Kung Fu Panda 2 (The Gaffe)

Tags

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

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

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

publicity yesterday.  I must be ahead of trend.

Apparently Kung Fu Panda accepted an unconditional offer of admission to

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

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

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

referendum.

Someone told the student newspaper Tab that they thought his acceptance

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

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

participation in the pseudo-democratic process is a joke.

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

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

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

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

even to take up his notional place at LSE.

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

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

for hosting the odd rebel or outcast.

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

everyone needs a laugh now and then, but most entrepreneurial

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

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

others.

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

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

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

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

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

interpretation’.  Just like my posts!

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

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

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

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

through it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and don’t take political prisoners.

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

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

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

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

versions.

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

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

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

For Whom The Bell Tolls 1

Tags

Caligula, deja vu, Evian, flugelhorn, marimba, Piglet, teachers' planner

Never ask for whom the bell tolls, sighed Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master

at St Birinus Middle School.  It tolls for me.

Term had only just begun and the first form time bell had sounded.  Gus

looked at the twenty five fresh-faced, newly kitted-out hopefuls who were

squirming at the tables in front of him.

An overwhelming sensation of deja vu swept over him, like a provincial

tsunami, and he opened his spanking new attendance register to call out the

boys’ names.  Next year registration would be electronic, so thank goodness

he would have departed ere that.

Boothroyd-Smythe, John?

Sir! 

Snod looked over the top of his spectacles.  The little blighters had been

known to call out on each others’ behalf.  Had there been a nuance of

sarcasm in the tone of the response?  Even the process of determination as

to who was actually in attendance could be a minefield.

Really, he had not wanted this particular form, but The Powers That Be had felt

that a known disruptive such as the aforementioned might be better contained

under the eagle eye of an old timer.  Caligula, as the Junior Master was

ironically known, had blanched, or even blenched, as Piglet was wont to do, at

the very thought of being responsible for such a mini-terrorist.

Snod scanned the seemingly endless blank pages in his Teachers’ Planner.

Half-term appeared to be galaxies away.  If only he could stagger on till the

end of October.  A nice little flu epidemic which would strike the boarders

would bring relief in the decimation of numbers, or maybe some hero would

organise a short trip, giving the rest of the staff some respite.  But it wouldn’t

be him-ah, no! He had achieved the full set of medals for that activity in his

considerable past.

The timetable was becoming increasingly difficult to deliver, as each pupil

seemed to have a custom-made schedule with certain periods devoted to

individual activities, such as Performance, Learning Support, marimba, or

flugelhorn lessons with those blessed peripatetics, and so on.

This year things were becoming outrageous.  Two boys had chillax sessions.

They had specially assigned ergonomic chairs and precious space had had to

be sacrificed to accommodate their beanbags, which meant that Snod had

been compelled to reduce the circuit of his classroom model railway.  I say his,

as no one was allowed to touch the track, or the carriages, except himself, as

one unfortunate new kid on the block had found out to his eternal detriment in

1986.

But a mini-bar, well-fridge- for emergency rehydration of students before

Assembly!  He really felt that was going too far,  Still, he could put some

bottles of gin and tonic in there for the end of the school day.  There might

not be room for a lime, but no matter.  He could squeeze the bottles of

Evian to the back.

Castor and Pollux Willoughby- now they needed to be split up.  They were

of an age when individuation was appropriate to their development.  Besides,

he required a volunteer to partner John Boothroyd-Smythe.  The fact that

neither of the twins wanted to sit beside the thuglet was neither here nor

there.  He didn’t want to sit anywhere near him either.

Ah well, one year to go.  Soon it would be over and his forty years of ticking

off the days, weeks, months and years to retirement was almost at an end.

Drat!  He had entered Boothroyd-Smythe twice- once under B and then again

under S for Smythe.  What was it with these double-barrelled nomenclatures?

They took up so much space and time and made one’s wrist ache when writing

reports.

Now his pristine first page was desecrated and despoiled by the correction.

The bell rang again, shrilly and insistently.  Assembly!

Right!  Line up.  Boothroyd-Smythe, you lead the way!  This was a time-worn

ploy to get the difficult ones onside.  It never worked.

From now on, he determined, I’m going to address him as B-S.  No point in

wasting breath.  Conservation of energy is necessary to tide me through.

Noisy Neighbours

Tags

Archbishop of Canterbury, Bing Crosby, boobs, catwalk, Christopher Robin, Duchess of Cambridge, husband, Mark Tully, Piglet, Prince William, Rowan Williams, Something Understood, St Andrews University

There is something funny going on here!  I have just remembered that Kate Middleton paraded down a catwalk at St Andrews University, wearing a transparent dress, possibly to deliberately attract Wills’ attention.  So should she turn on the coyness now?  Or is it suddenly immoral for journalists to intimately reveal her to the world since she has acquired an elevated status? Maybe it is all to do with the timing of disclosure being down to an individual’s personal choice.  (see Gottes Zeit below.)

Anyway, there is nothing worse than people becoming bored with your boobs.  Unless it is becoming incensed with noisy neighbours.  Now the two topics in this paragraph should be great tags for anyone’s blog!

I’m only getting round to discussing the latest Something Understood, presented by Mark Tully, on Radio 4, as it has taken me nearly three days to recover from the emotional wreckage and sleep deprivation inflicted by my noisy neighbours in the early hours of Sunday morning.

The theme of the programme was based on the quotation: Is Discretion the Better Part of Valour?

This struck a chord as I deliberated whether to simmer once again with suppressed rage at anti-social nocturnal activities.

Yes, dear readers, even in sleepy Suttonford where the local rag will report a missing budgie on the front page and scintillating evening classes may revolve around the crocheting of loo roll holders, there is still a serpent in Eden.

You’ll have heard it said that there is no rest for the wicked, but this has been amended to simply: there is no rest.

The rasping cackle of a female laugh which resembled the onomatopoeic rapid rifle’s rattle from the trenches, as described by The War Poets, cut through glazing and blinds and permeated the bedroom as noxiously as a gas attack.

I had been listening to Tully discussing whether Falstaff’s discretion was in fact comic cowardice.  This query was juxtaposed alongside the lyrics of a song:

You can stand me up at the gates of hell:

I wouldn’t back down.

I won’t be turned around;

Gonna stand my ground.

Thanks for that, I thought.  Go, girl, and DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!

Different camps had either criticised or praised Archbishop Runcie for being indecisive.  Sometimes, he had seemed to think, it could be helpful to nail one’s colours to the fence.  Compromise is not necessarily weak.

Personally, as I flew out of the back door into the garden, I must confess that I felt like nailing some people to the fence, possibly with a staple gun.

In the past I had been indecisive. I’d compromised. Okay, so President Kennedy had avoided a Nuclear Armageddon by masterly indecision.  Elizabeth I’s foreign policy had been marked by procrastination.  But one day she decided to cut off her cousin’s head.

Bing Crosby smarmily sang: I surrender, dear. I could still hear it in my mind.  I immediately repulsed the thought and replaced it with a reminder of the philosophy of Pooh and Friends. Even Piglet did not avoid confrontation and he was accorded the highest praise for his bravery.

Pooh:  Did Piglet tremble?  Did he blinch? [sic]

Piglet:  I-I thought I did blinch a little.  Just at first!

Pooh: You only blinched inside, and that’s the bravest way for a very small Animal not to blinch..

So, I went out into the garden and I tried not to blinch. I bellowed as if I was a very big Animal. I told them to behave themselves in no uncertain terms.

Rowan Williams spoke next.  No, not in my garden.  He wasn’t behind a bush, burning or otherwise.  He had been on the programme too.  I could still hear his voice:

Don’t lose touch with both sides in the conflict, so people keep speaking.

Would he mediate?  I couldn’t imagine him approaching the rowdies in his mitre and dalmatics.  Presumably, at that time of night even the Archbishop of Canterbury would wear pyjamas.  Mind you, they would probably take as much notice of him as if he was wearing the invisibility cloak we have discussed in previous posts.

Rowan had said that one should never be tempted to be seen to be doing something decisive in order to gain approval.

No, I think I am safe there.  Approval is not going to be an outcome.

Then The Archbishop chided with a caveat:

Who carries the cost of what I say or do?   

a)   Others.  Well, they don’t seem to be affected at all, so that is that.

b)  Myself.  Yes, the Husband knows that I won’t be able to sleep for the rest of the night as I will be emotionally wrecked.

But, Rowan is encouraging here.  If I alone am to bear the cost of any decision to stand up and be counted, then, what is there to be afraid of, so long as I can cope with myself afterwards?

I can cope.  I can cope.

So, BELT UP, WILL YOU?!

Tully inserted an interesting little poem at this juncture about a cautious man whose relations made some kind of life assurance claim on his demise.  However, they were told that they were due no payout, as, since he had never lived, he could not have been considered to have died.

Vivamus, mea  Lesbia , vivamus.  Let’s live then, baby.

Shuddup!

Rowan counselled that the fear of God was the beginning of wisdom.  There is a proper fear which acknowledges that you know to whom you are answerable.  So… forgive me, God, but, I mean it …  Shuddupayaface!

In Zimbabwe, eight years ago, a Harare bishop proved his loyalty to Mugabe.  Why hadn’t Archbishop Rowan DONE SOMETHING ABOUT IT?

Ah, said Rowan, because if I had denounced him, it would have handed him a weapon.  So, instead I listened to J S Bach’s Gottes Zeit – God’s Timing.

Okay, I have listened to the noisy ones for twelve years, off and on, so now seems like a pretty good time, deo volente, of course…

Quiet!

Were they?  Yes, eventually.  After making the point that it was in their own time.

So, was valour the better part of discretion, or vice versa?

Ask me next weekend.  Otherwise I send in Piglet, aka the Husband.  That’ll make ‘em blinch.  (Not)

Husband is like Christopher Robin:

What I like doing best is Nothing….just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.

Bother.

So, Husband, dear, what are you going to do?

Oh, nothing.

He is for Discretion and I am for Valour.

But I am his Better Half, so:

Shurrup!!!

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