Making an Omelette

Tags

cojones, Nick Clegg, omelette

(Rt Hon Nick Clegg: Wikimedia from Flickr;

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

 

Nick Clegg,

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

Never mind Theresa and all her cronies.

As your wife said: show your cojones.

 

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Slow Burn

Tags

Botham, Corn laws, Curricular Development, Dotheboys Hall, Ed Balls, Farage, Gracchi, guillotine, Jethro Tull, La Vache Qui Rit, Monster Raving Loony Party, National Service number, Nick Clegg, Nicola Sturgeon, Nigel Hawthorne, O tempora O mores!, Populares, Radio 4, seed drill, Shredded Wheat, Weetabix, Wisden

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

wandered into the corner of the staffroom that was designated

the staff ‘kitchen’.   It was there that he usually prepared his

solitary breakfast, while the more diligent members of his profession

were singing tunelessly at Assembly.

He opened the fridge.  There was the usual array of plastic tubs

brought in by female members of staff, containing strange salads

and supermarket sushi.  He was looking for milk.  Nothing weird and

wonderful, such as the rice, soya or coconut variety, but something

white that had drained out of an udder in some English rural hamlet.

He was just about to place a third Shredded Wheat into his personal

cereal bowl with its calligraphic flourish: Dotheboys Hall, when he heard

the voice of his conscience- ie/ the dulcet tones of Virginia Fisher-Giles,

School Secretary and personal PA to the new Headmaster:

Two would be lovely, but three would be too much.

Now that seemed familiar.

Of course, that was exactly the sentiment he felt regarding school

terms.  After the Moveable Feast, it used to be all downhill: sitting under

a Sycamore tree with a couple of scholarship acolytes, ‘analysing’ poetry,

while actually studying Wisden; coaching the Junior Team on a Wednesday

afternoon to the mellow thwack of willow on leather.  The most strenuous

activity might have been manning the bottle stall at the school fete…

Ah, now he remembered.  It was Botham who had appeared on that

advertisement for Shredded Wheat.  A big, beefy guy like him was a good

endorser of the product.  Snod felt that personally he had more in common

with Nigel Hawthorne, who had also recommended the carbohydrate-ridden

wheaten rectangles, in a scholarly capacity on one of the other memorable

promotions.  No doubt the health freaks on the staff would blame his madness

and purple urination- Nigel’s (not his) on the evils of gluten.

This wretched newcomer of a Headmaster had Ideas.  Snod sensed the danger

of that approach.  When the children were finished with their summer exams

and were on school trips, that was usually the time for the Senior Masters to

take a little well-earned snooze in the somewhat lumpy chintz armchairs in

the Senior Masters’ Common Room.  Some had even been known to smoke a

pipe, or study racing tips.  Not now.  Oh no!  Not now.

More meetings had been arranged on the school calendar.  Curricular

Development, they called it.  More ****** worksheets to be prepared

for the following year.

Snod had never used a worksheet in his entire career.  He was a chalk

and talk man and somehow vital information had been driven into the

resistant skulls of his protegees as effectively and ruthlessly as if it

had been planted there by Jethro Tull’s innovative seed drill.

It was all too much.  No rest for the wicked.

He pressed the Weetabixes flat with the back of a spoon which still had

someone’s National Service number engraved on its bowl.  He managed

to squash the third pillow-shaped nibble down, before dowsing it in

white sugar and then drowning it in full-fat Gold Top.

Nigel Milford-Haven breezed in singing ‘O what a Beautiful Morning! 

Assembly had ended a few minutes early as Mr Poskett had played

the recessional molto allegro.

Snod gave him one of those looks which he had perfected over the

decades, which was wont to silence the most ebullient pupil.

Not feeling so good, sir?  Nigel was complicit with the mythic alibi that

all absentee and truanting Senior Masters employed, should their

absence be noted.

Snod stepped aside with a heavy deliberation that would have

characterised one of the heavier dinosaurs.  Nigel opened the fridge

and took out some rice milk.

So, it was his after all.  ******typical!  Gus inwardly commented.  ‘Milksop‘

came to his mind.  However, he tried to dismiss that term as he knew that

Nigel might end up as his son-in-law.  O tempora!  O mores!  That

unsweetened muesli rubbish was his too, it seemed.

The election will soon be upon us, Nigel pressed on, ignoring Snod’s

reticence.  Nick Clegg’s on a diet.

I suppose he doesn’t want anyone asking: Does he take sugar?  (Snod

was referring to a Radio 4 programme from the past.  He laughed at

his own joke.  He always did.)

An annoying habit, thought Nigel daringly.

Well, the Junior Master continued, the boys are setting up some

hustings and we will need to borrow the staffroom guillotine to cut the

ballot papers.  We have created various parties for them to feel affiliated

to and they are electing representatives.  John Boothroyd- Smythe is

wearing a rosette which represents The Monster Raving Loony Party. 

Who will you vote for, sir?

The Populares Party.  He sprayed Nigel with some cereal.

The Popular Party?  Not like you, sir.  Is that Farage and Co?

No, that sounds more like you.  Same name for a start.  I refer to the

party whose principles the Gracchi supported.  Whoever controlled the

grain supply held control over the city of Rome.   Grain collected as

revenue would be sold at a subsidised rate.  Like keeping the price of

Weetabix reasonably low so that a working man could have three,

should he so desire.  And I do.

Oh, I see.  Politics has always been about Corn Laws and public ire has

always been aroused if the -I was going to say ‘plebs’-  Can I say ‘plebs’?-

Nigel appealed to the Senior Master for clarification and permission-

if…if the people have to eat brioche, or whatever they were offered

instead of bread.

Something like that, muttered Snod.  And don’t let that Boothroyd child

stir up insurrection.  Tell him from me that there is still a guillotine in the

staffroom and I won’t be using it for trimming flyers.

And what do you think of Nicola Sturgeon, Mr Snodbury? asked the new

French mistress, provocatively.  She reached into the fridge and took out

a Vache Qui Rit to unpeel at break, which she took in the Modern

Languages base room.  That department always kept themselves to

themselves.

Snod looked pertinently at the red disc in her hand.  No laughing matter,

he opined and, bolting the last fibrous spoonful, he dumped the un-rinsed

bowl in the staff sink and headed for his first lesson, which he was

preparing even as he walked the length of the corridor.

‘Slow burn‘ was something Ed Balls had worryingly claimed to be a master of,

but three Weetabix was truly the slow energy release that all in authority

needed to perform their challenging roles, whether that be PM, or plain

Senior Master.  And, as for third terms- yes, they should be abolished.

Snod would certainly make his mark against that one.

What’s in a Name?

Tags

cojones, Equal Opportunities, flamenco, horse leech's daughter, impersonal pronoun, Inklings, Nick Clegg, Pele Tower, Probate Registry, Proverbs 30, Rubicon, Spanish dictionary, St Trinians, The Ministry of Justice, tick box

Drusilla studied the Job Description, with its list of Key Responsibilities.  It had

twenty bullet points outlining duties and skills.  The person specification was

superhuman and its requirement of good time management skills was an

essential, but no single human being could have fulfilled its roles.  This was a

vampire-like predatory beast of a post which would be like the horse leech’s

daughter in Proverbs chapter 30-ie/ perpetually crying, Give, give!  It lent a

whole new blood-sucking dimension to the concept of the tick box.  It was

enough to give you the symptoms of Lyme Disease.

She had heard on the radio that women were inclined to lack confidence

about applying for jobs if they judged that they only possessed about 95% of

the desired skills.  Men, on the other hand, ignored all the hype and, even if

they only had 65% of the skill set, they would apply anyway.  So much for

Equal Opportunities and Investment in People!

Dru thought, Cojones!  She was grateful to Nick Clegg’s spouse for giving her a

useful expletive which had an educated ring about it.  She could imagine the

sultry spouse dispensing it with Latin fervour when Nick came back late, or

hadn’t remembered to take out the rubbish.  It had the harsh initial consonant

that would complement a castanet flick and a stamp of Flamenco heel on a

kitchen floor.

Dru had crossed her Rubicon now and was only slightly perturbed as she had

wondered about changing her surname.  Granted, she had dispensed with the

hyphenated addendum of ‘Syylk‘ and was happy to bear her mother’s surname:

‘Fotheringay’.  But should she be a ‘Snodbury’?  No, should she be a ‘Revelly’?

A laboratory accredited by The Ministry of Justice might provide a parentage

test.

She could have launched a court action to claim an interest in the Wyvern

Estate, but what was the point in filing a caveat in the Probate Registry?  No,

she would have to discuss it with her step-father, Murgatroyd Syylk.  He

needed to know that he was not her biological father.  Heavens to

Murgatroyd!  He might want a DNA test too.

Miss Fotheringay sounded as though the bearer had some gravitas and would

look good on the school prospectus.  Miss Revelly sounded a little flippant,

perhaps a shade decadent.  She would not want any connotations of St

Trinian’s high jinks.

The interview was in two weeks.  After that she would go up to the pele

tower for Whitsun.  But at least she had been shortlisted.

She fingered the gold harp on its chain which she wore next to her skin.

There might be no time for romance now.  And, would it be inappropriate

to start a relationship with one’s employee?  Surely one had a duty of

care?  She was practising the use of the impersonal and first person

plural pronouns already.  Better ensure that she did not become mad

through power, as Maggie Thatcher had, when she issued her

announcement of  grandparental status.

Nigel was fading into the background and for Geoffrey, frankly, she didn’t

give a-whatever the singular was for ‘cojones’.  She lifted her Spanish

dictionary off the shelf.  Life was all about educational opportunities.

But she could see why her father wanted to retain his Inkling status.

Maybe he had an inkling that there was no such thing as a free lunch,

even a school one.

As for personal strengths, she may have been accused in the past of

nagging in the Boarding House.  That could be transmuted into

‘powerful, motivational speaker.’

Bingo!

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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!

AOB

Tags

Albion, AOB, archaic language, Baptism rite, Birinus, Captain Mainwaring, Coatbridge, Dad's Army, David Cameron, Eastenders, exophoric reference, Hercules, league tables, Nick Clegg, Pegasus, Pike, Scaevola, second person pronoun, Sisyphus, Spotted Dick, teachers' planner, tuning fork

Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster of St Birinus Middle School, indicated that

he wanted to speak by waving a rolled up cone of music manuscript

paper. There had not been enough time for his pressing item in the

previous Staff Meeting.

Permission to speak, sir?  He addressed The Acting Head, Mr Augustus

Snodbury, who wondered if the music master detected any irony in his

exophoric reference to Dad’s Army.

It was in the hiatus between a discussion on educational theories and

their implementation, or otherwise, and an expression of subject-specific

discontent with timetabling difficulties connected to The Music

Department and its long term practice of throwing a tuning fork into

the well-oiled, or reasonably well-oiled, machinery of the school day.

Yes, Poskett. Out with it.  We haven’t all day.

The School Song, sir…I think it is a little outmoded.

There was a collective gasp of shock and disapproval.  This had

nothing to do with the view being expressed, but had more to do

with the perceived threat of lunch being delayed for the second time

in a week.

Well, sir, even the C.of E. is changing the lexis of its baptismal rite, to

attract the kind of congregation, or customer, who usually views

Eastenders and suchlike.

Snod looked as if he would explode, but Poskett carried on obliviously.

You see, children and parents today cannot relate to such phrases as

‘soaring Pegasus’; ‘the Herculean task before us’; Scaevola’s flaming

hand of courage and ‘Sisyphean persistence’.

And with what do you propose to replace these time-honoured phrases,

Poskett?   Snod looked at him as if he was a First Year who had

forgotten his pencil case.

Geoffrey unrolled the paper and cleared his throat.  I have taken the

liberty of re-writing our battle-cry and, if you care to listen, it will only

take two minutes to appraise you all of my new draft.

Taking a liberty just about sums it up, whispered a Sports master,

who, having been outside all morning in a howling gale, was naturally

fairly ravenous and just wanted the discourse to be concluded asap.

He couldn’t have cared less about vocabulary, unless it was an

unparliamentary variety on the pitch and then, unless it had been his

personal utterance, he noticed it very much and usually inflicted penalties

of runs around the circumference of the field, the number of circuits directly

relating to the grade of linguistic objectionality.

Spotted Dick! Snod agonised.  The blasted boys will descend on it like

locusts in the First Sitting.  Would locusts eat sponge puddings?  This

thought troubled him, so that he barely heard Poskett begin his big sell.

It’s to the tune Old Suttonford, the  choirmaster enthused.  He held his

tuning fork to his ear and began to sing:

Our loving saint we’ve come to venerate

once reached the parts of Albion’s coast none else

would ever care to circumnavigate

and of our links to him we proudly boast.

Should our awards go into the minus,

we can always call on dear Birinus.

He blesses our results and should we slip

down league tables, he saves our sinking ship.

All laud and honour be to thee our saint

and may our praise to thee be never faint…

The lunch bell rang and woke several masters.

Nigel Milford-Haven automatically lifted his Teachers’

Planner and register from the floor.

Snod thundered:  The bell is for me; not you lot.  I will

determine when this lesson- er-meeting is over.

Nigel blushed.

The thing is, Snod spoke decisively.  Apart from the fact that

the scansion leaves a lot to be desired, may I say that I happen

to like archaic language.  This wasn’t a question.  It gives us a sense

of tradition.  Poskett, the whole ditty is riddled with ancient second

person pronoun forms and Latinate polysyllabic verbs, to boot.  It

would be even more challenging for those parents whose education-if

we could term their studies such- took place post-Seventies. Who

nowadays has a concept of veneration?

The only Albion the masses- he did not say ‘plebs’-recognise

is a football team from Coatbridge.

And ‘Sinking ship’ I find a cliched metaphor unworthy of this school.

Poskett’s head seemed to disappear into the ghastly non-sartorial

collar space where a tie should have been.

(Snod blamed this fashion faux pas entirely on David Cameron and Nick

Clegg.)

And, since society was making inroads into the basic standards for which

St Birinus stood, the Acting Head showed a little mercy, not entirely

blaming the choirmaster for all of Britain’s ills.

Let’s put it to the vote, he declared.  Who prefers this version?

Nigel felt obliged to raise his hand feebly, out of misplaced loyalty, since

he had discussed the re-write with Geoffrey on their holiday in early

December.  He looked around furtively.  No one else had voted.

Snod looked at him in the same way that Captain Mainwaring regarded

Pike.  Only he did not say, Stupid boy!  At least not aloud.

While most of the others gently stampeded out of the staffroom, all

Poskett could do was to direct his crumpled manuscript toward the bin

in the corner.  And, at least his face was minimally saved, as the scrunched

missile met its target in one smooth and accurate trajectory.

The Sports Master, who had been impeded in his exit by a scrum, observed

this impressive hand eye co-ordination and invited him to take part in a

staff/ pupil basketball game in aid of Anacondas in Adversity.

But Geoffrey was too drained to make a commitment.

Iron Maiden

Tags

Anton du Beke, Barack Obama, Chinos, Christmas fayre, David Cameron, Herb Alpert, ironing, James Last, Jimmy Savile, MItt Romney, Nick Clegg, Tijuana Brass, US election

The fireworks are over.

The children enjoyed the party and observed all the Health and Safety rules.  Brassica and Cosmo were on good form. They disappeared into the observatory for ten minutes and emerged, looking as if they had stars in their eyes.  Ginevra didn’t drink too much, though she did swig from a hip flask from time to time and, when the guy didn’t ‘take’, she drained the dregs over the brazier and the flames shot out like a rocket.  Poor Caligula!  And poor perfectly good Chinos!

What have you got in there? Gyles said reprovingly.  Lighter fuel?

Only Jane Austen’s Secret Tipple.  I wasn’t going to waste Dewlap’s Gin for Discerning Grandmothers, was I?

Magda wheeled Ginevra away when it was all over. The expression ‘damp squib’ was never mentioned.

Gyles and Tristram caught up on all things technological and even asked Sonia for her prediction on the outcome of the US election.

Barack’ll win, she said.  I’m sure of that.

How do you know? I asked.

No one could possibly take anyone called Mitt seriously, she said.

His first, his Christian name- Mormon name?-is Willard, actually, I informed her.  And, anyway, a lot of people took Jimmy Savile seriously and his name was pretty credible.  So, you have to see past the appellation.  What do you think of his policies?

The same as Nick Clegg, she said triumphantly.  We don’t know.  They’re all the same.  Even David Cameron keeps changing his mind.  Romney isn’t Appalachian, she added.

No, I didn’t say he was.  This is an example of our surreal conversations.  He was born in Mexico.

I’ve always liked that Mexican Hat Dance by James Last, she said.

You mean Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass, granny, shouted one of the boys, whizzing past her with a sparkler (in a gloved mitt, or did I mean a willard?)

Put it on for us, Ferdy! Let’s party! she shouted, but he pretended not to hear.  It was time for me to go.  The Husband would be looking for his hot chocolate.

I’d vote for that Anton du Beke, she said.

Alyona helped to clear up the debris and I had a few minutes to talk to Carrie.  She wanted me to go to a charity Christmas Fayre with her, but I told her that any event that is spelled with a ‘y’ was anathema to me.  I don’t think she knew what I was talking about, so I just made the excuse that I had too much ironing to do.  Actually, it wasn’t an excuse: it is the truth.

When I started on the Mount Etna pile this afternoon, I remembered that I had written a poem about ironing some time ago, so I found it in the cellar and here it is:

IRON MAIDEN

With her iron resolve, she had a way

of impressing you that each shirt

was her lifeblood’s sacrifice for that day.

The painstaking rotation of a skirt,

sun-ray pleated or school uniform, brought

a starched expression to her fine-creased mouth:

as if you had deliberately bought

such items to remind her of a youth

as flat as that board. Often she would spit

on the plate, testing its temperature

ostensibly, but revealing by it

her contempt. Sometimes she’d say, Is that your

underwear? in a tone that would have scorched

virgin driven snow- a linen setting

for silk; meltdown for these garments debauched

by Parisian frippery, netting

of nylon lace: knick-knacks of knavery.

She put them in the middle of the pile,

and though most jokes were thought unsavoury,

said, Next week’s washing’s hanging down. No smile.

Point of information: your hem’s too short.

No irony detected. Now I fold

my own clothes, launder, tumble-dry and sort

myself out. Doing it all wrong, I’m told.

Yet I believe she’s running out of steam;

there’s more evidence of the velvet glove

than upper hand and, it would also seem,

knife edges can be ironed out by love.

Butt Me No Butts

Tags

Battle of Bosworth Field, coalition, David Cameron, David Dickinson, Leicester, Leicester University, Nick Clegg, Oxbridge, Porsche, Richard, Richard III, Shakespeare

Archaeologists looking for the grave of Richard III have said that there is strong circumstantial evidence that may support the view that the skeleton discovered under a Leicester car park is indeed the crook-backed monarch.

Richard III’s opening words in his eponymous play are applicable to 2012 for he refers to the clouds that loured in our glorious summer being buried and

now.. our brows [are] bound with victorious wreaths.

A succinct précis of the last few weeks.

 Like The Duke – and I don’t mean David Dickinson – I am not shaped for sportive tricks – at least not nowadays, but I have enjoyed the athletic spectacles as you know, dear reader.

The Duke – let’s just call him Cameron – immediately confronts Clarence – let’s just call him Osborne – and asks him why he has an armed guard.  His addressee says he is being taken to the Tower because his name is George.  Cameron tells him that he should blame his godfathers for that nomenclature. (He doesn’t mean the Mafia.)  At this point I just wondered why Osborne didn’t revert to Gideon, his alternative appellation.

If he was a wine he would be Malmsey, but that is by the by.

In this country we don’t need a wizard to tell us that our children will be disinherited by someone whose forename begins with G.  There is no Gordian knot of a riddle to unpick: we have a choice of at least two and the aural hint of the other scapegoat is in the metaphor.  I hope I speak no treason.

Clegg’s Oration to his Army:

What shall I say more than I inferred?

Remember who you are to cope withal,

A sort of vagabonds, bigots – oops, delete –

(I never meant that I should term them so)

A scum of Britains and base lackey peasants…[sic]

Who never trod the primrose Oxbridge path.

And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow?

A milksop – man or mouse?

The best laid plans of mice and coalitions

Gang aft agley.

Still thou art blest compared wi’ me!

An’ forward tho’ I canna see

I guess an’ fear.

Cameron: A Porsche!  A Porsche!  My kingdom for a Porsche!

We will unite both parties – wait and see.

Smile Heaven upon this fair conjunction.

The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood.

All this divided Clegg and Cameron.

May their politic heirs enrich the time to come

With smiling plenty and fair prosperous days.

And let there be an end to strife.  We pardon

All traitors in The Wars of the Rose Garden.

Cry God for Harry in his naked glory,

For George and all who henceforth will vote Tory.

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

Not Bovvered

Tags

Anglo the Musical, Anglo-Irish bank, Bargain Hunt, Canada geese, Danny Boyle, David Barby, David Cameron, Elysian Quartet, FT, House of Lords, House of Lords Reform, Ian McEwan, Lysistrata, Mastermind, MI5, Nick Clegg, Pointless, Stockhausen, Togo

Saturday, 25^th August

Pouring.  Stayed in and read Lunch with the FT.  Ian McEwan has brought out a new book, so he was being wined and dined. On a previous occasion, he remarked, he married his interviewer.  No pressure then.  He explained that he had once applied for a job with MI5, online, and ended up by having to answer questions on the migratory patterns of Canada Geese.  I became over-excited as this is a topic I have mentioned before in my blog and so I might have been in with a chance. It is another topic useful for Pointless or Mastermind general knowledge section.

(I really must apply to be a contestant soon.  Once I met David Barby, entirely by accident, I hasten to add, and he commented that I would be good on Bargain Hunt, but I told him that I thought the mandatory fleeces were a bit last century.)

The frequency of spotting helicopters in the skies might not have been anything to do with Prince William after all.  It might have had everything to do with rehearsals for Stockhausen’s Mittwoch aus Licht, even if I hadn’t necessarily only seen them on a Wednesday.

We have had to wait seventeen years for a full premiere.  Four members of The Elysian Quartet- well, there would be four in a quartet, wouldn’t there?-went up singly, in separate helicopters, and made a scraping noise which was beamed down to four screens at ground level.  Nine soloists played on trapezes.  There were long periods of silence and nothingness which puzzled the audience, just as had been a feature of the Olympic ceremonies.  It was meant to be an outpouring of the ego on an intergalactic scale.  So, something in common with Danny Boyle productions, then?

Remaining on the musical theme, I see that Dublin theatregoers are buying tickets for Anglo: the Musical, which is about the Anglo-Irish Bank and its role in boom and bust.  The tagline is: because all it takes is a few muppets to screw an entire country.  We have to wait till November for the opening, and I expect they will be able to add a few more song and dances numbers to the show by then.

I see that women in Togo are denying their men sexual favours, in order to encourage reform.  Maybe they read the Lysistrata over there.  Already Nick Clegg is being inspired and is refusing to get into bed with David Cameron, metaphorically speaking, unless he is granted House of Lords reform.  Unfortunately, Cameron is so not bovvered.

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

Mood Patterns

Tags

Cabinet of Animosities, David Cameron, Le Creuset, Nick Clegg, Zagreb

Monday

The warmest place yesterday was Cambridge @ 31degrees.  The wettest places were Cumbria and Wales.

There was a radio programme this morning called The Cabinet of Animosities about a museum in Zagreb which has a woebegone collection of items which have been donated by people who have experienced broken relationships.  Maybe David Cameron could send them a Le Creuset lasagne dish which had contained a country supper, or Nick Clegg could post them a pressed rose from Downing Street’s back garden, or even the entire coalition document.

A Professor Stone of some university which may be called Stonybroke (rather aptly) has written that Cultural myths may vastly over-emphasise actual day of the week mood patterns.  In other words we loathe Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays as much as Mondays.  The Friday feeling kicks in when we contemplate training for the Paralytic Olympics at the weekend, however.

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

Too Darn Hot

Tags

Beckhams, Ben Ainslie, Chichester Festival Theatre, coalition, Cole Porter, Danny Boyle, David Cameron, Kiss Me Kate, London 2012, metaphysical poetry, MItt Romney, Mo Farah, Nick Clegg, Nick Clegg rose garden, Olympics, Team GB, Tom Daley

Friday

27 degrees in London, but no gold medals for GB.

The synchronised swimming didn’t look that synchronised, nor was there a lot of swimming going on.  BMX I associate with kids.

More attractive was a trip to Chichester for Kiss Me Kate. When the chorus sang It’s  too Darn Hot! I concurred. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with the general ideology, but the showmanship would have outshone a Danny Boyle spectacle any day.

Cole Porter was an absolute genius for lyrics and the cast’s diction was spot on. I’m always true to you darlin’- in my fashion might have been a coalition rendition for Nick Clegg to sing to Dave in the rose garden.

Day 15- 32 medals to be won- the most for any day thus far.

Flymo!

Romney has chosen his running mate, I see.  It sounds as if they are going to enter the 5,000 metres in Rio.

A medal for each of his twins – that was Mo’s aim and he achieved it. The Bolt was incredibly well-mannered about Birmingham and Brunel Universities and their hospitality. I hope that someone will sneak the relay baton for him.

Yes, there were batons and successful bantams.  There was bravery in the diving with various degrees of waxing evident. The hirsute level did not seem to hamper success.

I hope that the Beckham boys hadn’t indulged in flash photography when Daley was concentrating.  David was babysitting so Posh could get in some much-needed dress rehearsal. How many black outfits does she have to try on? He must get fed up with hearing her saying, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want.  He probably mutters under his breath. What I really want is a bit of peace round here. Hence the quality time with the boys.

Ben Ainslie came on screen, looking rather knackered and he announced that he would be carrying the flag in the closing ceremony.  He may/ may not go to Rio. (Cue for a Winehouse song):

They wanted me to go to Rio, but I wouldn’t go-o-o.

He might make a second career as a pop star. He has the looks and we all know that you don’t need a voice.  Maybe he is going to settle down and have four kids- one for each medal.  I thought of all those Metaphysical poems where youthful good lookers were persuaded to have progeny to continue their genetic line.  Don’t waste it, Ben!

One more day to go.

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