed out of town.

Very true, agreed Mrs C.

Kung Fu Panda 2 (The Gaffe)

Tags

Alistair Darling, anthrax, bacon sandwich, David Cameron, deep-fried Mars bar, Edinburgh University, Eeyore, Fiat Panda, geek out, Gruinard, heffalumps, Kung Fu Panda, LSE, Miliband, Piglet, SNP, Tab student newspaper, The Gaffe, Valley of Peace, Wol, woozles

Little did I know that the bear-like creature with dark rings round its eyes

would be making the headlines today, after having given him sufficient

publicity yesterday.  I must be ahead of trend.

Apparently Kung Fu Panda accepted an unconditional offer of admission to

the prestigious LSE.  I know Alistair Darling will be relieved that the would-

be Master is at last showing some interest in Economics, but, alas it may be

too late for the poor diasporran Scots who have been denied a vote in the

referendum.

Someone told the student newspaper Tab that they thought his acceptance

had been some kind of a racist joke.  Some wondered if he would be paying

tuition fees. Yes, the displaced Jocks definitely agree that their denial of

participation in the pseudo-democratic process is a joke.

Just a not very funny one.  About as comical as the illegal immigrant who

sneaked over the Channel in someone else’s Fiat Panda.  Once Border

Controls are established they won’t allow Kung Fu Panda into what’s left

of the rump of a dismembered kingdom.  Not if they have any sense.  Not

even to take up his notional place at LSE.

There’s a nice wee island called Gruinard where he could strutt his stuff

amid the anthrax and a flock of compliant sheep.  It’s aye been guid

for hosting the odd rebel or outcast.

Some of the student fraternity took the gaffel well, considering that

everyone needs a laugh now and then, but most entrepreneurial

ex-pats do not find the debate entertaining in the slightest.

It transpires that Kung Fu Panda was just a test name, amongst

others.

Well, I wonder who on earth Piglet corresponds to?!

And lest our comments be imbalanced, we need to point out that racism is in

no way a criticism solely attributed to the tutelary camp. The President of the

Edinburgh University Union’s SNP Branch allegedly called David Cameron an

‘English t***‘  She defended herself by saying the comment was ‘open to

interpretation’.  Just like my posts!

But which word was deemed to be the more offensive, I wonder?

Wol could also refer to Kung Fu Panda’s sparring partner.  He goes in

for long stuffy speeches and sees himself as a mentor and elder statesman.

Like Kung Fu Panda, when he hasn’t read a notice, he bluffs his way

through it.

Eeyore takes a leaf out of KF Panda’s book in that he offers things which

are not in his power to endow- Piglet’s house, for example.  The pessimistic

one offered it to Wol without ascertaining its true owner. KFP is adept at

generously playing Santa Claus with the rest of the Union’s assets.

The only unifying thing about the whole bang shoot of them is that they’d

better look out for the Beetles.  They are furthermore distracted by having

run-ins with political heffalumps who are largely figments of their

over-stretched imaginations, but they’d be better to look over their

shoulders for woozles, who are known to inhabit cold, snowy landscapes

and don’t take political prisoners.

Let’s face it, they all want the honey- oil? for themselves!

Now Legend of Awesomeness, Backson Miliband, is trying to say that he

will restore everyday things that he has destroyed.  Everyone in The Valley

of Peace needs to maintain calm and geek out, as they say in Disney

versions.

I’m sure KF Panda has a redundant bacon sandwich he could loan the

Legend, along with a deep fried Mars Bar. That should keep his strength

up when the going gets tough and the tough get going..

Bingo!

Tags

Andrew Graham-Dixon, Baltic cruise, Basingstoke, Beam me up.., bingo, Bradford on Avon, Bridge, Bridge Mints, Catherine the Great, cribbage, Dame Edna, David Cameron, deviation, Estonia, Faberge, fly fishing, geophysicist, George Clooney, George Osborne, hesitation, Inner Hebrides, ISA, Jeremy Paxman, Kit-Kat, Knights in White Satin, Lamborghini, Madge, Martini, Missing Amber Room, Neil Oliver, Nick Clegg, pasty, Poleconomy, Potemkin, Putin, religious affairs broadcaster, repetition, St Petersburg, Tallinn, The Hermitage, Tuck shop, Waldemar Janusczak, White Nights, Winter Palace

Diana Fotheringay-Syylk was feeling like the fishy guest who putrefies after

three days.  Not that Sonia had hinted that she had a sudden need to reclaim

her spare rooms, but it was just that both women required their own space.

Diana felt that it was a bit like sharing The Winter Palace with Catherine the

Great, and it sometimes felt like a similar temperature too.

Diana’s estate agent was frantically sending her texts, reporting on the

positive viewings on her cottage in Bradford-on-Avon.  Prospective buyers

adored the quaint windows- as far as she could recall there were none.

Couples loved its tranquil position in a quiet village.  ‘Bustling town‘ was how

she would have described its location.  And why did they mention the river

after the worst flooding in a century?  She was in an elevated position and

hadn’t had a teaspoonful of groundwater in her cellar.  So far there had

been no second viewings.  Still, it wasn’t Easter yet.

Sonia kept wanting to play Cribbage, Bridge or a variety of Bingo every

evening.  Diana didn’t care for these games and would have been happy to

provide the canapes for the occasion, if only George Osborne, or

Nick Clegg could have dropped by, so that she could sit the session out, like

some kind of Madge to Edna’s grande dame.  She had a sneaking

suspicion that Sonia would have eaten the politicians up as efficiently as

she disposed of a box of Bridge Mints and that she would probably have

preferred Potemkin to drop by unannounced for a game of Poleconomy.

Apparently the Chancellor and the Deputy PM love Bingo– so much so that

they were right behind tax reductions of 50% on the game. (David Cameron

was less enthusiastic. He prefers a night in with a pasty.)

Just as well that Sonia had given up driving, after she embedded her car in the

frontage of Costamuchamoulah, must-seen cafe.  Otherwise she might have

been tempted to cash in her annuities to purchase a Lamborghini to roar up

High Street.

Diana could imagine other old biddies, such as Ginevra, being all too keen to

make a black hole in their pension funds in order to subsidise a Martini habit,

or worse.

It wouldn’t take too many cashed-in ISAs to buy a toy boy and it would

probably be more short term fun than having to fund an Eastern European

carer.

Diana was beginning to realise that she wasn’t as young as she had been.  She

had been planning a Sagbag cruise to somewhere culturally interesting, such as

St Petersburg.  It would have been something to look forward to after the

house sale and removal stresses.  She quite fancied listening to some minor

celebrity rabbiting on about Faberge eggs, or leaning over the deck rail with a

George Osborne lookalike..(No, she meant Clooney, surely?), night after White

Night, or Knight after White Knight, not necessarily in white satin, or even

statins.

Now Putin had put paid to that Baltic fantasy.

Really someone should put the ‘Ras‘ back into his name.  She held him

personally responsible for preventing her from viewing The Hermitage.  How

one small man could spoil everything was very irritating.  If he had been a

pupil in her class, she would have told him not to be so greedy.  The lion’s

share was not his to grab.  She would have made him put it back and go to

the end of the queue.

He would have to have said, Thank you, Mrs Fotheringay-Syylk, with no

repetition, hesitation, or deviation.  And if she had detected any hint of

sarcasm or impertinence in his tone, then he would have been the last to

leave the classroom and may have even had to stay behind to help her

tidy up Lost Property. (But how do you tidy up Crimea?)

Sanctions!  She knew all about them.  Charging round the hockey pitch

twenty times would have sorted him out.  As for the Tuck Shop– out of

bounds till the end of term!  Or maybe till the end of time.

She absent-mindedly bent down to pick up the mail from the doormat.

There were two letters, both addressed to herself.

There was an envelope stamped with the estate agent’s logo.

She ripped it open. She was being offered a record price for the cottage!

Bingo!  Drusilla had been right.  It had flown away.

She opened the other missive.  It was from Sagbag Cruises and included a

published list of floating lectures.  Geophysicists, Religious Affairs

Broadcasters….

Where was Bendor Grosvenor?  That was what she wanted to know.

Maybe he didn’t do Sagbag. What about Neil Oliver?

Oh, wow!  Waldemar Janusczak on The Missing Amber Room.  A cruise to

Tallinn. Sign me up, Scotty! she screamed.  I’m definitely going for that one,

whether he was born in Basingstoke, or not.  I must ask Drusilla if she wants

to go too.  I mean to Estonia, not Basingstoke.  Imagine sailing round all those

roundabouts!  You’d feel seasick!

I can’t understand why Dru prefers Andrew Graham-Dixon.  He showed himself

up on University Challenge.  No, even Jeremy Paxman giving his fly-fishing tips

on a nautical jaunt round the Inner Hebrides isn’t as good as Waldemar on a

Kit-Kat wrapper.

And by the look of the price offered for my erstwhile humble abode, I can

treat my dear daughter too.

By George-bingo!