Back to the Future

Tags

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.

The World Is Not Enough

Tags

arras, azure chapeau, barmkin, Blackadder, break a leg!, campaned, Commonwealth Games, crewel work, eBay, Esau, Fountainbridge, Green Room, helm affronte, heraldry, Ian Fleming, interior design, Kevin McCloud, King Over The Water, latex allergy, Moneypenny, Mrs Dalloway, nonsufficit orbis, Pierce Brosnan, policies, Polonius, poniard, Revenge Tragedy, Salmond, Samuel Johnson, Scotch Terrier, Scottish baronetcies, Sean Connery, stream-of-consciousness, Wee Eck, women bishops

Murgatroyd peered from behind the crewel worked arras, like a tetchy

Polonius.  No matter that he had found the reproduction fabric on Ebay,

it gave the desired effect and Kevin McCloud could stick that in his

chanter and play it, if he possessed such an instrument.  He only hoped

that the presenter would not appear at the concert with a camera crew,

and the verbal equivalent of a poniard, in the shape of a character in a

Revenge Tragedy, avenging  the contravention of ‘Good Taste‘ in interior

design.  But, unless Kev had been in the area and read one of the local

flyers, it seemed unlikely.

All the seats had been laid out in the erstwhile barmkin by a team as

efficient as those in The Commonwealth Games, minus the daft

choreography and the neon costumes.

Time was getting on and no one had turned up, except for Sonia and

Diana.  Only five tickets had been sold to date.

Och, dinna fash yersel’, soothed his cleaner.  They’ll a’ troop in at the

last meenit.  It’s jist their way.  They dinna want tae spend ony money

in case they shuffle off their mortal coil afore the night.  They’ll buy their

tickets on the door.

I do so hope you’re right, replied the Master of Ceremonies.

Away and sit doon, man.  Yer makin’ me nervous.  I’ll lead them in.

Ah dinna need ony o’ they wee Scottie dugs either.  Ah’ll dae the

job masel’.  Hey, did ye see the Manx team?  They should ha’ got

wan o’ the three-legged dugs fur them!

Yes, Mrs Dalloway, I mean Connolly.  You carry on.  Murgatroyd

interrupted her stream-of-consciousness.

Actually, things had gone rather well in the afternoon.  He had insisted

on collecting Sonia and Diana from The Tibetan Centre and he and

Diana had had their ‘little chat‘, without acrimony, during a tour of his

policies.

With a re-adjustment of the sleeping arrangements, space had been

found to accommodate them.  Nigel and Dru and Snod and Virginia

had not been sharing anyway, so Diana and Sonia were to join Dru, who

kindly agreed to couch herself on a borrowed futon and Nigel moved into

the master bedroom with Murgatroyd and graciously said that he did not

mind kipping on the semi-perished Li-lo that the cleaner said had

belonged to her grandson, who was now fifty.  He didn’t think it would

set off his latex allergy.

This left Snod in splendid isolation, which was his preferred option;

Virginia was also ‘toute seule.’  She did not intend to imitate The Grey Lady

and wander around at night.  There were far too many creaky floorboards.

She commented that Nigel looked amazing in his kilt.  He wasn’t quite sure

if this was a compliment, but decided to accept it as such.

A snifter to settle those nerves? Murgatroyd offered Nigel.

No, thank you, replied our songster.  It can wreak havoc with the vocal

chords.  He gabbled from jittery nerves.

Sir, when I was browsing in your library this afternoon, I came across a

fascinating tome on heraldry.  It mentioned all sorts of names, such as

Moneypenny and Blackadder…

Ah, yes.  That was the kind of source Ian Fleming used to come up with

mottoes such as ‘Nonsufficit Orbis’ for James Bond.

Virginia’s eyes misted over.  There was only one James Bond for me..

Sean Connery, agreed Sonia.  Born not too far from here, in

Fountainbridge..

No, Pierce Brosnan, corrected Virginia.  It was the naval

commander’s uniform. Classic.

Nigel continued, unabashed: It confirmed what we discussed about

Scottish baronetcies and the female line.  It also said that The Lord

Lyon only governs on matters heraldic and could not enforce any

objection to you- here he nodded towards Snod, respectfully–

wearing the azure chapeau for formal occasions connected with the

baronetcy.  Like for this concert, he finished proudly.

Stuff and nonsense! replied Snod gruffly, thus earning two sharpish

kicks: one from Virginia’s stiletto and another from his daughter’s heel.

Sir, Nigel turned to a sceptical Snod, as heir to an ancient baronial family

who is no longer the owner of the estate, one is still permitted these

privileges.  You could settle for a pennon..

Pennon?  Murgatroyd was becoming confused with poniards.

…a small swallow-tailed flag.  Or  a feudal steel tilting helm, garnished in

gold, shown affronte..

Pull the other one, Milford-Haven.  It is campaned.

Campaned?

In heraldic terms, it has bells on it! But now I am becoming affronted,

snorted Gus.  As Samuel Johnson said, and I paraphrase, ‘Just because

someone can do something, it doesn’t follow that they should.’

Murgatroyd chipped in:  Oh yes.  I like the good doctor’s quote about

female preachers and dogs walking on hind legs.  Most apposite.

And now we have women bishops, groaned Snod.  What is the world

coming to?  Tell you what, old boy- here he addressed Murgatroyd-

fill me up with some of that nectar and I will forget this inane

conversation.  Like Esau, I’m prepared to sell my inheritance for a mess

of porridge at breakfast tomorrow morning.

Be a good boy now, added Virginia, and I will buy you a spurtle.  And,

by the way, it was pottage.  A quite different thing.  Lentils, I believe.

It was Dru’s turn to be outraged, but she hid it well.  Diana was simply

amused.

Stop stirring, children, reprimanded Sonia.

Yes, conciliated mein host.  Let’s drink a time-honoured

toast to The King Over the Water- and I don’t mean Wee Eck.

Oh yes, said Dru.  I read that Salmond has lost two stones and

a bystander told him that women would be hitting onto him.

Not in a flattering way, surely? sniped Sonia.

Come away doon, all o’ youse!  The hall’s fillin’ up!

Mrs Connolly, the cleaner had been right.  The canny audience had

bought their tickets on the door.

Break a leg, said Sonia before descending the staircase.  Hopefully,

she wouldn’t.

Nigel and Dru exchanged glances and did their deep breathing in

unison.

They would be summoned from The (makeshift) Green Room.

 

 

 

Head of Cosmic Intelligence

Tags

Alex Salmond, Bake-Off!, Billy Connolly, boutique gin, DeborahMeaden, fallaid, Ginevra, James Bond, Michaelmas, quern, reeve, Sean Connery, sloe, South Sea Island cotton, spaewife, struan

Carrie dropped in on her mother-in-law, the gin-swigging nonagenarian,

Ginevra Brewer-Mead.

So, what is my son up to at the moment?

Your son, Gyles?

Is that his name?  Ah, yes, him.

He’s filling out some tax forms.  He said he feels like a reeve.

Reeves used to have to do the accounts before Michaelmas Day

and, if there was a shortfall, they had to make it up from their own

resources.

I expect no one wanted that job, pronounced the sharp old lady.

I didn’t want this job, muttered Magda.

Candia sent you some sloes, for your boutique gin, said Carrie,

handing a bag to Magda, Ginevra’s Eastern European carer, along

with a pot of Michaelmas daisies.

How you do? said Magda.

I think we’ve met, Magda, Carrie replied, puzzled.  She thought the

girl’s English had improved recently, but..

No.  How you make?

Ah- thirds.  One third gin, one third sugar, one third sloes.

You’re supposed to wait until the first frost before you pick them,

complained Ginevra.

Oh, I didn’t know that, Carrie sighed.

Weel, ye ken noo, as the Scots Worthy famously said.  Sit ye doon,

commanded the old curmudgeon, patting the sofa beside her.

Carrie connected with something hard and cold which had been secreted

under a cushion.

Candia and I were discussing folklore to do with St Michael, Carrie began

as a conversational opener.  I used to think that he was the patron saint of

underwear, as his label was on the back of my vest and South Sea Island

cotton knickers when I was at school.

Ach no.  He’s the Head of Cosmic Intelligence, stated Ginevra.  A kind of

angelic James Bond.  The Real One. Sean Connolly.

Sean Connery; Billy Connolly.

Aye, well don’t get me started on him.  He needed a good haircut.

I bet you don’t know some of the Scottish versions of the folktales, Ginevra

cackled, like an old spaewife.  Your grandmother- Jean Waddell, as she was

before she married into the Pomodoro family, could reel all the old tales off,

nae bother, as she used to say.  God rest her soul!

She shifted the tartan blanket over her knees and tried to conceal the

aluminium hip flask under it.

Is that a new tartan? Carrie asked.

Trust you to notice.  Magda got it for me on that Internet thing. It’s ‘Made in

China’ actually.  It’s the same tartan as that fishy guy, Alex Salmon, ordered

at the taxpayers’ expense when he forgot his trews, or breeks, as your granny

would have called them, for some function over there.  He had them made

up.

Like his policies, Carrie thought, but did not continue the metaphor, rich

though the ore of satire might have been.

Magda came in with a wee cuppa, as she had learned to call refreshments

other than the alcoholic ones.

Your grandmother was a dab hand at making the struan, Ginevra continued,

her eyes searching for shortbread.

Struan- what was that? Carrie was intrigued.

It was a cake which had to be ground in a quern-

Quern? asked Magda.

I’ll tell you later-in three equal parts-of bere, oats and rye.  The eldest

daughter had to make it and woe betide her if it broke in the baking.

Quite a responsibility then? sympathised Carrie.

More than in yon Bake-Off rubbish, said Ginevra.  This could be Life and

Death.

Changing the subject and getting back to reeves, directed Carrie, did you watch

Strictly?

How does that link to reeves?

Well, I was thinking of financial wizards and wondered if you liked Deborah

Meaden?

Not as much as Robbie, her partner, Ginevra pronounced.  I suppose he’s like

St Michael.  He’s taming the old Dragon!

And yet again, Carrie was impressed at the old biddy’s mental acuity.

Have you seen my winter fuel allowance? Ginevra asked.

She means this, said Magda, holding the hip flask out of reach.

It isn’t winter yet, said Carrie firmly.

But the nights are drawing in, protested Ginevra.

I’d better be off, Carrie said decidedly.  I’m meeting Candia in

Costamuchamoulah, for a coffee quite soon.

Cheerio! Ginevra trilled, quite happy as Magda had handed over the flask.

I’ll tell you all about fallaid next time.

I can’t wait, replied Carrie, exiting right, but thankfully not pursued by a

bear.

Muzzard Magic

Tags

Alex Salmond, Andy Murray, Angela Tilby, Bacon, Church of the Holy Rude, Dunblane Cathedral, Educating Essex, Flushing Meadows, galaxyzoo, James Bond, Macbeth, Montaigne, Rowan Williams, Sean Connery, Shakespeare, Sir Alex Ferguson, Stephen Drew, Stirling, US Open, Zen

So, a new star in the firmament then?  Let’s look at galaxyzoo.org.  We may be dazzled by the reflected effulgence from a great big rock on Kim Sear’s left hand, or it might not be too many light years before we get its blue shift.  I mean the girl has sat through so many cosmic matches and had to put up with a boyfriend who watches Wedding Crashes rather than wedding planner videos.  She hangs out with the near eponymous Too good to hurry mint.  Muzzard’s mum lit up like Venus when squeezed by Sean Connery, so there could be feeling somewhere out there in the dark matter of their tennis universe.

Or is there?  Andy did express some emotion at misplacing his sponsored watch after the game, but even though this triumph was one giant leap for Murraykind, he limited himself to a fairly Zen-like self-appraisal about being happy on the inside, if not exhibiting it on the outside.  If ever there was a time for a burst of: If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands, then this was it.  Sir Alex nearly choked on his chewing gum, for Goodness sake.   At least he didn’t hug anyone.

Philosophy was topical, with Canon Angela Tilby on Thought for the Day recounting the Zen reaction of a falsely accused monk, who only reacted by reiterating, Is that so?   This was a reaction also much favoured by Stephen Drew, Deputy Headmaster, who failed to respond prematurely to teenage angst in Passmores School, as shown on the programme Educating Essex.   Clearly it is a successful modus operandi.

Rowan Williams appeared to be a Zen master, as well as a bardic Druid, when he neither excused nor justified himself over his past record, but merely made the low key comment : I don’t think I cracked it.

However, understatement is different from dissimulation, which is pretence and projection of a false self.  So, when an interviewer asked Andy to comment on his 2.30 am victory-..if you could dissimulate that..  my ears could not fail to detect this crass lexical choice with all of its Macbeth, or even Malcolm connotations:

False face must hide what the false heart doth know

or the advice not to be

as a book in where man may read strange matters.

Andy roared like a rutting stag when he was taking control, so I do not see that he is guilty of equivocation.  It is more a feature of Lendl to restrain himself.  Maybe the latter has been making a study of Machiavelli, Bacon or Montaigne, in order to advise his young prince.  Malcolm was the character who adopted the strategy of dissimulation to engineer his claim to the Scottish throne.  Now there’s an over-reaching step to set oneself after the Flushing Meadows novelty has worn off.

So, maybe the Church of the Holy Rude at Stirling, a coronation site, could prepare itself for a nuptial celebration, or an elevation to the Salmond hierarchy for the boy who done us proud {sic}

Dunblane butchers are already promoting their Grand Slam sausages and burgers, so the wedding breakfast could be served with a bit of black pudding and some deep fried Mars Bars, to continue our astral theme, and if the Hydro could be considered too windy a venue for an outdoor barbecue, at least it would deter Culicoides impunctatus, Meanbh-chuileag, or the biting midgie.  The males are benign; it is the female who are the deadlier of the species.  However, a little touch of OO7 appeared to cure the Queen’s Evil and Judy seemed a lot less scrofulous after that wee cuddle.  She got the real Bond, whereas Her Majesty only got Daniel Craig.

Aye, Sean, I’d put my kilt in the cleaners pdq and check the pleats for moth damage because I think you’ll be giving it an airing pretty soon.  Let’s hope you are not double booked for October 5^th. (Global Bond Day)

Mind you, Dunblane Cathedral would make a pretty backdrop for such a ceremony, with its plaques to three poisoned sisters who aspired too high for the nobles of the day- a fitting reminder to Kim to keep her nose clean?

If she can bear to keep playing Scrabble without winning and can avoid words like dissimulate, she is probably on to a high word score.

Lo he comes with clouds descending is a brilliant rallying hymn for a conquering hero, so they might choose that as an antiphon or introit.  Mummy could give him away (not really) and the floral wreathed Border terriers could be attendants.

See yez all at Scone!

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

Opening Ceremony

Tags

Andy Murray, Arctic Monkeys, Daniel Craig, Danny Boyle, Great Ormond Street, Helen Mirren, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Kenneth Branagh, Kirstie Allsopp, Minack Theatre, MRSA, Neil Oliver, Olympics, Paul McCartney, Pierce Brosnan, Roger Federer, Sean Connery, Sergeant Pepper, Sir Chris Hoy, The Queen, The Tempest

I decided to watch the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games.  The only clouds over the stadium were Danny Boyle’s ingenious examples on sticks. I felt my brain was in candyfloss as I witnessed Kenneth Branagh in a stovepipe hat, spouting lines from The Tempest.  I felt that Boyle could have saved some money by hiring Neil Oliver as he had recently been reciting the same speech at the Minack on Coast.  I suppose he might have forgotten his lines by now.

But why was Isambard Kingdom Brunel – his middle name another possible question on Mastermind-ranting on Glastonbury Tor?  Why were child patients, bouncing in Great Ormond Street beds? They can’t have been so ill, being subjected to the terror of huge spidery monsters. Maybe the long-legged spinners represented MRSA bugs and other virulent and difficult to cure infections which seem to swarm all over our wards.

Why were Sergeant Pepper and his entourage hot on the heels of men in the trenches? I felt rather confused.

Then I was stunned that Daniel Craig brought in HM, and I don’t mean Helen Mirren. I wondered if both ladies might not have preferred Sean Connery, or Pierce Brosnan as an escort.  I know I would have.

At a crucial point, when Sir Chris Hoy was carrying our flag, the cameras scrolled to The Queen, who was examining her cuticles.  She may have been wearing a fascinator, but fascinated she was not.  She would probably have preferred watching it all on the telly.  She didn’t even get to light the flame, and she was probably the most qualified to do so, as she was Corgi-registered, according to some wag.

The Czech team made me laugh with their preparation for our weather.  Kirstie Allsopp was probably admiring their wellies with attitude.

Argentina marched past.  I was hoping that they would be overwhelmed by British confidence and would give up all claims to the Malvinas.

Some athletes were chewing, or texting on their mobile phones.  I thought of the minimum standard of behaviour that I had expected from my pupils and I bristled at the parade of bad manners.

There seemed to be an accompanying toga-ed young person who cradled a copper shell which looked like a begging bowl for contributions for the country being represented.  There was one Indian woman volunteer who was not in a toga and who simply muscled in on all the attention.  Later she did not seem at all apologetic.  I supposed that she had had her fifteen minutes of fame.  That Andy Warhol has a lot to answer for.

When Switzerland marched past I was disappointed that Roger was not carrying the flag.  He had sensibly gone to bed early as he had a match the following day.  He was very wise, as it meant that he avoided having to repetitively sing, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, at the instigation of a curiously puffy-faced Paul McCartney, who looked as if an early night and a healthy microwaveable Linda-meal would have done him good.  He needn’t have felt threatened by the Arctic Monkeys, at any rate.

Rafa wasn’t there either, but half of Spain seemed to be in their parade, so no one missed him.  I suppose that it gave Spaniards something to do, seeing as they don’t have any jobs.

There was a Hong Kong team and a mainland China one.  No wonder they win so many medals. They cheat by entering twice.

The fireworks and pixel lighting were sensational and Heatherwick’s copper petals came together symbolically and formed a flaming cauldron, worthy of Andy Murray’s mother’s spell-inducing incantation:

Make Andy triumph over ditch-delivered drabs.

It was one thirty before I hit the sack: I knew I’d regret it over the weekend.