Friday’s Clerihew

Tags

clerihew, Nigel Farage, UKIP

(Photo:Flickr- Euro Realist Newsletter, 2008)

 

Nigel Farage,

you’ve been hiding in your garage

ever since the leaked news about your private life.

Stay there: we are all on the side of your long-suffering wife.

Saturday Clerihew

Tags

Paul Nuttall, UKIP

(Image: Paul Nuttall

UKIP Leader

flickr.com/photos 33119465

Author: Euro Realist Newsletter)

Paul Nuttall,

it’s all very well offering us a rebuttal.

Okay, someone committed a ‘blunder,’

but the implication you have close friends at all is a greater source of wonder.

The Burning Bush

Tags

acacia, Adonai, auto-combustion, boscage, Brexit, burning bush, Church Green, Cotswolds, Crateagus, David Cameron Witney, Desolation, Dieric Bouts, hawthorn, Highgrove, I Am Who I Am, Israelites, kohl, Michael Portillo, Midian, Milton, Mindfulness, Moses, pastures new, pillar of fire, Prince Charles, Renaissance Man, SamCam, sestina, Shekinah, Sir Philip Sidney, smoking flax, St Catherine's Monastery, St George and Dragon Dragon Hill, U A Fanthorpe, UKIP, Waitrose

 

Dear Brassica,

Hope you are not inundated in the South.  Read about all the flooding,

power cuts and trees coming down.

Yes, I like being in The Cotswolds.  Might bump into David

Cameron in Waitrose at Witney.  Recognised Church Green the other

day as his backdrop, when he was telling the world that he was giving

up as an MP.

Remembered the shock (some years ago) of seeing a photo in The

Financial Times of Michael Portillo, posing on the bridge at the end of

my garden in Suttonford.  I think he must have been visiting his

associate, George, who lived nearby.

Well, I needn’t fret: I am evidently still at the centre of global events.

Mind you, sometimes taking early retirement and leaving your old pals

for pastures new (ghastly euphemism pinched and abused from Milton,

who employed it freshly) can be a bit daunting.  That’s why it was

wonderful to come across a veritable burning bush of hawthorn berries

above Dragon Hill – you know, where St George allegedly slew the dragon.

I kept thinking of U. A. Fanthorpe and her witty, GCSE anthology-

endorsed poem on that subject.

I was compelled to approach this crimson phenomenon as it was so

vibrant and it reminded me of Moses and his encounter with verbal,

auto-combustible branches of boscage.

I wondered what it might say to me and checked on the original tale.

So, Moses was over 40 years old and no longer a bigwig.  Instead he was

caring for his father-in-law’s sheep, which did not exactly utilise his

expensive Midian education.  (I suppose he might have been having a

crisis, like David Cameron after loss of power.  But I don’t think SamCam

would like Dave taking to pastoral studies unless she got a discount on

wool for her new fashion line.)

I wonder if Moses’ wife still wore her kohl in the backside of the desert?

Or had she already been yummy-mummified by then?

However, the encouraging thing is that, in a moment of paying

attention – I’m not going to say ‘mindfulness‘ – Moses was called to

a new commission, namely to be leader of the Israelites, as they were

to be delivered from slavery.

So, Brassie, what do you think I did?

No, I didn’t apply for leadership of UKIP, or any other party,

hoping to take my people through the wasteland of Brexit…

No, I wrote another sestina on the epiphanal moment when I

realised that I am not past it.  I mean, I knew it, but I had not felt it

in recent days.

My friends who were staying with me had just been to Highgrove,

where it has been suggested Prince Charles talks to plants, so people

may accept, that, in a way, a bush spoke to me yesterday. and said

something like, Fool, look in thy heart and write!

(Okay, so I know I am appropriating Philip Sidney, but it was a poetic

moment and who better to prompt you to get on and do something with

your life than the original Renaissance Man?)

It was in the news yesterday that trees communicate with one another

and, in Fanthorpe’s poem, the dragon speaks, so, suspend your disbelief,

dear Brassie.

Here’s the poem inspired by a communicative Crataegus, namely the

humble hawthorn, except that it was an acacia in the case of Moses

and they have the original (they allege) at St Catherine’s Monastery:

 

The Burning Bush Speaks

So, how was I to get his attention?

Ah yes, an acacia bush on fire-

though plenty self-ignite and are destroyed,

he’ll notice that I actually sustain

and it is not consumed.  Thus I will speak:

that ought to alert him to my presence.

 

He feels that he no longer has presence.

The world has ceased to pay him attention

as he minds in-laws’ sheep, over a fire

on Desolation Mountain, so to speak.

It’s not an activity to sustain

a man’s confidence, which has been destroyed.

 

A Midian education, doubt-destroyed;

his eyes blinded to Shekinah presence-

he has to be convinced that I sustain.

He is not paying me due attention;

the smoking flax is no longer on fire.

Moses!  Can he believe a bush will speak?

 

He cautiously approaches tongues of fire.

Confidence that had been all but destroyed

re-ignites, as I re-assure him, speak

my name:  I Am Who I Am  (The Presence)

and creator of all hope.  I sustain

 

the universe.  The Egyptians I sustain.

The Israelites I will refine with fire

and, in order to gain his attention,

I’ll speak to him from something not destroyed

by elemental powers.  My presence

is going to give him confidence to speak.

 

I have a message; words for him to speak

and laws which I will give him to sustain

my people.  He will convey my presence;

cause them to follow my pillar of fire;

ensure that other gods are all destroyed.

Now, Moses, I need your full attention:

 

Speak! For the Egyptians will be destroyed.

Sustain your attention.  Heed my presence.

The fire of Adonai will burn in you.

 

(Image: Dieric Bouts)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘Ale n’ ‘Arty

Tags

anacondas, Duchess of Cornwall, Duchy biscuits, Farage, Morris Dancers, Oaten biscuits, quantitative easing, real ale, Stem Ginger and Dark Chocolate biscuits, The UK Vineyards Association, UKIP

It was Suttonford’s Big Day on the calendar: the annual ‘Ale n’ ‘Arty Festival.

Shopkeepers in the town had been checking the weather forecast for over a

week and potential stall-holders had been trying to determine if they could

recoup the fees for their stands, by studying past records of footfall and

meteorological patterns.

A celebrity chef had been booked to demonstrate some recipes for recession

and Suttonford Morris Men had been bleaching their hankies and checking the

clappers on their bells.  Their wives were keeping their fingers crossed, as well

as their ankles, and were hoping for fine weekend weather.  They were always

pleased to have their domestic space to themselves.

Gary, the modern equivalent of a Town Crier, had remembered his lesson from

the previous year and had set the volume of his megaphone to a kinder level.

He would be commenting on the relative merits of real ales, such as Crushed

Badger and Roadkill and Hop It!  Hopefully, he would have the chance to sink a

few samples.  He firkin well hoped so.

There was even going to be a stall featuring wine from a local vineyard.  The

grapes which were pressed were a variety based on Rot ‘Em Pinot, a vine

whose leaves sported white hairs, making it entirely in keeping with the more

mature population of Suttonford and environs.  Wine historians had linked its

introduction to the South of England to Roman deserters who had planted

stock on the sunnier slopes of Wintoncester, before rolling down them.

The Duchess of Cornwall, in her capacity as President of the UK Vineyards

Association, had declined an offer to open the festival, but she had sent a

hamper of Duchy products as a donation towards the town’s adopted local

charity: Anacondas in Adversity! 

Gary peeked through the wicker.  He didn’t think that anacondas would

particularly appreciate oaten biscuits.  But what was he to know, compared to

globally itinerant Royals?  Frankly, if he were to be transformed into a

reptile-and many people, including his spouse, thought that he was well on

his way in the metamorphic process-he was certain that he would opt for the

Stem Ginger and Dark Chocolate variety.  Oaten hadn’t done so well in this

region recently.

At least the anacondas wouldn’t be expected to pay in excess of £7 a box for

the luxury.  He wasn’t sure how their currency compared to the euro. He hoped

it was holding up and that they hadn’t had to resort to quantitative easing.

They were  evidently suffering enough.  He surmised that they must be in crisis

if they were the focus of the town’s support.

Gary raised a finger to check the wind direction and he thought that he could

detect a spot of rain.  The Morris Dancers were supposed to welcome Spring,

but they seemed to have missed the boat somewhere along the line.

He noticed a stall which seemed to be selling nothing but umbrellas with the

UKIP logo.  They seemed to have been discounted by the proprietor, who told

Gary that he thought they would have sold well a few days ago, when he was

at a fair just south of Edinburgh.  There had been a constant deluge, but it had

not been of a precipitation nature, but had rather been characterised as being

a torrent of anti-Farage abuse and now he was left with the entire batch,

which he was hoping to shift.  Gary was somewhat dubious about his optimism.

He was pretty certain that even an anaconda wouldn’t be seen dead under

that umbrella.

The Medium is the Message

Tags

Artem, Beverley Sisters, Headington shark, Medium is Message, Ntingwe Kwazalu, Pasha, Pippa Middleton, Sergei toy, Stig, Tarot, UKIP, Warhol's Orange Car Crash, Yu Luo White tea

Tiger-Lily’s Diary

3^rd January, 2013

Dad has been going ballisitic as he had told Grandma not to have her

cronies round for what she calls Post-Hogmanay Lunchtime Wrinkly Drinkies

until Magda, her carer, returned from Normandy.  Ginevra needs monitoring.

It’s all her fault that Sonia drove back home like a drunken Stig.

Clammie, Sherry’s mum, said that it had taken her in excess of five

minutes to get Sonia a cup of basic English Breakfast in

Costamuchamoulah to calm her nerves.  The girl behind the counter

insisted on running through a list of all the speciality beverages until

Clammie had just snapped and shouted:

Never mind the Yu Luo White Tea from Hunan Province, nor the

Ntingwe Kwazulu from Fantasy Land.  Just get the old lady a mug of

regular navvy’s with two spoonfuls of sugar before she keels over!

The girl gave her a funny look and now Clammie is convinced that

she will be persona non grata for evermore.

(To whom shall she then go, for they have the beans of eternal life?)

Still, Sherry said that she was proud of her mater as she would rather

have a subversive parent than an Establishment Clone.

Candia said that Clammie had kindly waited with Sonia until the nice

young policeman had breathalysed the old dear and checked her

insurance particulars.

She couldn’t remember if her premium was with the glamorous,

pink-sequinned, singing Aussie triplets who look so like Antipodeal

Beverley Sisters, whoever they are.

She then thought that she might have changed over to the meerkat

one, as she thought she would have received a free Sergei toy.  She

liked Russians, especially Artem and Pasha, though she knew they

weren’t in the indemnification business.  She expressed her anger at new EU

directives regarding gender equity and insurance policies.  She was even more

inclined to vote UKIP, she asserted.

But in your case, madam, the policeman told her, it is not so much a

sex issue as an age-related one.  You see, the over-eighties have just

as many accidents as teenagers.

I certainly hope you don’t…

But Clammie had restrained her, especially when the pc had asked

her to consider giving up driving and opting for the Community Bus.

She consented to consult her Tarot Cards on the matter and agreed

that there were some things that she could not foresee.  Like the

brick wall, I suppose!  Then she let Clammie take her cribwards to

await Her Majesty’s Pleasure.

Candia says that Costamuchamoulah are going to keep the car in situ

if they can get planning permission. It should draw the crowds as

much as Pippa Middleton’s random appearances in town. Candia

said that if the people in Headington, Oxford, could receive

government blessing 26 years ago for a shark embedded in a

terraced house’s roof, then what dreaming spires can have, day-

dreaming shires should readily be permitted to retain.

(I like Candia’s turns of phrase!)

So, Untitled 2 may be here to stay.  Crash Art is very Postmodern

and so I am going to file my photos under Warhol and his 1963

silkscreen prints of the Orange Car Crash Fourteen Times.  If I can get

a bit of pastiche, parody and cross-reference going in my Art History project,

I won’t have to be a clairvoyant to see an A* coming my way.

The medium is the message!