Clerihew 5

Tags

clerihew, First Minister, Mhairi Black, Nicola Sturgeon, SNP

(Official Portrait of First Minister Nicola Sturgeon

https:// beta.gov.scotabout/who-runs-government?

first minister

Author: Scottish Government)

 

Nicola Sturgeon,

you might seem a curmudgeon,

but when it comes to giving flack,

the prize goes to Mhairi Black.

(Image from SNP video. On You Tube &

Wikipaedia)

Beast of Bolsover II

Tags

acolyte, aleatoric, Arms and the Man, Avant-Garde music, Battle of Little Bighorn, Beast of Bolsover, Black Rod, Custer's Last Stand, Denis Skinner, front bench, Get out of Jail Free, House of Commons, John Cage, nursery pudding, probationary teacher, Raina Petkoff, Scarlett O'Hara, SNP, Spotted Dick

It was the end of the week and the St Birinus’ Middle Staff Meeting had rolled

around once more, with terrifying regularity.  The gathering was a

sacrosanct feature on the school calendar.

Mr Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master – ‘Snod‘ to all and sundry-made his

slightly tardy arrival.  Some bitchily said this was in order to achieve a

grand entrance, but Scarlett O’Hara he was not, nor even Raina from

Arms and the Man, though he DID know the original source of Shaw’s

play’s title, being a Classicist.

He knocked the door peremptorily, provoking Mr Geoffrey Poskett to

move his lithe frame which was appuyant against the staffroom exit.

Who does he think he is?  Black Rod? The Head of Music fulminated

silently.  Geoffrey had conveniently positioned himself so as to be

able to leg it over to lunch while there was a possibility of Spotted

Dick still being on the menu.

Snod directed a crushing glance in his direction and slid past him,

negotiating his path towards his favourite seat in the front bench,

correction: front row, from which he preferred to challenge The Head

Teacher, pretty much in the sarcastic manner of Dennis Skinner, MP,

in The House of Commons.

But, mehercule! Qu’est-ce-que-se-passe ici?

He whom the Junior Masters had nick-named The Beast of Bolsover II

had been supplanted.   A probationary Minister, nay, Master was

ensconced in Snod’s favourite armchair.

I think you’ll find that I had reserved that particular place, Snod

menaced, looking for the evidence of his battered and displaced

hymnal.

I didn’t realise that places could be reserved, replied the impertinent

pup.

Don’t take that particular SNP tone with me, young sir, Snod

answered.  I inherited this chair three decades ago, on the demise

of its previous incumbent, my own House Master, Mr Stickland.  It is

directly in the line of fire and consequently only for occupants of a

rebellious nature.  You, sir, have not enough experience to be able to

sabotage at the appropriate level.  Half the Junior Masters are toerags

compared to…

Kindly withdraw that pejorative remark, Mr Snodbury, commanded The

Headmaster.

He was also looking at the clock and was itching to conclude proceedings

so as to leg it to the refectory as fast as was decently possible.  Nursery

puddings-yum!  He wasn’t allowed them at home.

Snod threw his hands in the air.  All right, sir.  The other half aren’t.

The Headmaster gave up any idea of ingesting the last of the

steamed pud.

It wasn’t that Snod sought to emulate Dennis Skinner, except in that

old curmudgeon’s conscientious record for best attendance and so on.

However, Snod and the MP shared an appreciation of the importance of

Custard- Freudian slip!– Custer and his Last Stand.

Early bath, Mr Snodbury! warned The Headmaster.  The Battle of Little

Bighorn had not even commenced.

Everyone sniggered.  The usurper, however, moved to the seat behind,

chiefly because he required the support of The Senior Master in a little

matter in which a parent had complained about the distinct lack of prep

that he had recently set and marked.

Boys to be discussed…? The Headmaster wearily inquired.

Boothroyd-Smythe, a Form Master suggested.

Everyone groaned.  The Supplanter sweated under his collar.  He knew

he was in for it.

Can you comment on this homework matter, Mr Snodbury?  The

Headmaster appealed.

Certainly, sir.  It is a matter of ‘when posh boys are in trouble they seek

to sack the servants.’

Resolved then?  Let’s go to lunch.

Collective stomachs rumbled gratefully.  Mr Poskett heard nuances of

an aleatoric symphony of  Avant-Garde music.  But then he had just been

teaching John Cage to an unresponsive bunch, so the similarity sprung

to mind.

Thereafter, The Junior Master gave place to his elder and better as

he knew that his career at St Birinus’ was entirely dependent on his

ability to extract a Get Out of Jail Free card from Mr Augustus Snodbury,

Senior Master.  And with this revelation, he joined the ranks of

faithful acolytes.

The Scottish Play

Tags

banquet scene, Boris Johnson, Braveheart, Cameron, epilogue, Farage, George Osborne, Macbeth, Miliband, Mrs Thatcher, Omeprazole, Salmond, Scone, scotch'd the snake, SNP, Sturgeon, The Scottish Play, Theresa May, Tony Blair

Mrs Connolly, the housekeeper, was chopping some root vegetables

for a hearty broth.

This’ll stick tae yer ribs, she promised.

I was thinking a salad might have been more appropriate in this

clement weather, suggested Diana.

Never cast a cloot till May is oot.  There could be snow yet, Mrs

Syylk.  Aye, we could have a blizzard before the elections.

And how will you vote? Mrs C, asked Diana.  Who impressed

you in the televised debate?

Well, the wee lassie certainly wiped the flair wi’ the lot o’

them, she opined.  But jist because she could handle

hersel’ in the verbal, it disnae follow that she’s no’ speakin’

a load o’ sh…Sugar!

Mrs Connolly!  Please.  I get your drift and I must say that

I do agree with you regarding the policies she endorses.  As

for UKIP…

Pardon me, Mrs S, but Ah canna abide that Lavage mannie.

Farage, corrected Diana.  Lavage is a type of gastric

irrigation.

Mair like gastric irritation, Mrs C riposted.  Ah huv tae take

an Omeprazole efter hearing ony o’ his drivel.  Och, don’t

get me started!

Diana didn’t think she had.

Tell me aboot yer night oot wi’ Mr Syylk. She attempted to

change the subject.  All this havering jist gets me doon.

We went to see a production of Macbeth at the local school.

You should call it The Scottish Play, warned Mrs C.  She

stirred the broth as if she was First Witch: All hail McSturgeon

that shall be queen hereafter! she cackled, revealing her very

sound Scottish Senior Secondary education from The Sixties.

Diana laughed: Salmond still lives.  Why does she dress in

borrowed robes? Treason’s capital…[will] overthrow him. 

Is execution done on Miliband?

Nothing in his party would become him like the leaving of it,

quipped Mrs C.

But seriously, everyone was saying ‘What bloody woman is

that? after the debate continued Diana.  She unseamed them-

all the knaves, all the chaps; and made as if to fix their heads

upon her battlements, screeching: ‘Ay, in the catalogue ye go

for men!’

Aye, and the ither females were jist her chamberlains.  All were

too weak when faced wi’ the Braveheart lass.  She dares do all that

may become a man and some of they wumman politicians look as if

they are halfway there..  Aah, I feel faint at the thought. Don’t get

me a sturgeon, though.  After a dramatic pause, she probed: Whit

aboot that big jessie, Cameron?

He’s too busy echoing the lines: We will establish our estate upon

Boris, Theresa or George, I fear.

So, she’s tae get away wi’ pouring her sweet milk of apparent

concord into hell and causing uproar to the universal peace,

confounding all unity on earth and…

…instigating yet another bloody referendum! shrieked Diana.

Oh, Scotland, Scotland.  Fit to govern?  Even Alex has banished

himself. Mind you, we have scotch’d that snake, but no’ killed it.

O, my breast… (here she pounded her poitrine with the wooden

spoon) …Thy hope ends here.

Diana was becoming over-enthusiastic.  She stood up on her

kitchen chair.  Yes, and then Miliband says, It looks like rain

tonight…

But it always looks like rain here, Mrs S.

Suspend your disbelief as Nicola has instructed you, prompted

Diana.  Let’s fast-forward to the banquet scene.

Scone? Mrs C wrinked her brow.

No, I’m not hungry, Diana said.  Oh, I see what you mean-

No, she’s already crowned herself.

Ah hope there’ll no be ony ghosts, Mrs C wavered.

We’ve had the spectre of Blair already, but everyone pretended

he was invisible, Diana assured her. Now, like Mrs Thatcher…

God rest her soul! Mrs C bowed her head.

…The First Minister is already adopting the Royal ‘we’.

Ourself will mingle with society? queried Mrs C.

Precisely.  Then she says to herself:’Be bloody, bold and

resolute and laugh to scorn/ The power of men.

We’re into Act 4 now, nodded Mrs C., keeping her eye on the

broth.

Diana, still standing on the chair, surveyed the landscape from

her kitchen window: Scotland has not foisons enough to fill her

will.

Nor oil reserves, added Mrs C.

Diana nearly fell off the chair as there was a sudden sound of

applause.  It was Murgatroyd, who had returned early from an

auction.

Oh, but how will we end it? Diana was disappointed to be

interrupted.

Can I have the epilogue? asked her husband.  You know, the last

word that I rarely have the pleasure to express.

Go ahead, replied Diana and Mrs C sat down and mopped her brow

with the tea towel.

Murgatroyd took a deep breath and intoned:

This murderous shaft that’s shot

Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way

Is to avoid the aim.

Ah take it that ye’ll no’ be votin’ SNP then , Mr Syylk? observed

Mrs C.

You have hit the nail upon the head as usual Mrs C.  Now,

is there a bowl of broth for a hungry man?

And Mrs C reverted to her housekeeping duties and forsook

her thespian tendencies- for the moment.

Nae bother, sir.

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..