Notebook from Nowhere, 02/08/2011

controversy has engulfed the Much Wyttring Players  in the last month, over their decision to put on a production of The Orrery, by Enid Sackville-West, Vita’s less well-known sister. The play was last performed in 1924, and starred Virginia Woolf in the lead role, as Sophronia, the lady who owns the eponymous orrery. Over four interminable acts, the play charts the various philosophical musings of the half-dozen characters involved over who is most worthy to possess the item in question, until it is taken into heaven to become one of Plato’s forms. Godfrey Winn famously described the play as “a cartload of pretentious drivel”.  The play requires very little in the way of props, and not much in costuming either, most of the character’s outfits consisting of loose-fitting white sheets held in place by a few gold clasps. The decision to perform the play, however, has split the Players. Members of the anti-faction claim the play is “obscenely moralistic and anti-intellectual”, while defenders state it remains “one of the great classics of twentieth-century drama”.

***

mass protests are an unusual sight in Little Quinisext, and so the appearance of more than fifty protesters in Quadrivium Street has been the cause of much comment in the Gawain tea-rooms. The group of protesters, who call themselves Quinisext United Against Animal Cruelty, launched the protest outside the Georgian house at no. 36 Quadrivium Street, which has been recently purchased by Lady Orpington for a museum to house her world-famous collection of stuffed cats, including the famous 1921 taxidermy extravaganza Chat a la Somme by Jacob Epstein. In a statement, QUAAC President Phoebe Green described the proposed museum as “monstrous... a revolting, chauvinist display of capitalist disregard for Mother Gaia...  a mockery of everything the Revolution stands for.” Lady Orpington’s collection faced controversy before in 1996, when national newspapers accused the Labour hereditary peer of strangling her own pet cats in order to expand her collection. Lady Orpington strenuously denies these allegations.

***

the smithfield muses, Britain’s least-successful post-punk indie band, have split up amid a row over the band’s proposed second album, Sandstorms ofTomorrow. Theremin-player Ted Bursle-Pitt is said to have left after a falling-out with band-leader Ned Stringey, over the importance of Baudrillard to minor sevenths. Bursle-Pitt is said to have described the question to Stringey as “****ing central to our dialectic, you ****er.”

Drasty rym dogerel, 26/07/2011

In the Name of Our Ford

When you're tired of constant strife,
When you're job's just lost that tingle,
Don't despair of life -
Hum a corporation jingle!

Drasty rym dogerel, 26/07/2011

Pastoralia II

In glorious seclusion
Beneath the fading leaves,
A panoplied suffusion
Of sun he now perceives,
Who, sitting 'neath the bowers,
By nature now enraptured,
Thinks on angelic powers,
And by beauty is thus captured.
His philosophy is gentle
Who lives with rustic ease,
And in darkness fundamental
Admires the fragrant breeze.

Drasty rym dogerel, 08/07/2011

Quatrains with Few Brains
            -OR-
The Rubayyat of Tibbald Haram

I
Behold! For, writing in the deep of night,
The dreary hack now gives poetic fright:
And, given no request yet now to stop
Continues on in quatrains full of shite.

II
And standing early by the Press's way,
The hawking slebs wear their clothes all gay,
Hawking for a paragraph, or two, or more,
Their cuttings to their friends soon to display.

III
With Dullard's wit, Pressmen then opine,
Op'ning their works with flaccid, weary whine,
with deadly cliches sympathy to gain,
And show another their views are all refine.

IV
Then come with old Tibbald to some café
For interviews just off the Masses' way,
In which to dabble in an easy charm,
At which smug readers happily will bray.

V
What will suffice? Perhaps an interview,
A feature, a radio chat or two,
A documentary upon a worthy cause,
And being just a slice more famed than you.

Notebook from Nowhere, 07/06/2011

reg monteverdi, the keenly pastoral resident composer at the parish of St John the Apostate, has recently found himself in some considerable trouble. Mr Monteverdi, famous for such liturgical compositions as the “Two-Step Alleluia”, and “Never Mind The Bollocks, Here’s The Gloria”, made the foolish mistake of agreeing to be interviewed by the terrifying editrix-at-large of the The Wyttrer, Phoebe Green. Mr Monteverdi easily assuaged Ms Green of any suspicion that he might be a patriarchal oppressor, anthropocentric anti-Gaian, looney green anti-womyn environmentalist, or even theist. It was an entirely innocent reference, however, to his long-standing membership of the Society For the Propagation of the Non-Existence of Denmark, however, which provoked Ms Green, who stormed out of the interview after showering Mr Monteverdi, 68, in abuse which chiefly consisted of ever longer and more detailed accusations of his complicity in patriarchal oppression, anti-Gaian earth-destruction, the military-industrial complex, the Conservative party, and the evil schemes of the Elders of Zion. In a blistering account of the interview, Ms Green further accused him of attempting to grope her, picking his nose throughout the interview, and of admitting to regular sexual conjugations with a variety of soft furnishings in his home. Fr Thaddeus, the parish priest of St John’s, immediately wrote a letter to The Wyttrer, informing readers that he was “scandalised” by the “appalling” admissions of Mr Monteverdi, and that he had been suspended from duty in the parish, and asked to leave the village immediately, in the interests of fairness.

while in some climbs cucumbers get the blame for the outbreak of E.Coli in Germany, not so in Much Wyttring. Here, dozens of protesters have been seen outside Tesco’s, furiously brandishing cucumbers in support of the downtrodden Spanish farmer.  Maud Spindle-Chetwynde, of the Leninist Baking Front, which organised the protest, said that the protest was a “show of solidarity with our Spanish comrades, against the vile market forces which manufactured this ridiculous idea that cucumbers are to blame for the outbreak of E.Coli. It is plain as day that this is yet another plot by the military-industrial complex to mask the true meaning of this clear-warning from Mother Gaia herself about the destructive nature of the patriarchal oppression of the capitalist system.”

a handy two-for-one offer for those with both bored, elderly relatives and too many speeding cars on local roads: the new car-spotting kit by MetCo, the marketing arm of the Police. Priced at just £39.99, this handy kit includes Bill Oddie’s fascinating new guide, Car-Spotting for Fun and Profit. As an added incentive, should road safety not improve, the book has a money-back guarantee should it fail to work as a cure for insomnia.

Drasty rym dogerel, 01/06/2011

Sir [Name Redacted]'s Song

When I was a lad I served a term,

As [redacted] to an attorney's firm,

I, er, did this'n'that while distracted,

And I polished up the knockers of the [redacted].

I polished those knockers so quietlee

That now I am a personage Parli'mentary.

CHORUS: He polished up those knockers so quietlee,

That now he is a personage Parli'mentary.

As [redacted] I made such a mark,

That they gave me a post on which I can't remark,

I served the writs for a case I can't name,

And I copied certain letters on a person of Fame.

I copied all the letters so obscurely,

That now I am a personage Parli'mentary.

CHORUS: He copied all those letters so obscurely,

That now he is a personage Parli'mentary.

In serving writs I made such a name,

That a [redacted] I soon became;

I wore clean collars and a brand new tie,

For the [redacted occurrence] at a place in Ely;

And that [redacted occurrence] did so well for me,

That now I am a personage Parli'mentary.

CHORUS: That [redacted occurrence] did so well for he,

That now he is a personage Parli'mentary.

Of legal knowledge I acquired such a grip,

That all other libel lawyers I did soon outstrip;

And that [redacted employer] was, I ween,

The only [redacted] I ever had seen.

But that kind of thing so suited me,

That now I am a personage Parli'mentary.

CHORUS: And that kind of thing so suited he,

That now he is a personage Parli'mentary.

I grew so rich that I was sent

By an overwhelming safe-seat into Parli'ment.

I always voted at my party's call,

And I stuffed my pockets 'till they were absurdly full.

I did so little good, they rewarded me,

By making me the ruler of [redacted entity]!

CHORUS: He did so little good, they rewarded he,

By making him the ruler of [redacted entity]!

Now, sinners, all, wherever you may be,

If you want your peccadilloes in obscurity,

If your soul isn't fettered by an honest rule,

Be careful to be guided by this golden rule –

Stick close to your cash and give your lawyer's fee,

And you all may be like [redacted personality]!

CHORUS: Stick close to your cash and give your lawyer's fee,

And you all may be like [redacted personality]!

Drasty rym dogerel, 31/05/2011

An Ode to Mistress Ayn Rand

O, give not out of charity,
Of that you must beware,
Creating for all parity,
By cutting your fair share.

O, do not give your wealth, my son!
That way does madness lie,
For there you'll lose all we have won,
And there our power will die.

Beware the sharers-out-for-all,
They'll rob you for your worth,
And give your wealth to City Hall,
To finance talent's dearth.

Now keep yourself from charity,
Be sure your balances to fatten,
Run like the plague from parity,
From you old dad, signed: Satan.

Notebook from Nowhere, 26/05/2011

[N.B.: Owing to a Noteable Lack of Material Posted in these Last Weeks, Yr Humble Scribe, by way of Small Recompense, does this Week present Two Notebooks from Nowhere, this One appearing earlier than its usual date.]

some villages have cheese-rolling, others the soul cake, and some few have peculiar and quaint derivations of ancient pagan custom. Few, however, with the notable exception of Little Quinisext, engage in competitive art manifesto-writing, however.  The sport’s unique popularity in these parts is generally put down to the influence of Old Ned Grumble, the local avant-garde painter and part-time cannibal, who has, for the last thirty-eight years, lived in a dilapidated studio just inside the grounds of the dilapidated Smale Manor. Old Ned began manifesto-writing in 1981, with his first art manifesto, Pederasty is the Triumph of Civilisation, which was widely interpreted as an attack on Thatcherism. The six-inch white, plastic cube was covered in news stories relating to the plight of birds of prey in the British Isles. It was his 1993 manifesto, Squall, however, which brought him notoriety when part of it – a photograph of seven dead bees on a page of blank musical staves – appeared in the background of a picture in The Daily Excess of Tracy Emin. The competition began soon after, and for the last eighteen years has been judged by Old Ned in the village hall on the feast of St. Dunstan. This year’s winning entrant, Newsletter of the Society For the Embalming of Zsa Zsa Gabor was written by Dr Hentwither, the village’s resident dyspeptic classicist, as single German compound word, in the form of  a gerund, on no fewer than 61 beermats from the local pub. Old Ned described the entry as “just magnificent”.

*

the much wyttring half-marathon has been cancelled at the last moment for the third month in a row, owing to an inauspicious alignment of the planets. Mrs Agrippinilla Jones-Hargreave,  who was elected leader of the Annual Half-Marathon Steerage Committee for this year, explained that owing to a “minor miscalculation”, the marathon could not take place next Tuesday as agreed,  as the conjunction of Io and Deimos would leave local ley-lines charged with negative energies “likely to cause a breach of the peace”.  Mrs Jones-Hargreave is also head of the local neighbourhood watch. 

Drasty rym dogerel, 25/05/2011

Ode to A Most Exuberant Hand

O fulsome curlicue most round,
O gladsome sight in antique hand,
Grant that our hand with swirls abound,
And that our words may yet expand.

O ornament most handsome,
O lettering sublime,
Thou other scripts do ransom,
And all words now refine.

Notebook from Nowhere, 24/05/2011

BBC Scurvy staff have already run into problems with their latest attempt to engage with the public, entitled “The Big Metaphor”.  The scheme, launched just two weeks ago, is an attempt to follow-up the success of the national part of the BBC’s “Big Read”, and other such non-events. The Nerdley branch, however, ran into trouble with the idea with a series of adverts describing “The Big Metaphor” as “Like our very own song”, “Like the sweet smell of a free country”, “Like brilliance”, and so forth, alongside pictures of sunny afternoons and wealthy, London-based BBC presenters. Locals remain baffled as to what the event is about, however.  Ms Marjorem K Kalypso, a resident of Little Quinisext, said the event was “poorly considered”, and “lacking in sufficient consultation and review prior to release to the wider public”. Ms Kalypso, who chairs the Parish of St John the Apostate’s Non-Executive Pastoral Review Council Liturgical Subcommittee, added that the idea was “insufficiently pastoral”, and “likely to alarm or distress residents unduly”.

A new trick, for the politician whose tried ‘em all, has been developed by Cllr Marvin Squint of the Much Wyttring Council. Cllr Squint was recently accused of embezzling nearly £350,000 of council funds, diverting preferential contracts to friends, and selling the same refrigerator to no fewer than sixteen Inuit. Cllr Squint, appearing before Mr Justice Snipewhistle at Tunsley court last Tuesday, Cllr Squint attempted to excuse himself on grounds of religious observance. As a member of the Ayn Rand First Reformed Church of Mammon, Cllr Squint explained, grandiose personal greed was a moral obligation placed on him by his religious beliefs. He was, he stressed, deeply upset to be forced by his beliefs to buy a row of houses in the Cote d’Azure, and he assured His Honour that he had only spent six weeks staying in one of the houses last August in order to ensure that his investment was still in good condition. Mr Justice Snipewhistle, responding via video-link from the Bahamas, informed Cllr Squint that, unless fresh... er, evidence were to be sent to him immediately, he would be forced to find Cllr Squint guilty of all charges.

The wheel of fashion turns, and unto each there is a season eventually. As 1980s fashions and the three-piece suit return, however, it is important to remember that the wheel always has further to turn. Fashionistas and experts all agree, though, that now is the time to start saving for the return of a fashion which some think has been too long in abeyance: yes, dear readers, it is time to start saving up for a new, full-bottomed periwig.

Drasty rym dogerel, 23/05/2011

The Tale of Sir Gilbert, Part II

Then riding brightly through the glen -
Sir Gilbert and his merry men,
With colours mixing green and gold,
Flutt'ring in the breeze so bold.

Their pauldrons were all gleaming bright,
Their feathers all a cheerful sight,
Three-score minstrels in company,
And all in bright, jocund array.

They came then quickly to the towns,
One and all wore flower-crowns,
And bells rang in their visit sweet,
And once more rang their swift exit.

And as they bid a warm adieu,
Each town did go from grey to hue,
And brillain with such colours gay,
Chased fast the powers of night away.

They spread their joy with bright display,
At towns and castles on the way,
And unto Night brought timely Day,
And unto Evil, Good repay.

Drasty rym dogerel, 21/05/2011

On the House of Commons
After Swinburne; created upon the Occasion of Mr CLEGG's war on the noble Lords of Parliament.

Cold eyes that hide like a jewel
Hard thoughts that grow soft on the tongue;
The heavy, thick lies, and the cruel
Red sins that stain old and young;
When these are gone, past into fading,
What shall rest of thee then, what remain,
O place now magic, now degrading,
Our House of Champagne?

Seven sorrows the priests give their Virgin,
But they sins, which are seventy times seven,
Seven ages have leapt thro' like sturgeon,
To make for thyself a sweet heaven;
Fierce midnights and famishing morrows,
And the power that loves complete control,
All the joys of the flesh, all the sorrows
That wear out the soul.

O garment not golden but gilded,
O garden where few men may dwell,
O House not of us but rebuilded,
By hands that are few and known well;
O mire of the mystical rose,
O house not of gold, but of gain,
O place of the liar's repose,
Our House of Champagne!

Of yesterday's reach and to-morrow's,
They think not as they lie for today,
There have been and there yet shall be sorrows
That shall smite all but them in their play.
The Life and the love thou despisest -
These bring to you but little gain,
O fools among greedy, most foolish,
Our House of Champagne.

Drasty rym dogerel, 17/05/2011

The Tale of Sir Gilbert, Part I

The times were impropitious,
And the augurs told of gloom,
And the Powers were all vicious,
And the paupers at their doom.

The rulers all were evil,
And the days were turned to night,
And the powers of the Devil,
Did increase the whole land's plight.

And the country was in chaos,
And the rich on poor men spat,
And the sovereign did not govern,
And the knights were all grown fat.

So the people in the country
Slipped quick into despair,
For they could not trust the Gentry,
Nor the Churchmen who were there.

Drasty rym dogerel, 16/05/2011

[N.B.: Yr Most Humble Scribe doth beg Forgiveness for the but Slow & Lacking service of late upon This Blog, & by way of Small Recompense, offers the following Drasty Dogerel.]

In Praise of Bureaucrats

"I don't deal with your type, I fear,

It's not my job, you see;

But it's been the job of Mandy here

Since 1993."

It's not my job,

It's not for you

To ask such things of me;

Why, silly clot,

You talk such rot,

It's YOUR fault,

don't you see?

"Now have you got a P8-K?

You'll want to use the phone."

Admitting no defeat, I say

That it got left at home.

It's not my job,

It's not for you

To ask such things of me;

Why, silly clot,

You talk such rot,

It's YOUR fault,

don't you see?

"The smear test's just an option,

But also compulsory;

We need to know quite where you've been

And stuck yourself, you see?"

It's not my job,

It's not for you

To ask such things of me;

Why, silly clot,

You talk such rot,

It's YOUR fault,

don't you see?

"I can't deal with you just right now,

But if you'll bear with me,

Young Doreen here (the silly cow)

Will get you some nice tea.

Drasty rym dogerel, 09/05/2011

[N.B. Yr humble scribe brings this short mediaeval text for yr edification. This brief poem is found in the Complutensian Sacramentary, thought to have been compiled in the mid-13th Century, where it is listed as the Collect for today's Mass. The cult of the Virgin of Spain is otherwise obscure. Evidently it was equally so in antic periods - this text is attested only in the above Tome, and shows but poor handiwork in its Construction, being an obvious & Inelegant translation from the Demotic.]

O Domina Hispaniae


Adoro te devote, O Domina Hispaniae:
E prima nocte vidi te,
cor meum desideratum tibi:
Domina Hispaniae, adoro te.

Oro tibi, O Domina Hispaniae:
cur labia mea abscondant,
omnia quid oculi mei revelant?
Domina Hispaniae, adoro te.

Notebook from Nowhere, 08/05/2011

Others may have been out enjoying fine English weather, but not so the universally-feared editrix-at-large of Much Wyttring’s second-most-successful newspaper, Phoebe Green. “CASH FOR PRINCES SCANDAL”, screamed the front page of The Wyttrer, while a stinging editorial tore into the Royal family (a “nest of the indolent, the in-bred, and the obnoxious”, funded by “the ever-expanding misery of those crushed between the wheels of Britain’s military-industrial complex”), the government (“the rapacious and the ridiculous, stuffing their pockets with the savings of our grandmothers”), the Duchess of Cambridge (“a furious social-climber whose Tory cash-cow parents offered the perfect entree to the world of power she has craved for so long”), Pippa Middleton (a “grinning moron, whose pearly-white dress perfectly matches the whitewash of her own sordid past”), and, at much length, the “grinningly imbecilic” and “fanatically royalist” unwashed lumpenproletariat of Much Wyttring.

Long term Green-watchers say that this is a new high, both in the level of invective and the number of people libelled in a single column.  Indeed, the only column in recent memory by Ms Green even close to this one was that of the 15^th March 2009, which, among other things, attacked all the major political parties, seven archbishops, fourteen mayors, seven heads of state, and, at considerable length, her sister. Ms Green, a prominent member of the Much Wyttering branch of the Leninist Baking Front, was unavailable for comment.

***

Dr Norman Quince, the famed discoverer of the Spanish Guitar Beetle, has once again been charged with contempt of court, wasting police time, causing a breach of the peace, and six counts of inciting religious and racial hatred. Dr Quince was arrested by West Scurvy police force after repeatedly heckling members of the congregation at St John the Apostate in Little Quinisext, before attempting to place the new Papal nuncio to Great Britain, Archbishop Mennini, under citizen’s arrest, on grounds of heresy, treason, witchcraft and praemunire, the last of which, a mediaeval law against any power attempting to override the supremacy of the monarch, was abolished by the Criminal Law Act 1967, for Britain’s admission into the EEC.

Archbishop Mennini had been visiting St John the Apostate for a confirmation service, and is said to have been ‘surprised, but otherwise unharmed’ by aides.  Although the archbishop decided not to press charges, police nevertheless arrested Dr Quince after he attempted to “borrow” four sets of handcuffs, a truncheon, and a megaphone from the Little Quinisext police station in his efforts. Dr Quince was unavailable for comment.

***

New research indicates that 33% of the internet is composed of adverts offering free laptops, mobile ‘phones, games consoles, and occasionally, cheap wives. Astounded researches at the Airhead Institute of Statistical Inutility, part of West Scurvy University, said that the findings “completely overturned previous expectations”.

Dr Kevin Smug, who led the eight-man team investigating the subject, said: “This is quite incredible. Initial estimates suggested that a mixture of pornography and adverts offering cheap tooth-whitening techniques made up the vast majority of the internet. These findings, however, shake that hypothesis to the core.”

Notebook from Nowhere, 01/05/2011

[N.B.: Yr Most Humble author begs your Indulgence for the Week’s delay in posting, owing to th’observance of the Holy Pascha.]

Renowned poetess Dame Klytemnaestra Harvey has astounded critics once again with a new performance poem which you can try at home, too. Simply invite half a dozen people ‘round for supper – friends for preference, but any acquaintances will do. Halfway through the meal, get up, take hold of the pepper shaker, and stand on your chair. Say, “you disgust me”.  Unscrew the top of the pepper shaker, and pour the pepper into your other hand. Let it slip through your fingers. Now, put the pepper shaker down, and scream as loud and as long as you can, get down from your chair and leave the room. Dame Klytemnaestra, who has also published a guide to deportment, says this is her most “profound” and “spiritual” work, but promises it will “delight and uplift even the most modest dinner-party”.

***

The case of Pentwhistle vs Nutrigon Cereal Foods, Inc. in Tunsley court drones on. The case, now into its third successive year of running, has now become so in danger of losing its original purpose – which some commentators would suggest was a somewhat strict interpretation of the Trade Descriptions Act by Mr Pentwhistle – and increasingly derives into more and more furiously-debated obscurity. In court last Friday, counsel for the prosecution Sir Augustulus Treacle QC emphasised that  tin-mining was, contrary to the defence’s position, a flourishing trade in 13^th Century Tintagel. “It is”, he said, “a wholly misleading suggestion, my lord, that the case of the Crown vs Tresgothick 1256 can have been in relation to anything other than the question of praebunire and the French market for tin.”

Mr Justice Snipewhistle, responding via video-link from the Bahamas, said that while he “fully appreciated” the prosecution’s argument, he was uncertain that a case involving the mediaeval law against aiding a foreign power could still be applicable since the European Communities Act.  Mr Pentwhistle, 55, of Much Wyttring’s Flatley Park estate, is said to be “satisfied” with the current progress of the case, and told reporters that he looked forward to the day when “insidious and misleading metaphor” has been “entirely exterminated from the English language”.

Drasty rym dogerel, 25/4/2011

Pastoralia

'Neath verdant bowers all ensconced,
By nature's beauty all entranced,
On fields to all horizons gazing,
Cattle roundabout all grazing,
Sat the master, weary, lazing,
Lazing here in Tuscany.

Sitting in sweet atrophy,
Reading antic philosophy,
'Neath the verdant bowers, sipping,
From an earthen wine-cup, dripping,
On to Spring's first new buds, thirsting,
Soon to be fresh flowers, bursting,
Bursting into panoply.

Drasty rym dogerel, 20/4/2011

[Caveat lector: This poor composition was assembled as a Satyr in a previous age, and, being no longer of present Topick, its author, this humble Scribe, begs that his audience will treat it therefore as it is, a memorium to the Public Sentiment of its time.]

Do they gobble granny’s savings, Mr Clegg,

Where they read old Cato’s ravings, do they, Clegg?

Are they, farting, drinking, moaning,

Eating up our nationhood,

Do they profit us yet nothing,

And corrupt the public good?

Are the Classics such a danger,

Is it thanks to linguists that we beg;

Is it they that us endanger, is it, Clegg?

Is it playwrights dodging tax, Mr Clegg?

That requires such attacks, Mr Clegg?

Is it all the fault of singers

That our finances are parlous?

Was it they who took our tractors,

And invested them in harlots?

If the Arts were but less funded,

If the banker’s book more thick,

Would our economy be healthy,

Would it, Nick?

It would greatly, I would own, Mr Clegg,

Please me if you left this well alone, Mr Clegg.

In the matters of our bread you will fight your case and win,

But preying on the arts is a hiding looking thin;

If the voice of Murdoch falters,

If with universities we’re thick,

We’ll be on our way to Bedlam,

Will we, Nick?

Drasty rym dogerel, 17/04/2011

[Caveat lector: This poor composition was assembled as a Satyr in a previous age, and, being no longer of present Topick, its author, this humble Scribe, begs that his audience will treat it therefore as it is, a memorium to the Public Sentiment of its time.]

The Clegg-Cameron Clapped-Rap
Well, I'm hipper than hip
And I'm cooler than cool
And you'd never believe
I was at public school.

I'm relevant
'Cuz I'm cool as can be,
Even if I don't have
No sound policy.

I'm up to the minute
With the trends of late
Even if my music
Is ten years out of date.

Now my background and wealth
Might just cause some friction,
'Cause I'm just as rich
As is implied by my diction.

Well I dress like your granddad,
And my slang's like his too,
But if you think I'm a square
Then I pity you, fool.

I'm down with the kids,
And I'm in with the crowd
Even if I do find
This music too loud.

Just cause my Daddy's an earl,
And my uncle owns Norfolk
It don't mean I ain't down with the poor folk.

And when I get back from the hood
With the vote-pulling done
Well you'll find me chillin'
Back at the Bullingdon.

Notebook From Nowhere, 15/4/2011

the smithfield muses, Little Quinisext’s most ineffectual indie band, have once again played to a packed, near-empty Relapse pub this week. The viola-backed trio’s audience were, in general, positive. Barmaid Sandrine described band leader Ned Stringey as “an all-right guy, basically”. Much Wyttring-based accountant Tom Lacksides, who attended the concert, later described the music as “all right, I suppose. I mean, if you like that sort of thing.”

Speaking to Jim Flinkey outside the newsagent, Stringey described the gig as the band’s most successful yet, saying it “didn’t go too badly, really”.

“We got through our whole set this time”, he added.

Nerdsley-educated Stringey, 19, the band’s vocalist and founder, established the group three years ago with the help of viola-player Jim Crating, and accountancy student-turned-drummer Pete Flake.  The band’s website describes it as ‘the post-pop indie-punk phenomenon of the decade’.

The band’s debut single, So Farewell Then, EJ Thribb is not expected out in the next few decades.

***

inspector clap of the West Scurvy Police has turned once more to writing on his pet subject, the archaeology of the M40. The new volume in his seven-part work, published by the Much Wyttring Conservation Trust, is entitled Wilson: The Burtley Wood Years, and charts many of the key journeys the Prime Minister who founded the highway might have taken on it, had it already been built.

Of particular interest to incompetent amateur historians everywhere is his interview with Gwyn Smethwick, who ran the renowned post office in Tyldely-By-Lizard where Wilson famously nearly got out to buy stamps but didn’t. Col. Blight, chairman of the Much Wyttring Conservation Trust, described the work as “covering essential ground in dismantling the Conservative myth of the failure of the Wilson government”.

***

fr. thaddeus, the enthusiastically pastoral parish priest of St John the Apostate, Little Quinisext, once again faces ‘a period of reconciliation and healing’ with parishioners this week, following another innovative, forward-looking Palm Sunday liturgy.

Parishioners were said to be “disappointed” by the new liturgy, composed especially for the occasion by the renowned local composer and liturgist, Reg Monteverdi. Amongst the least successful elements according to the Parish's Non-Executive Pastoral Review Council Liturgical Subcommittee, The Introit, entitled Hit Me With Your Hyssop Stick, was damningly voted a rating of “pastoral”. Worse, 82% of parishioners,  however, are said to have found the use of a water-pistol at the start of the Mass “unpastoral”. Marjorem K. Kalypso, chair of the Liturgical Subcommittee, said that the liturgy was “not satisfactory”.

Ms. Kalypso said: “It is the considered opinion of the Non-Executive Pastoral Review Council Liturgical Subcommittee that the limited accompaniment for the liturgical music, consisting of a drum-kit and only two trombones, was deeply unsatisfactory, and gave little room for active participation. We are most disappointed by Mr. Monteverdi’s setting, particularly in light of his previous, exemplary work in pastorally sensitive, liturgically charismatic music up until now.”

Fr. Thaddeus was unavailable for comment.

Drasty rym dogerel, 15/04/2011

[Caveat lector: This ode was written as a Satyr in a previous age, and, being no longer of present Topick, its author, this humble Scribe, begs that his audience will treat it therefore as it is, a memorium to the Public Sentiment of its time.]

The Love-Song of J. Gordon Brown

Let us go then, you and I,
When the deficit is spread sky-high
Like a nightmare, predicted by Vince Cable.
Let us go through ancient, muttering retreats,
The dusty old defeats,
Of bills, and acts, and Question Time ordeal,
And failure that no-one dare conceal.
Our manifesto wanders like a tedious argument,
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming Problem;
O, do not speak to me of mores:
Let us go, and blame the Tories!