Pig-hoo-o-o-oey!

Tags

Berkshire pig, Blandings, chitterling, choir stall, Common Entrance, Compline, Earl of Emsworth, Evensong, faggots, Farmers' Markets, Happy Hour, husbandry, Master Butcher, Middle White pig, misericords, non-sequitur, P G Wodehouse, pig-hoo-o-o-oey!, Pigling Bland, pizzle, pork scratchings, The Emperor, Thomas Hardy, Timothy Spall, Vietnamese Pot-Bellied pig

Great-Aunt Augusta was thrilled: she placed the photograph of her namesake

in its silver frame on her bedside table, beside her bottle of Dewlap Gin for the

Discerning Grandmother.

She had always meant to write to the company to protest that elderly maiden

aunts also appreciated the tipple, but she was too pre-occupied in imbibing its

mellow liquefaction to bother with the correctness of its appellation.

She didn’t mind at all that Murgatroyd had named his new porker after her.

Like the ninth Earl of Emsworth, Lord Clarence, Syylk had just taken charge of

a wonderful Berkshire sow, or it had taken charge of him.  Owing to some

marked physiognomical resemblances and similar traits of flightiness, he had

awarded his summer guest the accolade and honour of having her Christian

name bestowed on the worthy animal.  And, having no natural offspring of her

own, she anticipated the birth of piglets with as much eagerness as she looked

forward to Happy Hour at Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.

Augustus Snodbury, her adopted nephew, was less impressed.  In fact, he

considered it an impertinence.  He expressed as much to Virginia, the School

Secretary and his daughter in the new canteen-style, Hugo Frondly-

Whittingsty’s informal eatery.

Virginia had persuaded father and daughter to come out on a Friday evening

as the interminable term was leaching their zest for life.

Drusilla was tucking into some parsnip shavings and multi-coloured beets;

Gus was demolishing some moist roast gammon.

Dad!  You’ll never guess what?!

Gus continued to trough and grunted like a pig in clover, or Timothy Spall

in a Margate boarding house.

He knew she would tell him anyway.

You know Murgatroyd’s sow…?

Augusta? replied Virginia, though no one had addressed her.

Gus threw her a warning look- the one he utilised for The

Lower School and which had caused some chitterlings as they

were called to blub, or wet their shorts.

Virginia was made of sterner stuff.  She was interested in all

varieties of husbandry.

Yes, answered Dru.  Except that the vet came round yesterday

and re-sexed it.  So, you know what I’m going to say…?!

Don’t! spluttered Gus, choking on a morsel of rind.  He was

outraged at the thought of the name being transferred into its

masculine form.

It won’t be having piglings bland, or even piglets Blandings,

continued Dru.  It has a pizzle.  Wonderful Thomas Hardy word

that!  Anyway, they’re calling him The Emperor instead, with a nod

to P G Wodehouse, or Beethoven.  Great-Aunt will be disappointed,

but a few gins should dull her disappointment.

It should have been a Middle White if they were referring to the

latest tv series, Virginia added.  Then, as a non-sequitur, she

said meditatively,  Pigs can be very intelligent, you know.  A neighbour

of mine once had a Vietnamese Pot-Bellied variety and we used to keep

our veggie peelings in a swill bin for it.

She tried to avert her gaze from Gus’ midriff.

They’re probably brighter than some of the young porkers I have in

my Common Entrance group, scowled Gus.  I’d rather have one than

a silly toy dog.  He brightened up.

What are you thinking about, Father?  Dru could tell he was about to

share some porcine anecdote.

Oh, just The Very Rev. Wykeham Beaufort.  He was the School Chaplain

when I was a chitterling myself.  He used to walk through The Cathedral Close

to Evensong with his pet pig on a string.  It used to enjoy a pint of Hogsback

with him after Compline.  Fully House-of-God trained, it was.  Used to lie

continently in the choir stalls, under the misericords, but The Dean

excommunicated it and forbade it entry after one Advent, when it made

itself comfortable in the crib’s straw.  You can see its portrait on its

master’s headstone.

But why is Murgatroyd raising a pig? Virginia asked.

He is building a smoke-house and has consulted with a Master Butcher.

He’s going to produce quality meat products, once his breeding programme

gets under way.

Sausages? Gus perked up considerably.

Yes.  He and Mum intend to take a stall at some Farmers’ Markets.

He’s not so dense after all, approved her father.  Well, who would have

thought it?  Pigs might fly yet!

And he shovelled a forkful of pork scratchings into his capacious mouth.

Next to faggots, sausages were his favourites.

He must take a trip north very soon.

 

 

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Alea Iacta Est

Tags

alea iacta est, Antonine Wall, Clydeside, faggots, fasces, metaphor, Nero, Optimates, Rubicon, Suetonius, testudo, togas, Tribune of the Plebs, William Wallace

Augustus Snodbury prepared to deliver one of his most ancient and

oft-repeated lessons in the Classic Department.  However, he intended

to give it a topical spin.

He threw a die on the front desk and pronounced: Alea iacta est.  This was, for

him, an interactive lesson, utilising a learning aid.

What does this mean?

Before he could choose which hand to acknowledge, that Boothroyd-Smythe

boy had prematurely ejaculated:  The die is cast.

What?

Sir.  The die is cast, Sir.

Hmm, Snod harrumphed.  And how could this be applied to our times?

Not you, boy.  Someone else.

He must be getting past his sell-by date.  A few years ago he’d have had

that boy clapped in irons, or thrown to the lions for shouting out.  He

signalled to a quiet youth sitting on his own at the back.

The ginger-haired pupil ventured: Mr Cameron says there’s no going back for

the Scottish people.

Precisely, Snod rubber-stamped the response.  You can’t cross back over The

Rubicon. Boy!  Put that die down!

It wasn’t brought into this lesson for you to fiddle around with. Not even while

Rome burns!

Now, take this down... Snod loved dictation.  It was the best method of

control, even if it discouraged free thinking- especially as it discouraged

free thinking!

Once Caesar had crossed The Rubicon, there was no going back. 

Reinforcement.

He turned and wrote ‘Suetonius‘ on the board.  No one, least of all himself,

knew why, but, to a boy, they all wrote it down in their exercise books, some

putting out their tongues while they tried to get the letters in the right order.

The Rubicon, incidentally meaning The Red River, so having some associations

with Clydeside... this was for his own gratification, but there was much

scribbling, was in North Italy, but it does not preclude metaphorical references. 

What’s a metaphor for?  He suddenly sprang this on an unsuspecting child in

the second row, who slightly wet his shorts and broke his pencil point.

That’s where togas came in very handy, Snod observed to himself.

To make us think what it’s there for? quavered the child.

No, that’s a ‘therefore’, Snod barked. Pay attention!  And attention is what The

Romans should have paid to those beyond The Antonine Wall.  But that’s another

lesson.

You see, Caesar had entered into rebellion and the Senate had removed him

from his command. It started a long civil war.  Who were the two sides?

Silence.

He wrote Optimates: Traditional Majority on the white board with an

indelible marker.  Drat!

They wanted to limit the power of the Tribune of the Plebs.

A hand shot up!  B–S again.  Groan!

Wasn’t that what a politician called the police, sir?

Allegedly not.

The Optimates sought to preserve the ways of their forefathers..

Like William Wallace and..

Detention!

Boothroyd-Smythe in his eagerness had forgotten to raise his hand.  Twice

in one day.  His report card would have to be stamped.

The bell rang shrilly.

Get into your testudo formation, said Snod.  Okay,

Forward march!

Excuse me, sir.  Who were the other side?

Snod momentarily had forgotten.  He could smell the odour of his

favourite fasces, he meant faggots, emanating from the dining hall.

That’s your homework, he pronounced with imperatorial, nay,

gubernatorial authority. If you don’t know, find out for tomorrow.

Smarter than Your Average Bear

Tags

assessment objectives, Bethesda, Bluebeard's Castle, Boo-Boo, chatelaine, Chicxulub, Clegg, cojones, Cro-Magnon, Esau and Jacob, faggots, flat, Flat Earth, Granny Smith, Harris tweed, herbivores and Carnivores, How weary, I Pagliacci, infinity pool, Knock! Knock! Who's There?, metaphor, Miriam Gonzalez Durantez, mitrochondrially, Munn and Dunning, my friend., Neanderthal, Orwell, Paglicci caves, patter songs, Permafrost, Rusalka, Send me roots rain, simile, Spotted Dick, stale, synapsid, taxonomy, teachers' planner, Those Were the Days, Vesti la Giubba, woolly mammoth, Yogi Bear

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus’ Middle School, opened

the ring box in his filing cabinet and looked long and hard at the heart-

shaped diamond ring that had lain snugly in its hiding place for over thirty

years.  He placed it on the tip of his little finger. Its white gold band was

obviously for a digit much slimmer than his own- as slender as the chance

of it ever finding a female finger to ornament.

He sighed, put it back in place, covering it with a pile of obsolete worksheets

and locked the drawers, rattling his key-ring which contained

as wide a selection of redundant keys as the chatelaine of Bluebeard’s

Castle had carried about her waist on a- well- chatelaine.

The bell was late.  Post-prandial indigestion had struck. He opened his

Teachers’ Planner wearily.  Gone were the days when one simply scribbled a

vague lesson plan on the back of an envelope. Then spiral-bound aide-

memoires had been unnecessary and the lack thereof led to spontaneous

combustions, Krakatoa-like performances on the apron stage of the classroom

crucible of learning.  These were fervent, tangential and memorable

expositions on (say) the metaphor:

What’s a metaphor for, Boothroyd-Smythe?.

How do you spell ‘simile’? (covering orthography as well as figurative language)

What’s the ‘therefore’ there for?

Such probing, intellectual dissection was eternally branded on impressionable

minds, on students– daft word (at their age they were pupils)- such as

Boothroyd-Smythe, who would thereafter reflect on such ingested material for

the rest of his proverbial.  Such acolytes would ever after be able to decline

Latin verbs and translate useful phrases such as ‘the farmers will have prepared

tables for the soldiers’. Such was the efficacy of the time-worn, but

time-tested approach and the analogies were more time-resistant than the

concepts they were endeavouring to illustrate.

But now tailoring the module content to individual needs and ticking off

assessment objectives was the order of the day.

No longer were masters to be found puffing away in faded chintzy staff rooms

with saggy seating- and that not restricted to their shiny trousers.  No longer

did they exchange information on crossword clues, cricket scores, nor barter

seedlings for their allotments.

No longer was a knock at the staffroom door considered  a vile intrusion

and an impertinent interruption worthy of some kind of suspension from

school, not literal, one hoped.

Shakespeare summed it up as usual:

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world..

Snod looked at the planner again.  Five hours to go- in theory.  Monday. 

Another four whole days-28 hours for the sake of argument. Saturday morning

coaching: three at least.  Sunday- supervising the junior forms on their way to

Mattins.  Call it another three. Was that 41 hours?   Multiply by how many

weeks in the term?  How many sessions till pensionable retirement?  I didn’t

factor in marking and preparation.  Not that I do much of the latter

nowadays.

Red pen or not?  Out of ten, or A-C?  Add stars, pluses and minuses or not? 

Give bribes, or not?  Take bribes, or not? Efficacy of lines? A learning

experience?  Well, they learn that if they waste my time, I will waste

theirs. Corporal punishment?  ‘Best not to go there’, as the wet-behind-

the-ears brigade would say.

Classroom management?  Tables of six, pairs, rows?  Have the blighters run

all over open plan space with clipboards?  No fear.  Blow that for a game of

tin soldiers! Free expression?  Hold your tongue, you scallywag!

So, retrospectively-speaking, had he wasted his life?

He had counted out his days in coffee spoons.  He was as good as

anaesthetised upon a table.  And what about the mermaids?  Yes,

what about them?  He hadn’t heard so much as a police siren for

decades.

Here he hummed a few bars from Rusalka’s Song to the Moon.  No time

even for his beloved opera.

As for a peach!  It wasn’t that he didn’t dare to eat one; it was just that

the staffroom bowl never contained anything other than blackening bananas

and tasteless Granny Smiths.  (The latter also being the moniker of an elderly

French teacher, coincidentally.)

How was it all going to end?   Not with a bang, that was for sure.  More with

a whimper.

O Lord, send my roots rain! he implored.

What did you say, Sir?  A member of staff passed the open door and stuck his

head into the room.

It was that effervescent and intensely annoying Milford-Haven, the Junior

Master. A stirrer of the pool, if ever there was one.  And not necessarily an

angelic one at that.  What he failed to recognise was that Senior Masters,

such as Snod, who had paralytically lain for years by the Bethesda pool of the

staff study, had no desire to be moved out of their comfort zones, by helpful

jejeunes into a maelstrom of extra-curricular activity.

Cricket was one thing, but wading out of one’s depth and abandoning the gentle

eddies and zephyrs of poolside life for the spas, jacuzzis and whirlpools of

‘extras‘ would be merely a revelation of one’s misunderstanding of the

etymology of the abstract noun: ‘revolution.‘  It only required a cursory

knowledge of Orwell- ‘George’? they would ask- to enlighten them to

the ultimate futility of trying to successfully introduce anything, novel,

or to channel anything educationally on trend.

Ghastly phrase!  He hadn’t out-lived Munn and Dunning to get on that

creaking theoretical treadmill.

No, let them slip over the edge of their infinity pools of educational

speculation.

He was no believer in a Flat Earth; he did acknowledge far horizons and

boundaries, but, more often than not, what went around had an unerring

habit of veering back and slamming you on the back of the head when you

were least expecting it.

That’s why he had never, in his entire career, fully turned his back on a class,

having mastered the art of writing on a blackboard in a somewhat oblique

fashion.

But, just look at Milford-Haven! He walks the walk and wears the Harris tweed,

but he will never fit in.  He is a Neanderthal among Cro-Magnons.  The hand

may be Esau’s, but the voice is Jacob’s, he inwardly articulated. (Snod had

been teaching RS before lunch.)

Personally, he felt that he, himself, was Cro-Magnon, mitrochondrially.

He had a nice, solid body and wasn’t a chinless wonder like that

nincompoop of a Junior Master.  He had what Miriam Gonzalez Durantez,

Clegg’s other half, called cojones. He enjoyed learning new vocabulary,

especially from the Romance languages, as he was sure Nick did too.

He felt himself smarter than your average bear.  More like Yogi than

squeaky clean Boo-Boo.

It would explain why he liked I Pagliacci.  Cro-Magnons were associated with

the Paglicci Caves and he assumed there was a link.  He knew some of the

staff thought he was a bit of a clown, but they recognised his talents in

renditions of opera buffa patter songs in the school concerts, so there!

He really must ‘go‘ before the bell.  His prostate was not what it used to be.

Vesti la giubba was ringing in his ears, as he reached for his academic gown

from the hook on the door.

But, if the previous anthropological metaphor could be extended without mixing,

or diversified without confusion, he considered that he might be a woolly

mammoth, frozen for aeons in permafrost, but only recently thawing out, owing

to that debatable global warming the kids were all obsessed with, or with which

they were all obsessed. (The pedant in him was still very much alive.)
No, the Chicxulub impact that killed off the dinosaurs had somehow passed over

him, like an Angel of Death and, as in some unusual space collisions, his biological

components had been miraculously preserved, as had his cojones.

He could predict that those at the forefront of research would be mesmerised by

his exotic vulnerability and rarity.

By Jove!  Scientists would probably stuff him and analyse the contents of

his stomach. And what would they find?

His digestive processes reminded him.  Faggots and Spotted Dick.

His favourites.

No lunchtime coaching was going to deprive him of those. That was why he

had substituted an after-school detention for Boothroyd-Smythe.  He would

waste his time.

And if he, personally, was a woolly mammoth, what was Milford-Haven?

A Synapsid.  The answer came easily.  He had read something even that

day about juvenile transitions from carnivore to herbivore, and, judging by

the tong-fuls of greenery Milford-Haven heaped on his plate, Snod could

easily slot the Junior Master into the taxonomy.

He hated self-service.  Oh, for the days of yore when Mrs Stevens served

you and remembered that you liked seconds.  There was a song about it:

And they called it cupboard love..

Even the music has degenerated, he thought.  Those were the days, my

friend, lalalalalala.  But have I lived the life I chose?

Knock! Knock!

Who’s there?

Can this be Love that’s calling?

No, it was Milford-Haven.

Sir, the bell’s not went.  It’s Period Seven.

‘Gone’, you imbecile, he muttered to himself.

And through the door he took his solitary way.

By Jove! She’s Got It!

Tags

aconites, anacondas, Candle in Wind, dogwood, faggots, hellebores, Lancashire Hotpot, Lemon Drizzle cake, National Trust, Portrait Gallery, Rain in Spain, Spotted Dick

Drusilla had practised folding and unfolding the collapsible wheelchair

and she had borrowed a tartan travelling rug to drape over her great-aunt’s

knees.

Augusta was strapped into the front seat of Dru’s tiny car.  Gus had elected

to drive, so Dru was relegated to being squashed in the back of her own

vehicle.

At least the weather was dry for once.

So, I’m going home, Aunt Augusta declared.

Dru met her father’s eyes in the mirror. We’re going to see the aconites

first, she side-stepped.

You used to be an aconite, didn’t you Gus?  You used to look so nice

with your little cassock, carrying the candle in the school service,

Augusta reminisced fondly.

No, I was an acolyte, corrected Gus.  Quite different.

Dru found herself droning:

You had the grace to hold yourself/

While those around you crawled..

La la la.. like a candle in the wind..

It was going to be a long day.

Parking at Wyvern Mote was difficult because of all the mud. Dru

heaved the old lady into the wheelchair and tried to push it through

the ruts.

The wheelchair tyres were coated with filth.  It would have to be her car

they were using! (She had just had it valeted by the girls in her boarding

house in aid of their favourite charity: Anacondas in Adversity!)

Gus managed to purchase a ‘Family‘ discounted entry ticket, but he was

peeved as, in the past, he had marched into the grounds with his

mother, before the estate had been handed over to The National Trust. 

There had  been no turnstile then.

Aunt Augusta wasn’t terribly interested in the fiery dogwood, nor the

stinking hellebores.  She was cold and so they made for the tearoom.

I’ll have a glass of champagne and some Lemon Drizzle cake, she

announced.  I always have those at this time of day.

What about lunch? queried Dru.

Oh, well, I’ll have oysters.  There’s an ‘r’ in the month, isn’t there?

Dru ignored her request and bought her a child’s portion of Lancashire

Hotpot.  Gus had wanted faggots, followed by Spotted Dick, but he had

to make do with Hotpot as well.

Frankly, my dears, Dru didn’t care what she had.  She was dying to take

her turn of being let off the hook, so that she could wander up to the

Portrait Gallery, in order to check out any family resemblances.

Gus said he would wait with Aunt Augusta.  He had had his solo fifteen

minutes.

Dru examined every portrait intently, but could see no familial similarities at

all.

Disappointed, she followed the arrows which led her back to the tearoom

via the servants’ staircase and kitchen.  A door was ajar and she peeked

in.  It was the old schoolroom.  On the wall, there was a sepia photograph

of the two boys who had lived there in 1946.  The label informed her that

the sneering and robust of build elder boy was called Master Lionel and the

pale, rather sickly-looking younger one was Master Peregrine.  Alongside

them, leaning rather louchely against his desk was their tutor.  No!  It couldn’t

be!  He was the spitting youthful image of that demented old boy who had

invaded Augusta’s bed the other night.  The label said:…with their tutor

Anthony Revelly, in 1949.

How could she not have noticed?  He had the same jowly features as herself

and her father.

She took out her phone and..

No flash photography! reprimanded a voice from a chair in the corner.  Dru

thought that she had activated some kind of waxwork.  Maybe the wizened

woman was Madame Tussaud herself!

But it was too late.  She had already taken the photo and, if the volunteer

wanted to look as if she was sitting on a holly leaf out of some kind of

masochism, then that was her own lookout.

By Jove! Dru whooped as she made her way into the tearoom. I think I’ve got

it!

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain, sang Augusta.

Time to take her back and then have a consultation!

Are we going home? Augusta demanded.

In a manner of speaking, replied Dru.  I’ll drive!

Staff Meeting

Tags

acronym, arrythmia, Bourbon biscuit, correcting fluid, Daily Mail, faggots, gender fluid, Hippocratic oath, Jammie Dodger, Jeremy Paxman, libido, testosterone, University Challenge

Augustus Snodbury, Acting Head of St Birinus Middle School, looked out

on his assembled staff.  It was the first meeting of 2014 and he felt

uncomfortable in The Headmaster’s chair, amid so many grumpy men.

He nodded curtly to Geoffrey Poskett, relaying an unspoken message

which underlined the transmission that their coincidental holiday

encounter was, in no way, to imply any kind of partiality or informality

now that they were back in their normal routine.

Yawn! Yawn!  There were the usual parental missives, if not missiles,

informing staff of snowboarding fractures.  Then there were Boys To Be

Discussed.  This provoked an excited background hum and Snod had to

lay down the law firmly:  One of you may buzz, I mean, speak.

The School Calendar had been printed at the end of the previous term,

but was now distributed.  Usually each fixture had to be gone over in fine

tooth detail, but Snod pronounced: Well, you can all read, I suppose, so, in

the manner of Jeremy Paxman at the start of University Challenge, I will just

invite you all to crack on.

He eyed young Milford-Haven who was about to snaffle his own favourite

Bourbon biscuit from the trolley.  However, when the young puppy felt the

elder educator’s gimlet gaze bore into him, he eschewed his first choice

and opted for a Jammie Dodger instead.  Very wise as a future career

move.

No conferring! Snod emphasised.

He glanced at dates for the end of term and mused:  Oh, why does Easter

have to be so late this year?  If it is a moveable feast, then why can’t it

be shunted closer to release us all from scholastic torment?

Nigel Milford-Haven put up his hand.  As John Boothroyd-Smythe’s form

teacher, he felt compelled to put one and all in the picture re/ behavioural

issues and their mitigating causes.  One of these was that B-S’s sister had

apparently ‘come out‘ recently as being gender fluid.

I’ve heard of correcting fluid, remarked ‘old school’ Snodbury, but never the

sexual variety.  Pray, clarify.

Several know-it-alls who had been paying attention at the previous in-

house training on Psychosexual Proclivities and the Learning Process came

to attention and tried to contribute to the allegedly open forum.

One of you may answer! boomed Gus.  Well, fascinating though the subject

promises to be,..His olfactory sense had just radared that the first sitting

of lunch was a possibility.

Who is on Lunch Duty today? he asked.

Poskett, always poised for a hasty getaway, was crouching near the door.

I am, sir!  He bowed his head and fled.  He had known that they would

never get round to the pressing matter on his agenda.  Maybe next week!

he muttered.

A final notice, Snod declared.  The smell of faggots was making him lose

concentration.  You may be wondering how The Headmaster is.  The good

news is that he has not suffered a stroke.  Not even a TIA, to use a medical

acronym.  His wife assures us that he has only been experiencing mild

arrythmia, brought on by an arduous Autumn term, combined with an

overindulgent celebration on Christmas Eve.  And, if you have been reading

The Daily Mail lately, which, God Forbid any member of this illustrious

academic establishment would..

Here the aroma of hot beef olives, to use a more polite culinary term, was

really distracting..

…Where was I?  Oh, yes, apparently the acme of journalistic achievement

has suggested that some men d’un certain age develop irrational anxieties,

heart palpitations and alter their personality through low levels of

testosterone. (He stroked his new leather jacket in a spontaneous gesture

of subliminal self-awareness.)  They can even lose their..

Libido, supplied an earnest Milford-Haven, who was probably the only one

in the staffroom attempting to follow his drift.

Suddenly thirty two pairs of eyes widened and their owners ceased to

dwell on stuffing and onion gravy.

Snod coughed.  Aaagh, whatever! he agreed. Anyway, to cut a long story

short, his wife has persuaded him to combat excessive grumpiness by a

course of hormone injections, which should render him more..

Subservient! Milford-Haven nodded.

Compliant! re-stated Mr Snodbury, glaring at the exhibition of impatience

shown by the Junior Master.  He recognised a desire to conclude proceedings

in the worthy cause of nutrition.  But the boy should know his place.  He had

to restrain himself from awarding the member of staff an order mark and

detention.

So, not a word of this confidential information is to pass beyond these walls,

stressed The Acting Head.  He then had to watch everyone else exiting the

room before himself, which probably meant that he would have to go to the

second sitting in the dining room and there would be no faggots left.

Meanwhile, in a mockery of the Hippocratic oath, The Headmaster’s wife was

discussing her husband’s alarming symptoms in Costamuchamoulah must-

seen cafe, over two lattes, with the GP’s spouse, who was going to relay

the absorbing details to multiple caffeine addicts in the weeks to come.

cafe

Fifth Rehearsal

Tags

bratwurst, Britten, Camelot, Ceremony of Carols, faggots, gerund, Nunc Dimittis, Old Hundredth, Paradis XO, St Nicolas

Tension was running high.  There weren’t many weeks left until the St

Nicolas Concert and the Music Department of one-plus-a-few peripatetics

was becoming visibly anxious, willing the older boys’ voices to resist

breaking.

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus Middle School

was almost falling asleep in the foetid heat of the rehearsal room.

Almost, but not quite.  He was there in his capacity of judge and jury,

for he had once sung the lead role in a very good amateur performance

of Camelot, but he refused to lower himself to participate in a school

production.  He regarded himself as a semi-pro.

He was incredibly proud of his daughter, Drusilla, who had been persuaded

to play her harp in the second half of the evening, when Britten’s Ceremony

of  Carols was to have its run through.  He had also passed on a few useful

tips on breathing to Nigel Milford-Haven, tenor and eponomyous Saint,

whose day job made him a little lower than the angels, as far as his

mentor was concerned.

He had been secretly impressed by Nigel’s practical assistance in

manoeuvering Drusilla’s weighty instrument into the hall.  She had been

surprised at such strength being demonstrated from what some would

term a weedy guy -the type who has sand kicked in his face.  Usually she

preferred a bass, but chivalry seemed to be a tenor characteristic, if not a

long-term sustainability feature.

The basses just wondered why he didn’t ask the school caretaker to

assist. They felt they had brains as well as brawn.  But they couldn’t know

how love gave Nigel the power to shift mountains.

Drusilla, being a House Mistress at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-

Gifted Girl, was playing a dual role.  She was accompanying, in both

senses of the word, some of the members of the girl’s choir, who had been

jolly rousing in the movement where they had been drafted in to brew a

storm in the Journey to Palestine section.  They had to sing, standing in

the upper gallery of the hall, on a pierced wrought iron platform, as if they

were on a boat, but Drusilla had stipulated that they should wear non-

uniform trousers for the evening.  In spite of this modest attire, they still

raised a typhoon of raging emotion in the ranks of the older, pre and mid-

pubescent male voices and nearly made a shipwreck of the session.

Gus’ head was just about to lag and his breathing was threatening to

splutter, when his attention became riveted by the words of the Nunc

Dimittis, which Mr Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster, was conducting so

feelingly.

How very apposite! thought Gus. Those words!  The boys must sing this

at my retirement, in the very near future.  I have been a shepherd; I have

been kind  and courageous: a ‘spendthrift in devotion’.  I have guided boys

through all  kinds of perils, on land and sea…Is that a different hymn?  I

have defended  them from the injustices of cruel men.  I mean, some of

my past colleagues who were quite unreasonable.  Like St Nicolas….Ah! 

Didn’t I overhear Pollux  Willoughby of Transitus A say that I was a legend

in my lunch hour?  Or was it in his lunch hour?

(Maybe it was a deliberate ploy to gain an exemption from litter-picking?)

He could foresee a –what was the collective term for a group of grateful

parents?– ‘pension fund of parents‘ pouring from a brass, no, a golden

vessel, a libation of something very expensive in the alcohol line, say,

Paradis XO, over his head- minus his Panama, naturally.  In that eventuality,

they should keep that nectar in the bottle and should anoint him with

something less valuable.  A laurel wreath would do.

He became lost in this soft focus reverie. Then he had to rush back to mark

some wretched scripts.  He left Nigel to assist with the harp, but noticed

Geoffrey Poskett getting in on the act, much to the tenor’s annoyance.

So, it was disappointing that, the very next day, Snod should have to be

confronting the troublesome John Boothroyd-Smythe, whose family was

experiencing difficulties, as everyone knew.  Still, there was no excuse.  The

bratwurst had behaved reasonably well in the rehearsal the previous

evening, but had disgraced himself in the refectory at lunch, by

commenting audibly, as he expectorated a lump of gristle, that the school

faggots– those culinary delicacies which the dinner ladies had been serving

up for aeons- were probably equine, or the products of the same butcher

that Nicolas, Singing Bishop of Myra/ Lyra?, had condemned for

sausagifying – was that a gerund?- the three pickled boys, Timothy, Mark

and John.

Gus refrained from issuing him with the ultimate punishment: suspension

from school, not physically, though there was a very useful flagpole should

the need arise, but he did require the irritating one to write out The Old

Hundredth in musical notation three times, for the following Friday.

The Senior Master was particularly annoyed as he had been on lunchtime

yard duty and there hadn’t been any faggots left by the time he got to sit

down and invite indigestion.  Only the vegetarian options had remained,

sadly. He was so hungry that he almost felt like eating a boy himself, saintly

prohibition, or not!