Beast of Bolsover II

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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.

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Chautauquas

Tags

Benjamin Britten rose, Boudicca, chautauquas, David Austin rose, goat stew, kasbah, Moto Guzzi, Motorcycle Maintenance, San Sister, satellite phone, Spotted Dick, suet pudding, Tetnus, Turkish silk leather jacket, Zen

What to buy for a PA when she has kindly typed up your oration’s

transcript for Speech Day?

Augustus Snodbury was somewhat lost in the aisles of Suttonford Garden

Centre when he suddenly bumped into The Previous Headmaster’s Wife.

He couldn’t remember her name and couldn’t very well call her ‘darling’.

Oh, what are you doing here? she asked, giving him a suspicious look,

which being interpreted read: Shouldn’t you be at your post of duty?

I’m- ah- looking for a present, he appealed to her.  Something floral.

Well, you’re in the right place.  I always say a rose goes down well.  There

are some lovely David Austin ones on offer.  And she pointed to the

signature green tubs.

Ah. Yes.  Benjamin Britten.  A climber? he asked.

No, he was a composer.  She looked at him as if he was stupid.

Nice colour.  Yes, I’ll take it.  No point in explaining.

And how is your dear husband? He attempted some small talk, which

didn’t come easily to him.  He had forgotten the name of his

predecessor in the unexpectedness of the encounter.

His Moto Guzzi broke down.  Sand in the engine when he was on the last

leg, or wheel, to Erfoud.  Luckily he had a satellite phone, so he and his

side-kick contacted a mechanic near some kasbahs and had some goat

stew while the chap took three days to fix it.  I blame that Ewan

McGregor for encouraging all those oldies to mobilise themselves.  And,

everyone knows that you should never let an engine run rich.

Quite.  Ah- see you at Prize-giving.

As he put the rose on the back seat of his trusty vehicle, Boudicca,

he punctured his forefinger with a thorn.  Ouch!

He nearly swooned at the sight of his own blood.  Where was

San Sister when you needed her?  When had he last had a Tetnus jab?

Then, as he tried to suck out the thorn, as if it was venom, he had an

epiphany, right there in the car park.

He was going to abandon that contrived speech which he had struggled to

produce.  Ideas were streaming into his mind and he drove back to school as

quickly as he could, without making the earth move in the plastic tub.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance!  He still had the book somewhere

and he was sure that it would yield a series of chautauquas which would

illuminate, yea irradiate his audience.  The boys would think his field of

reference cool and, while delivering his peroration, he could wear the silk

leather jacket that he had bought in Turkey, if it would stretch over his

burgeoning tum after a winter of too many Spotted Dicks and suet puddings.

Virginia might not like it if he asked her to type a new transcript, but he

would phone Drusilla; she would help him.

Appearance versus Reality

Tags

BIrnam Wood, Dunsinane, Gieves and Hawkes, Humpty Dumpty, Macduff, seamed nylons, Spotted Dick, Visitor's Pass

There’s always something! grouched Augustus Snodbury, as his trouser

button ricocheted across the study.  He had just finished lunch and knew

that his reflux would be problematic after a rather large portion of Spotted

Dick and custard, or ‘cow’s turd’ as the boys always called it.

Usually he would just have thrown the trousers away.  How a grown man

with a respectable degree could claim to be unable to sew on a button had

been beyond Diana, his erstwhile lover.

Now he was skulking in his personal loo while his PA, Virginia Fisher-Giles,

took out her emergency repair kit  to achieve closure.  She had already

repulsed several anxious members of staff, who had thought there was a

window of opportunity for them to bend the Acting Head’s proverbial before

afternoon lessons commenced.  She referred them to a important meeting

that would be taking place with the new Head and used all the duplicitous

skills and terminal inexactitudes that she had practised over the years.

The coast is clear! she hissed and draped the mended garment over the

back of his desk chair.  However, just at that moment, an enthusiastic Nigel

Milford-Haven, having checked the timing on the appointments sheet Sello-

taped to the study door, barged in with a proposition.  He had knocked on

the PA’s door, but she hadn’t answered.

Nigel was treated to a vision of Mr Snodbury, in his Gieves and Hawkes boxer

shorts, trying to insert a pale and rather hairy limb into a trouser leg, looking

for all the world like a heron. Gus almost lost his balance, along with his temper.

Nigel was also observant enough to note a slim ankle encased in a seamed

stocking as it disappeared round the door, into the adjoining office.

Sorry! the Junior master stammered and scarpered.

He had been going to invite Snod to a House barbecue which was supposed to

show staff gratitude for the old boy’s having stood in the gap, taken the helm,

or having put his thumb in the dyke.  Nigel’s fatal mistake had been

improvisation; Snod’s had been that he hadn’t pulled out a plum.

It had suddenly occurred to Nigel that he could include the New Head, creating

an opportunity to kill two birds with one invitation, as it were.  It would be an

informal chance for everyone to get to know each other.

Nigel should have realised that initiative was one of the features that was

definitely contraindicated at any level in a school.  It might have been one of

the reasons that his application had been rejected.  Loose cannons not

appreciated, he could hear the panel agree, but still he did not learn: a

worrying trait in any teacher.

Now a bucketful of tact and mature reflection was needed to help him deal

with the overwhelming moral confusion which threatened to de-stabilise his

afternoon lessons and, indeed, the rest of his life.

Mr Snodbury had toppled from his pedestal and, like Humpty Dumpty, had had a

great fall. At least in Nigel’s estimation.  He might never be re-constructed and

so Nigel tiptoed down the corridor, as if walking on eggshells, his world

shattered.

Shell-shocked, he gazed at a framed 1978 whole school photo, with a relatively

youthful and considerably lighter Mr Snodbury sitting on the front row, legs

splayed.  How have the Mighty fallen! Nigel said to himself.  Or is it ‘has’?

Suddenly he felt a hand being slapped on his shoulder and he turned round,

jolted him from his reverie.

So, you’re the favourite to win the end of term Teacher Talent Competition, I

hear?

Crivvens! as the comic book characters of Nigel’s youth used to exclaim.  It

was the new Head, who had arrived slightly early for the meeting.

Take me to your leader! he quipped, revealing his future management style.

Yes, sir! Nigel buckled, feeling like one of the pupils.  He hadn’t the heart to

challenge He Who Must Henceforth Be Obeyed for his lack of a visible Visitor’s

Pass. The owner of the voice didn’t look very like the public perception of a

mass murderer.  And surely anyone intent on entry would just shoot out

the locks and would laugh to scorn any man of woman born?  Wearing a

plastic card on a string for defence purposes was a bit like hoping Birnam

Wood would never come to Dunsinane, or that a condom was foolproof.

But it had been agreed at the last Friday meeting that one could never be

too careful and any member of staff could, and should, ask for ID.  He

thought about calling in at the office to collect a laminated ‘approved

stranger‘ pass, but then thought better of it.

If there was any sign of danger Nigel would sacrifice himself to save his

students- at least most of them.  But maybe not John Boothroyd-Smythe.

No, maybe not him.  He had that look of having been untimely ripped from

his mother’s womb.

He was just the sort of child who would be behind a moving grove.

Lay on, Macduff! the newly-appointed quasi-jovial Head encouraged.  And

so, Nigel re-traced his steps up the corridor and knocked on Virginia’s door,

which was very ostensibly ajar.

 

 

Smarter than Your Average Bear

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assessment objectives, Bethesda, Bluebeard's Castle, Boo-Boo, chatelaine, Chicxulub, Clegg, cojones, Cro-Magnon, Esau and Jacob, faggots, flat, Flat Earth, Granny Smith, Harris tweed, herbivores and Carnivores, How weary, I Pagliacci, infinity pool, Knock! Knock! Who's There?, metaphor, Miriam Gonzalez Durantez, mitrochondrially, Munn and Dunning, my friend., Neanderthal, Orwell, Paglicci caves, patter songs, Permafrost, Rusalka, Send me roots rain, simile, Spotted Dick, stale, synapsid, taxonomy, teachers' planner, Those Were the Days, Vesti la Giubba, woolly mammoth, Yogi Bear

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

the ring box in his filing cabinet and looked long and hard at the heart-

shaped diamond ring that had lain snugly in its hiding place for over thirty

years.  He placed it on the tip of his little finger. Its white gold band was

obviously for a digit much slimmer than his own- as slender as the chance

of it ever finding a female finger to ornament.

He sighed, put it back in place, covering it with a pile of obsolete worksheets

and locked the drawers, rattling his key-ring which contained

as wide a selection of redundant keys as the chatelaine of Bluebeard’s

Castle had carried about her waist on a- well- chatelaine.

The bell was late.  Post-prandial indigestion had struck. He opened his

Teachers’ Planner wearily.  Gone were the days when one simply scribbled a

vague lesson plan on the back of an envelope. Then spiral-bound aide-

memoires had been unnecessary and the lack thereof led to spontaneous

combustions, Krakatoa-like performances on the apron stage of the classroom

crucible of learning.  These were fervent, tangential and memorable

expositions on (say) the metaphor:

What’s a metaphor for, Boothroyd-Smythe?.

How do you spell ‘simile’? (covering orthography as well as figurative language)

What’s the ‘therefore’ there for?

Such probing, intellectual dissection was eternally branded on impressionable

minds, on students– daft word (at their age they were pupils)- such as

Boothroyd-Smythe, who would thereafter reflect on such ingested material for

the rest of his proverbial.  Such acolytes would ever after be able to decline

Latin verbs and translate useful phrases such as ‘the farmers will have prepared

tables for the soldiers’. Such was the efficacy of the time-worn, but

time-tested approach and the analogies were more time-resistant than the

concepts they were endeavouring to illustrate.

But now tailoring the module content to individual needs and ticking off

assessment objectives was the order of the day.

No longer were masters to be found puffing away in faded chintzy staff rooms

with saggy seating- and that not restricted to their shiny trousers.  No longer

did they exchange information on crossword clues, cricket scores, nor barter

seedlings for their allotments.

No longer was a knock at the staffroom door considered  a vile intrusion

and an impertinent interruption worthy of some kind of suspension from

school, not literal, one hoped.

Shakespeare summed it up as usual:

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world..

Snod looked at the planner again.  Five hours to go- in theory.  Monday. 

Another four whole days-28 hours for the sake of argument. Saturday morning

coaching: three at least.  Sunday- supervising the junior forms on their way to

Mattins.  Call it another three. Was that 41 hours?   Multiply by how many

weeks in the term?  How many sessions till pensionable retirement?  I didn’t

factor in marking and preparation.  Not that I do much of the latter

nowadays.

Red pen or not?  Out of ten, or A-C?  Add stars, pluses and minuses or not? 

Give bribes, or not?  Take bribes, or not? Efficacy of lines? A learning

experience?  Well, they learn that if they waste my time, I will waste

theirs. Corporal punishment?  ‘Best not to go there’, as the wet-behind-

the-ears brigade would say.

Classroom management?  Tables of six, pairs, rows?  Have the blighters run

all over open plan space with clipboards?  No fear.  Blow that for a game of

tin soldiers! Free expression?  Hold your tongue, you scallywag!

So, retrospectively-speaking, had he wasted his life?

He had counted out his days in coffee spoons.  He was as good as

anaesthetised upon a table.  And what about the mermaids?  Yes,

what about them?  He hadn’t heard so much as a police siren for

decades.

Here he hummed a few bars from Rusalka’s Song to the Moon.  No time

even for his beloved opera.

As for a peach!  It wasn’t that he didn’t dare to eat one; it was just that

the staffroom bowl never contained anything other than blackening bananas

and tasteless Granny Smiths.  (The latter also being the moniker of an elderly

French teacher, coincidentally.)

How was it all going to end?   Not with a bang, that was for sure.  More with

a whimper.

O Lord, send my roots rain! he implored.

What did you say, Sir?  A member of staff passed the open door and stuck his

head into the room.

It was that effervescent and intensely annoying Milford-Haven, the Junior

Master. A stirrer of the pool, if ever there was one.  And not necessarily an

angelic one at that.  What he failed to recognise was that Senior Masters,

such as Snod, who had paralytically lain for years by the Bethesda pool of the

staff study, had no desire to be moved out of their comfort zones, by helpful

jejeunes into a maelstrom of extra-curricular activity.

Cricket was one thing, but wading out of one’s depth and abandoning the gentle

eddies and zephyrs of poolside life for the spas, jacuzzis and whirlpools of

‘extras‘ would be merely a revelation of one’s misunderstanding of the

etymology of the abstract noun: ‘revolution.‘  It only required a cursory

knowledge of Orwell- ‘George’? they would ask- to enlighten them to

the ultimate futility of trying to successfully introduce anything, novel,

or to channel anything educationally on trend.

Ghastly phrase!  He hadn’t out-lived Munn and Dunning to get on that

creaking theoretical treadmill.

No, let them slip over the edge of their infinity pools of educational

speculation.

He was no believer in a Flat Earth; he did acknowledge far horizons and

boundaries, but, more often than not, what went around had an unerring

habit of veering back and slamming you on the back of the head when you

were least expecting it.

That’s why he had never, in his entire career, fully turned his back on a class,

having mastered the art of writing on a blackboard in a somewhat oblique

fashion.

But, just look at Milford-Haven! He walks the walk and wears the Harris tweed,

but he will never fit in.  He is a Neanderthal among Cro-Magnons.  The hand

may be Esau’s, but the voice is Jacob’s, he inwardly articulated. (Snod had

been teaching RS before lunch.)

Personally, he felt that he, himself, was Cro-Magnon, mitrochondrially.

He had a nice, solid body and wasn’t a chinless wonder like that

nincompoop of a Junior Master.  He had what Miriam Gonzalez Durantez,

Clegg’s other half, called cojones. He enjoyed learning new vocabulary,

especially from the Romance languages, as he was sure Nick did too.

He felt himself smarter than your average bear.  More like Yogi than

squeaky clean Boo-Boo.

It would explain why he liked I Pagliacci.  Cro-Magnons were associated with

the Paglicci Caves and he assumed there was a link.  He knew some of the

staff thought he was a bit of a clown, but they recognised his talents in

renditions of opera buffa patter songs in the school concerts, so there!

He really must ‘go‘ before the bell.  His prostate was not what it used to be.

Vesti la giubba was ringing in his ears, as he reached for his academic gown

from the hook on the door.

But, if the previous anthropological metaphor could be extended without mixing,

or diversified without confusion, he considered that he might be a woolly

mammoth, frozen for aeons in permafrost, but only recently thawing out, owing

to that debatable global warming the kids were all obsessed with, or with which

they were all obsessed. (The pedant in him was still very much alive.)
No, the Chicxulub impact that killed off the dinosaurs had somehow passed over

him, like an Angel of Death and, as in some unusual space collisions, his biological

components had been miraculously preserved, as had his cojones.

He could predict that those at the forefront of research would be mesmerised by

his exotic vulnerability and rarity.

By Jove!  Scientists would probably stuff him and analyse the contents of

his stomach. And what would they find?

His digestive processes reminded him.  Faggots and Spotted Dick.

His favourites.

No lunchtime coaching was going to deprive him of those. That was why he

had substituted an after-school detention for Boothroyd-Smythe.  He would

waste his time.

And if he, personally, was a woolly mammoth, what was Milford-Haven?

A Synapsid.  The answer came easily.  He had read something even that

day about juvenile transitions from carnivore to herbivore, and, judging by

the tong-fuls of greenery Milford-Haven heaped on his plate, Snod could

easily slot the Junior Master into the taxonomy.

He hated self-service.  Oh, for the days of yore when Mrs Stevens served

you and remembered that you liked seconds.  There was a song about it:

And they called it cupboard love..

Even the music has degenerated, he thought.  Those were the days, my

friend, lalalalalala.  But have I lived the life I chose?

Knock! Knock!

Who’s there?

Can this be Love that’s calling?

No, it was Milford-Haven.

Sir, the bell’s not went.  It’s Period Seven.

‘Gone’, you imbecile, he muttered to himself.

And through the door he took his solitary way.

By Jove! She’s Got It!

Tags

aconites, anacondas, Candle in Wind, dogwood, faggots, hellebores, Lancashire Hotpot, Lemon Drizzle cake, National Trust, Portrait Gallery, Rain in Spain, Spotted Dick

Drusilla had practised folding and unfolding the collapsible wheelchair

and she had borrowed a tartan travelling rug to drape over her great-aunt’s

knees.

Augusta was strapped into the front seat of Dru’s tiny car.  Gus had elected

to drive, so Dru was relegated to being squashed in the back of her own

vehicle.

At least the weather was dry for once.

So, I’m going home, Aunt Augusta declared.

Dru met her father’s eyes in the mirror. We’re going to see the aconites

first, she side-stepped.

You used to be an aconite, didn’t you Gus?  You used to look so nice

with your little cassock, carrying the candle in the school service,

Augusta reminisced fondly.

No, I was an acolyte, corrected Gus.  Quite different.

Dru found herself droning:

You had the grace to hold yourself/

While those around you crawled..

La la la.. like a candle in the wind..

It was going to be a long day.

Parking at Wyvern Mote was difficult because of all the mud. Dru

heaved the old lady into the wheelchair and tried to push it through

the ruts.

The wheelchair tyres were coated with filth.  It would have to be her car

they were using! (She had just had it valeted by the girls in her boarding

house in aid of their favourite charity: Anacondas in Adversity!)

Gus managed to purchase a ‘Family‘ discounted entry ticket, but he was

peeved as, in the past, he had marched into the grounds with his

mother, before the estate had been handed over to The National Trust. 

There had  been no turnstile then.

Aunt Augusta wasn’t terribly interested in the fiery dogwood, nor the

stinking hellebores.  She was cold and so they made for the tearoom.

I’ll have a glass of champagne and some Lemon Drizzle cake, she

announced.  I always have those at this time of day.

What about lunch? queried Dru.

Oh, well, I’ll have oysters.  There’s an ‘r’ in the month, isn’t there?

Dru ignored her request and bought her a child’s portion of Lancashire

Hotpot.  Gus had wanted faggots, followed by Spotted Dick, but he had

to make do with Hotpot as well.

Frankly, my dears, Dru didn’t care what she had.  She was dying to take

her turn of being let off the hook, so that she could wander up to the

Portrait Gallery, in order to check out any family resemblances.

Gus said he would wait with Aunt Augusta.  He had had his solo fifteen

minutes.

Dru examined every portrait intently, but could see no familial similarities at

all.

Disappointed, she followed the arrows which led her back to the tearoom

via the servants’ staircase and kitchen.  A door was ajar and she peeked

in.  It was the old schoolroom.  On the wall, there was a sepia photograph

of the two boys who had lived there in 1946.  The label informed her that

the sneering and robust of build elder boy was called Master Lionel and the

pale, rather sickly-looking younger one was Master Peregrine.  Alongside

them, leaning rather louchely against his desk was their tutor.  No!  It couldn’t

be!  He was the spitting youthful image of that demented old boy who had

invaded Augusta’s bed the other night.  The label said:…with their tutor

Anthony Revelly, in 1949.

How could she not have noticed?  He had the same jowly features as herself

and her father.

She took out her phone and..

No flash photography! reprimanded a voice from a chair in the corner.  Dru

thought that she had activated some kind of waxwork.  Maybe the wizened

woman was Madame Tussaud herself!

But it was too late.  She had already taken the photo and, if the volunteer

wanted to look as if she was sitting on a holly leaf out of some kind of

masochism, then that was her own lookout.

By Jove! Dru whooped as she made her way into the tearoom. I think I’ve got

it!

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain, sang Augusta.

Time to take her back and then have a consultation!

Are we going home? Augusta demanded.

In a manner of speaking, replied Dru.  I’ll drive!

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.

Close, But No Cigar

Tags

Carmen, castanets, cigar coffin, Cretan gift, Culebras, cummerbund, Habanos, humidor, lector, Mantilla, matadors, Mulatto, Placido Domingo, Port Isaac, Royal Mail, Special Delivery, Spotted Dick, St Endellion, toreador

Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior Master at St Birinus Middle School, was enduring

the purgatory of his quarterly visit to his mother in Cornwall.  The harmony of

the previous week, when he had taken part in musical workshops in Bath,

had been transposed into all-too-familiar familial discord within a few

hours.

Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster, was enjoying full participation in the St

Endellion Music Festival.  He had been very keen to take part in its current

opera: Carmen, ever since he had read that the plot was set in a cigar

factory.

Once a sycophantic and subsequently threatening parent had been

insistent that his son should have the solo in the Wind Band concert

and had successfully bribed the Choirmaster with a humidor of plaited

cigars, of the genus Culebras, individual examples of which resemble

a naked woman whose arms are entwined above her head.

Apparently the flexible form of these cigars meant that they would not

snap when carried in the breast pocket of a worker who had to continually

bend, presumably to pack cases of Cuban Habanos.  The cigars’ suppleness

came from the oiliness of having been rolled on the inner thigh of a Mulatto

maiden, or so it was alleged, by Augustus Snodbury, who took ownership of

this Cretan gift, as he termed it, almost as soon as Geoffrey had deposited the

wooden box of goodies in Snod’s pigeon hole.

Geoffrey had reacted fairly positively to this bribe, but his motivation in obliging

the belligerent barrister was influenced by a somewhat sinister implication

in the fact that the curved smokers’ delights came in a container which was

technically termed a coffin.  He worried that if he did not give full parental

satisfaction in the matter of promoting this tone deaf and arrythmic child, then

he might have the disturbing experience of having the legs of his beloved

Steinway collapse during Assembly, having been sawn through, thus sabotaging

his lively rendition of Stand Up, Stand Up For Jesus.  After the gift

would come the threat and after the threat, extermination.

No matter that Geoffrey was a non-smoker. He would give Old Snod a

treat, just prior to the End-of-Term report readings.  By dint of this

generosity, Geoffrey hoped that he would not be hauled over the coals

re/orthography, in quite so thorough a manner, by the ancient, proof-

reading pedant.

Geoffrey had auditioned for the minor operatic role of factory lector, or

reader, and had been successful, mainly owing to his magisterial  in the

Classical sense, credentials, rather than to any vocal skills.  He had

accepted that a role as toreador was unlikely, given his expanding

waistline.  Even a cummerbund had not disguised the physical consequences of

his termly addiction to nursery fare and to Spotted Dick in particular.

Now he was desperately writing to his aunt who wintered in Benidorm every

year, as there had been a run on castanets in Port Isaac gift shops.  The

lacquered percussion instruments were as rare as Spanish mortgage payments.

Surely his aunt still had a pair of the aforementioned clackers hanging up in the

dining room, beside the Flamenco doll with the nylon lace ruffles and mantilla,

who faced down a moth-eaten, gored bull with the haughty expression Aunt

Margaret had directed towards her now mercifully deceased spouse.

Placido Domingo would have had to change his name and character to have

survived the basilisk glare from Aunt Margaret’s Spanish eyes, which had

mutilated more than a few matadors, leaving her triumphantly elevating

ears and tails, metaphorically speaking.

So, Geoffrey was relying on The Royal Mail, or whatever it called itself

nowadays, to come up with the necessary stage props for his committed

performance.  He hoped Aunt Margaret would spend the extra postage

compensation he had sent her, to ensure Special Delivery of the coveted

item.

It was a pity that his musical talents had not been recognised.  However,

perhaps he was lowering himself after his immersion in Monteverdi

the previous week.  This was purely for fun and even Bizet had stated that

they asked for ordure and they have got it.

It was a pity that his friend and colleague, Nigel, had had to respond to the

maternal summons and had been denied the opportunity to wallow in the

musical mire with him. He missed his company and thought of him with

empathy every time they rehearsed Parle-moi de Ma Mere.

However, it would have choked him if his companion had stolen a more central

stage role than himself, purely on the strength of his narrower waistline.

He also hoped that Nigel was not going to come between him and that rather

interesting female teacher from St Vitus’ that he had spotted at the

Monteverdi concert.  This had been a rare occasion when he had thought that

there might be the possibility of compatibility between himself and a member

of the opposite sex.

Nigel had better back off, or he, Geoffrey Poskett, would see to it that Nigel’s

school bed was made up in apple-pie order for the whole of the Autumn term.

If he didn’t take the hint, it would be drawn conductors’ batons before dawn.