Back to the Future

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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.

In the Bleak Midwinter

Tags

credit crunch, Gordon Brown, In the Bleak Midwinter, iPod, MFI, Richard Dawkins

Juniper’s mum reminded me that I had some old poems lurking in my filing cabinet.  I found this one from a couple of years ago.  Unfortunately, there isn’t much to update, except for trying to find a rhyme for Cameron or Osborne- more difficult than Brown!

In the Bleak Midwinter

 

In the bleak midwinter

Credit Crunch took hold.

People stole scrap iron;

lost their faith in gold.

Stocks had fallen, down and down,

down and down,

in the bleak midwinter of

Gordon Brown.

Cash no longer feeds us;

debt is not sustained.

All our baubles flee away;

Christmas cheer is feigned.

In the bleak midwinter,

our stable block won’t sell;

recession has zapped MFI-

“Woolies” gone as well.

Enough for those with bonuses,

pampered left and right.

Heaven and Earth are moved for them:

Might is always Right!

Enough for those connected

to people at the top-

celebrities and braying fools-

all who live to shop.

Richard Dawkins (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Angels and archangels

gather round the crib.

Richard Dawkins tries to say

that it’s all a fib.

Kids crave animation,

inheritances cashed.

The baby’s been aborted

and the Wise Men trashed.

What can we offer,

poor as we are?

If fuel prices rocket,

we’ll sacrifice our car.

Taliban and terrorist

could give up their creed,

If Westerners renounced their pride

and their mordant greed.

In the bleak midwinter,

frosty wind made moan.

Someone left a message-

not on an ansafone.

It wasn’t on an iPod

and had a strange typeface:

it spoke of His investment

in the human race.

Catty

Tags

Barcelona, Cat, Gordon Brown, husband, London 2012, Olympics, Sagrada Familia, Scotsman, Tesco

I heard that there were lots of Olympic tickets unsold and there was happy footage of cheerful Romanians practising their sure-fingered prestidigitation on unsuspecting Japanese tourists, right in front of the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona.  They were limbering up for London 2012. I couldn’t understand why I was watching a programme about them, instead of seeing them being arrested. Security was forcing innocent ticket holders to open their packed lunches while the gangs observed the whereabouts of their wallets.  Come to think of it, G4S would probably be suspicious of Big Issue sellers if they were Romanian.  If there were to be a dearth of security volunteers, I might suggest that our local tramp could get himself a job.  After all, he could provide his own mobile phone. Gordon Brown had declined a ticket, apparently.  Well, no Scotsman would want to hazard having his pocket picked.

The news excelled itself in the reportage of doom.  Seemingly we are all heading for heart attacks because we do not do enough aerobic activity. Fair enough, I thought, but it isn’t exactly inspiring to go out in the driving rain.  There had been a momentary diversion of the jet stream and I had hot-footed it to Tesco Express, leaving my coat behind in misguided optimism.  Even the Big Issue seller had disappeared: perhaps he had secured a job with Mr Buckle.

I returned and went upstairs to look at my e-mails.  There was one in the Inbox which was headed Sad News.  I hesitated before opening it, wondering if the woman’s husband or father had died, but it was only her seventeen and three quarters year old cat that had gone to that scratching post in the sky.  Maybe the sender would hold a service of celebration for all the joy that she had been brought, along with some offerings of dead mice and the odd baby bird.  She could hold a wake and could serve sandwiches- not Whiskas, although I thought that you could probably eat them without doing yourself any damage.  I know of several people who feed their cats peeled prawns and their children Turkey Twizzlers.

I was unsure how to respond.  Clinton cards were gone, or going, from the High Streets, so where was I to find a suitable missive?  I could make one myself and add something appropriate, such as:

Your moggie’s snuffed it.

I’m so sorry

that it was not

your husband.

A cat has nine lives:

thank goodness

your husband

only has one.

Maybe that was a bit cynical.  If it had been the husband who had shaken off his mortal coil, I could send:

Your husband’s snuffed it.

But, chillax –

at least it wasn’t

your cat.

Felines, whoa-oa-oa-felines! 

R.I.P.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012