Cupcake Fascism

Tags

Alresfordism, cupcake fascist, dog to its vomit, fenestration, gentrification, George Formby, Gregory's Girl, Harry Potter, Huffington Post, Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, Macchiato, New York Times, No True Scotsman Fallacy, one swallow doesn't prove summer, paradoxical analogy, passive-aggressive, Plato, provinciality, pseud, Republic, Socrates, The Guardian, Tom Whyman, twee, ukeleles, Wilde, yummy mummy

(Mindmatrix 21/5/2010 (UTC) uploaded to Commons using Flickr upload bot)

Brassica was devastated.

I was just reading ‘The Hamster Chronicle’ and came across some

philosopher guy who has just taken a sledgehammer to the values

of the inhabitants of a town not too far from here.  It is linked to a

2014 article in ‘The Guardian’ and  I found it a terrible excoriation of

market town mentality.  He’s called  Tom Whyman and he has denounced

all we Suttonfordian-types as ‘cupcake fascists.’

I didn’t even vote ‘Leave.’  And, if I order a ‘nice cup of tea’, he says it

will only go to show that I have a stiff upper lip which is, ‘dialectically

speaking’ a sign of cowardice.

Well, have your usual Macchiato instead, I advised.  Look, in all the

years we have been convening in Costamuchamoulah must-seen

cafe, we have never once digested a cupcake.  You would never allow

one to pass your stiff, or otherwise, upper or lower lips.

That’s because it is yummy mummy fodder, she smiled through

watery tears. And we could never be accused of being in that

particular category.

And to what category do we belong?  Remind me.

Passive-aggressive, twee, retrospective diehards who lisp while

strumming along to ukeleles- according to him.

Her lower lip wobbled.

I took the article from her and skim-read it.

And have you ever taken up such an instrument?

Of course not.

Was that because you found such an activity incompatible with

your  desire to impose your bourgeois values on all and sundry, as

this postgrad Whyman suggested-nay- stated?

No!  It’s because that odious little man gave me a window

cleaners’ complex.

Which odious little man? Formby?

Yes, every time our window cleaner arrives unannounced, I have to

run upstairs and close all my curtains, in case he is a voyeur.  That film-

‘Gregory’s Girl’- didn’t help.  You remember that bit when the premature,

but sexually mature school leaver who has a lucrative job to do with

fenestration pronounces: ‘ If I don’t see you next week, I’ll see you through

a windae’?

Oh, well-pronounced.  You sounded nothing like a Suttonfordian.  Your

gentrification slipped as easily as a window cleaner falling off his ladder,

I snorted.

So, you think Suttonfordians should not worry about being

stereotyped by a Harry Potter lookalike, even if he did have an article

accepted by ‘The New York Times?’

I think that the brutality of your perceived ‘niceness’ should see off a

pseud like him with one flourish of your vintage pashmina.  We could

compose a salvo and have it published in ‘The Huffington Post.’  So what?

We have better things to do.

Hmm, you know I am going to have a cupcake just to prove that

I can and that it has nothing to do with how I voted.

(Brassie was defiant.)

Personally, I can’t stand the sickly sweetness of the butter cream

icing, but I will join you in an act of radical point scoring against

anyone who could foul his own nest, as he seems to have done,

considering he was brought up in the hated location.

The thing that really got to me was that he said he was a

philosopher, Brassie persisted.  And I didn’t think his argument

was very logical.

Hah!  I laughed, selecting the gooiest sweetmeat which contained

the greatest density of food colouring and the vilest polka dot paper

case.  It is all an exemplifiacation of ‘The No True Scotsman Fallacy.’

You mean like ‘One swallow doesn’t prove that the summer has

arrived?’

Brassie actually gets to the nub of things fairly quickly sometimes.

Yes, we live in Suttonford and we are the exceptions to the rule.  Yet we

are probably still reactionary bitches in his view.

But he doesn’t know us.

True, but, if he did, it would only confirm his worst opinions.  But, once

he is older and wiser and re-reads ‘The Republic’, he may be reminded

that the visible world is the least knowable and the most obscure,

according to Socrates.

I thought Plato wrote….

He did.  Oh, never mind.  Here!  Get your teeth round this one.  Have

another cup of tea.

So, Suttonford is an example, like Alresford, of a paradoxical

analogy?

Precisely.  And you have to have left the cave of provinciality in

order to attain the ability to rule and to see clearly. He keeps climbing

out, but returns, like a dog to the vomit, to quote a Biblical simile,

to plumb the provincial depths, with a frequency that suggests that

he is a secret speleological lover of all the things he pretends to hate.

Like cupcakes?

Yes, probably even cupcakes.  He’s possibly a closet cupcake fascist.  He may

be a ‘Krispy Kreme’ doughnut man in the city and a cupcake lover in

the country.  How very Wildean!

I’d call that hypocritical, Brassie averred.

You’re not the only one, apparently, I observed, taking a look at some of

the replies and comments on Social Media.  But I like his neologism

‘Alresfordism.’  Maybe it is akin to Suttonfordianism.

Yes, but which is the easier to pronounce?

The one you form with your mouth untainted by cupcake crumbs.

 

 

 

 

End of Term Reports

Tags

Andrex, Beach Boys, flugelhorn, George Formby, Hark! the Herald Angels Sing, Harriet Harman, Hawaiian shirt, Orwell, PHSE, St Birinus, The Calypso Carol

It’s that time of year again, when anxious Suttonford parents await brown

envelopes with the Xmas Letter from the Head, next year’s Calendar of School

Events AND the booklet of reports which, they hope, will validate the great

expense that they have poured into their children’s education and which will

somehow prove that a silk purse can be made out of a sow’s ear, if sufficient

funds have been cast in the right direction.  Bread has been cast on waters

which MIGHT return after many days.

It all depends, of course, on whether the precocious pupil remembers to

deliver the parentally-addressed missive from their backpack, so that an

inspection can be made regarding progress, or the lack thereof.

St Birinus Middle School                    December 2012

William Brewer-Mead (Bill)

Another hyperactive, but productive term for Bill.  His Attention Deficit

Disorder could be seen to influence his pick n’ mix engagement with

the broader curriculum.

His Geography project on sustainability lacked focus, but evidenced

the predilections of a polymath.  (Renaissance man was ever thus!)

If he could persuade himself of the value of physical stillness, he would

perform more consistently and with less impact on his peers.

Nevertheless, what was I saying?  Oh dear, I seem to forget.  Forgive

me.  It’s been a lengthy term.

A*

N. Milford-Haven.

Ferdinand Brewer-Mead  (Ferdy)

Ferdy’s PHSE essay: Ginger and Proud of It!  gave the class much to consider

regarding the school yard persecution of minorities.  His linguistic points on

gender difference: foxy lady (positive); ginger minger (pejorative) were

insightful and far-reaching. Cross-cultural relevance, an important assessment

objective, was achieved in the apposite integration of the Welsh proverb: os

bydd goch, fe fydd gythreulig.  (We will take his word on the translation.)

Political comment was pertinent regarding Harriet Harman’s cruel comments

regarding rodents.  Are rats our brothers? Orwell would have been proud of

him.

1^st for Science-well done! A*

N. M-H (PHSE Dept.)

 

John Boothroyd-Smythe

John’s George Formby impersonation at the House Evening in November

was an example of ukulele playing at its finest.  Some of the lyrics were

somewhat infused with innuendo which may have been considered

unsuitable for some of the Juniors in the audience, as one or two irate,

though perhaps narrow-minded, parents were prompt to point out.

John shines in solo work, as his 25% extra time allowance can detract

from the musical experience of other members of the school orchestra.

Science: 3^rd.  An admirable effort and a foundation which he can build

on as he contemplates future public examinations.

A*

N. M-H (Form teacher)

Castor and Pollux Willoughby- Dual report                    Dec. 2012

Always adept at blowing his own trumpet, Castor’s flugelhorn fluctuations

added a triumphalist tone to the descant of Hark! the Herald Angels Sing

at the Carols n’ Collection for this term’s chosen charity: Curs In Crisis, outside

B&Q.  He coped remarkably well when an inebriated member of the public

inconsiderately rammed a 2x roll packet of Andrex into his instrument.

Twin, Pollux, practised assiduously his marimba accompaniment to The Calypso

Carol for the Junior School Nativity play and showed that his sense of syncopation

and rhytm- (sic) is increasing.

His sporting of a Hawaiian shirt was interpreted as an attempt at ethnic

authenticity, but we beg to remind you that such garments do not conform

to our policies and regulations regarding school uniform.

PS- May I ask where one could buy one?  I am such a fan of The Beach Boys.

Thank You.

A*

Nigel Milford-Haven B.A. Hons., B.Ed.

 

Magic in the Moonlight

Tags

A-level English Literature, Alfa Romeo, au naturel, Baccalaureate, banlieus, billets-doux, Brig O' Turk, Colin Firth, Corniche, coup de foudre, Dumbo, E111, Effie Gray, Eileen Atkins, Emma Thompson, George Formby, ingenue, La France Profonde, Lady Chatterley's Lover, libertinarianism, Madame Blavatsky, Magic in the Moonlight, Merchant of Venice, Millais, Roman blinds, Romeo, Ruskin, sub-titles, ukelele, Urgences, village perche, Woody Allen

Back from Paris.  Only managed a rather saccharine Woody Allen film:

Magic in the Moonlight.  The French subtitles were the most interesting

feature of the viewing experience.  Much was obscured in translation,

and I was fascinated by what was lost.  I don’t think the audience

picked up on the Dickensian and Shakespearean references, even

though we were not exactly in the banlieus.  This led to stifled snorts

when we- my belle-soeur et moi– twigged some little blague or other

and the French remained tres serieux, not noticing the elephant on the

screen, as it were.

I am still amazed that one of my adult neighbours in The Charente had

not heard of Wimbledon, or, indeed, The Bard.  La France Profonde.

The opening of Act Five of The Merchant of Venice it wasn’t.  Loved the

old Alfa Romeo, though.  Preferred it to the ageing Romeo, aka Colin

Firth, who appeared deeply embarrassed throughout, as well he might.

At least he didn’t have to replicate any wet shirt moments. If he had,

then at least he would have dried off pretty quickly in that part of the

world.  They could have got him one of those vintage scratchy woollen

maillots that sagged in elephantine folds when soaked by the vagues,

They protected one’s modesty, while making one look ridiculous.

Eh bien, I know that by the use of that pretentious adjective to describe

the water-retentiveness of the aforementioned garment that I’m just

trying to extend the Jumbo/ Dumbo metaphors.  But, seriously, Colin’s

aunt could probably have knitted him one in her copious free time- when

she wasn’t drinking and driving recklessly, as aged rellies apparently did

back then.

The old bat seemed to have been a bit of a juvenile raver in her

flapperish youth.  The plot suggests that she paid the ultimate

price of her libertinarianism (she had probably bathed au naturel) by

having been jilted.  Good time girls were not marriageable material,

though she clearly had compensation from the married man.  Maybe

the villa?  Because you’re worth it.

I couldn’t help wondering what her string of pearls was worth in old

money?  Anyway, they were probably destined to find their serpentine

way round the cygnet-like neck of the cling-on before too many moons

had waned and you didn’t have to be Madame Blavatsky to make that

prediction.

Thought Eileen Atkins was the kind of aunt anyone could wish for.  Or

at least her villa would have been an attractive place to head for in the

school holidays, but only if there was unlimited access to the Alfa.  I

don’t think one would have wanted to be whirled down any of the

Corniches if she had been behind the wheel, as subsequent events

were to prove.

Oui, unless one’s E111 equivalent is up to date, a trip to Urgences

(Casualty, not a village perche) can be assez chere, even for whiplash.

I don’t think they had E111s in those days, let alone seat belts, or

air bags, but you’d probably have been okay. Just mention the aunt:

in French.

The aunt would have mobilised another rescue car.  She evidently

wasn’t short of a sou or two and she must have arranged for her

prestidigitarian nephew and his predatory ingenue to be rescued

from the observatory, as they managed  to return Chez Tante with

no visible taxi service after the orage. That was when the starry-

eyed duo’s relationship was initiated by a coup de foudre.

Don’t you just adore the obvious metaphor??!

Maybe she could have hired a fawning relative as a chauffeur for the

duration- chauffeuse??  Would have beaten taking a student job in

a transport cafe in good old Blighty.

Anyway, one felt a little sorry- but not too much- for the millionaire

ukelele- playing buffoon who was grooming the ingenue.  No amount

of Worth frocks could have enticed or seduced a girl to shack up with

a richer version of George Formby.  The price for having led him up the

garden sentier was probably a lifelong requirement to check the Roman

blinds were permanently down in the bedroom, especially when the

window cleaner arrived and a need to hurry past all street corners lit

by heritage lamp-posts.  It would probably be easier on one’s nerves

to return the frocks, jewellery and promissory billets-doux.

Tried to be a good aunt myself.  Took a brief trip to Le Vesinet to assist

The Nephew with his A-level English Literature.  No, he is not sitting the

Baccalaureate.

Right, tell me the texts you are studying.

Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

Fine.  (Gulp!)

Oh well, better initiate him into the mysteries.  Look what happened to

poor old Ruskin, as no one informed him of certain basics of the female

anatomy.

Returned home and caught up with Brassica and co.  They’d been to see

Effie Gray, the film whose script was written by Emma Thompson.  Would

be interesting to see if she handles the metaphor more subtly.

It reminded me that I should re-blog my Ruskin poem- the one where the

great art critic is standing in the falls at Brig O’ Turk- probably inviting

rheumatism- and his rival in love, Millais, is painting him while engaging

Effie in some Life Classes.

Will post it next!

Citric Acid

Tags

Agrumes, Americano, Arborio, cashed up bogans, chamois, Citric acid, Dorothy Wordsworth, George Formby, Jane Austen, Kirstie Allsopp, Madeleine Morris, Mocha, quantitative easing, scurvy, Tesco Express, urban rednecks, Vitamin C

What on earth will I cook tonight? I thought, rushing up

the road to Tesco Express.  Let’s see, we have had lamb,

pork, fish, beef.. Oh, I know: prawns! A nice risotto with

Arborio rice. What ingredients do I need to buy?  Ah, a

lime. 

What! Thirty five pence for that tiny green agrume!

Well, I am not the only one to moan about the price of

citrus. Madeleine Morris, the BBC’s Australia correspondent

was griping that a lime in the Antipodes will set you back the

equivalent of £1.50.

No doubt, on paying for it, you would have a face that would look

as if you had sucked its larger yellow relation.

Morris said that Australians didn’t know that they had

it so good, as there has been no recession Down Under and

the drives of urban  rednecks, or cashed up bogans are often

full of boys’ toys which demonstrate this particular species’

spending power.

Unfortunately she felt that being able to afford garnishes for

their gin and tonics and Margaritas did not always go hand in

hand with a display of common sense. She considered that the

moneyed do not always have a wealth of education to match.

Note that she said that, not me!

Anyway, with no sunshine here, I have got to stump up, or

I will probably succumb to some kind of deficiency.  However,

I once read that a lemon has about 75% more Vitamin C than

a lime, so maybe I should just buy an unripe lemon, or a plastic

one and squirt the liquid into the risotto when no one is looking.

I was recounting my experience of rising prices with Carrie in

Costamuchamoulah café. We are not cutting back on caffeine yet.

She was moaning about the price of having her windows cleaned.

You could just clean them yourself with newspaper and vinegar, I

suggested.

She looked at me as if I was mad.  Vinegar smells, she said.

Well, use lemon, but don’t clean them in sunlight.

You’ve just told me the price of citrus, so how many would I need?

she asked.

Okay, I see your point. My chap has put up his prices too and

when he said that he couldn’t clean some of the panes at the rear

of the house as it was too slippery to put up the ladder, I deducted

a percentage of the cost.

That was bold of you, she remarked, but what did he say?

He said he wanted a cup of coffee then, with four sugars.

Scurvy knave!

They all are, I agreed. Different if you offer. Then I thought

that as coffee is expensive, I’d charge him £2.50 for every cup

that he wheedles out of me.

Good idea, she said.  That’s quite cheap compared to here. 

You could sprinkle some cocoa powder over it and call it a

Mocha and charge him one pound more. Or, –now she was

becoming excited – you could put a few mini-marshmallows

on top and have your windows done for free.  Unless we have

more quantitative easing, we will all be going back to barter. 

Imagine Kirstie Allsopp’s next programme. She is capable of

showcasing herself as a kind of expert on haggling: ‘If I give you

a crotcheted egg warmer, will you replace the tile on my

roof?’

There have already been quite a few programmes where

so-called celebrities try to hassle people to give away their

goods for next to nothing, I observed.

Yes, and apparently, when the shop owners and dealers see the

television cameras coming now, they lock their premises, or flee.

Hmm..I replied. I don’t think barter would work somehow. Even

for Kirstie. I think it would alienate my window cleaner.  He told me

he could get £40 per hour elsewhere if I didn’t want him to come any

more. I replied that qualified and experienced invigilators of public

exams with multiple degrees and years of teaching experience earn

less per hour than a Suttonford dog walker. I was trying to get him

to be reasonable.

So did it have an impact?

I don’t know, but I felt better when I only put three spoonfuls

of the old Demerara into his mug.

Do you think that you are becoming bitter? she asked, sipping

at her Americano.

No, I have just reached the age when I could teach my grandmother

to suck eggs and, if I look as if I have sucked a lime, well, it may be

the last opportunity I have had before I eschew the little blighters for

ever!

Well, be careful, Carrie advised.  Remember George Formby.  In his

song he made the point that window cleaners get to see a lot.  They

could blackmail people.  Here, for instance, neighbours would

love to know if you hadn’t made the beds by ten o’clock.

Do you make yours by then? I asked.

Don’t be silly, she said.  My cleaner makes ours.

Don’t you worry that she will gossip about all your business?

Of course not.  We pay her protection money.

So, maybe my coffee bribe is a good idea?

I’d say so.  And, if you want to be kept out of the town limelight,

a Christmas bonus would be a good idea too. Make a tangible

commemoration of the anniversary of his first visit and offer to

carry his buckets and chamois to the van.

Maybe I will just do them myself from now on.  Then I can afford

the odd spurt of acidic.  In fact, I feel a large G and T coming on

at the very thought.

Anyway, if you think about it, it rains so much nowadays, that

there’s little point in doing them at all, mused Carrie.

I’ll drink to that! I said.  After all, Jane Austen and Dorothy

Wordsworth weren’t known for their sparkling windows.

They weren’t known for wasting their time, writing silly

blogs either.

Touche.  Sourpuss!

 

 

End of Term Reports

Tags

Beach Boys, Birinus, Calypso Carol, Castor and Pollux, flugelhorn, George Formby, Harriet Harman, marimba, Orwell, PHSE, ukelele

It’s that time of year again, when anxious Suttonford parents await brown

envelopes with the Xmas Letter from the Head, next year’s Calendar of School

Events AND the booklet of reports which, they hope, will validate the great

expense that they have poured into their children’s education and which will

somehow prove that a silk purse can be made out of a sow’s ear, if sufficient

funds have been cast in the right direction.  Bread has been cast on waters

which MIGHT return after many days.

It all depends, of course, on whether the precocious pupil remembers to

deliver the parentally-addressed missive from their backpack, so that an

inspection can be made regarding progress, or the lack thereof.

St Birinus Middle School                    December 2012

William Brewer-Mead (Bill)

Another hyperactive, but productive term for Bill.  His Attention Deficit

Disorder could be seen to influence his pick n’ mix engagement with

the broader curriculum.

His Geography project on sustainability lacked focus, but evidenced

the predilections of a polymath.  (Renaissance man was ever thus!)

If he could persuade himself of the value of physical stillness, he would

perform more consistently and with less impact on his peers.

Nevertheless, what was I saying?  Oh dear, I seem to forget.  Forgive

me.  It’s been a lengthy term.

A*

N. Milford-Haven.

Ferdinand Brewer-Mead  (Ferdy)

Ferdy’s PHSE essay: Ginger and Proud of It!  gave the class much to consider

regarding the school yard persecution of minorities.  His linguistic points on

gender difference: foxy lady (positive); ginger minger (pejorative) were

insightful and far-reaching. Cross-cultural relevance, an important assessment

objective, was achieved in the apposite integration of the Welsh proverb: os

bydd goch, fe fydd gythreulig.  (We will take his word on the translation.)

Political comment was pertinent regarding Harriet Harman’s cruel comments

regarding rodents.  Are rats our brothers? Orwell would have been proud of

him.

1^st for Science-well done! A*

N. M-H (PHSE Dept.)

 

John Boothroyd-Smythe

John’s George Formby impersonation at the House Evening in November

was an example of ukulele playing at its finest.  Some of the lyrics were

somewhat infused with innuendo which may have been considered

unsuitable for some of the Juniors in the audience, as one or two irate,

though perhaps narrow-minded, parents were prompt to point out.

John shines in solo work, as his 25% extra time allowance can detract

from the musical experience of other members of the school orchestra.

Science: 3^rd.  An admirable effort and a foundation which he can build

on as he contemplates future public examinations.

A*

N. M-H (Form teacher)

Castor and Pollux Willoughby- Dual report                    Dec. 2012

Always adept at blowing his own trumpet, Castor’s flugelhorn fluctuations

added a triumphalist tone to the descant of Hark! the Herald Angels Sing

at the Carols n’ Collection for this term’s chosen charity: Curs In Crisis, outside

B&Q.  He coped remarkably well when an inebriated member of the public

inconsiderately rammed a 2x roll packet of Andrex into his instrument.

Twin, Pollux, practised assiduously his marimba accompaniment to The Calypso

Carol for the Junior School Nativity play and showed that his sense of syncopation

and rhytm- (sic) is increasing.

His sporting of a Hawaiian shirt was interpreted as an attempt at ethnic

authenticity, but we beg to remind you that such garments do not conform

to our policies and regulations regarding school uniform.

PS- May I ask where one could buy one?  I am such a fan of The Beach Boys.

Thank You.

A*

Nigel Milford-Haven B.A. Hons., B.Ed.