Last week's
cringing homage to Tonyism has caused waves of nausea around the Reeks
and, with it, a rather pustulent swelling in our postbag this week.
Which in turn has led to a spate of ruptured paper boys especially on
the Carrauntuoil round. Windblown copies of our hallowed organ
have draped themselves around lampposts as far south as Droitwich, a
town which never before in its long history has been known to be swamped
by culture.
Our long held
editorial policy, as ratified by our local Lib Dem councillor, is to
print only those readers' letters that pertain to the peril of dog turds
in the windows of Estate Agents or to the even greater risk of a rash of
chip pan fires breaking out in unlicensed local massage parlours,
and, of course, to the social scourge of taxis that go beep in the
night. Here then is a brief selection of letters that we
considered too interesting to print:
A judge called
Tony Cascarino who presides over a bench in the Marie Louise Gardens
every morning until the pubs open, writes to say that he strongly
objects to being likened to Claire Short:
"Don't let the
accent or the hair style fool you", he cautions, "the honourable lady
from the Bull Ring, and I, have nothing in common. Au contraire,
my nanny is of the opinion that, on a clear night, my angelic good looks
tend strongly to favour a young Tony Curtis. (ED. NOTE: he means the guy
who used to play Baldric in Blackadder). Indeed in the
early 80's when I had a weekly spot at Foo Foos many young men of
indeterminate gender were wont to climb on stage and beg me to autograph
their Some Like It Hot videos. I rest my briefs.
"Incidentally,
when the other less good looking Tony was in Vespers last week I don't
suppose he mentioned if he had anyone in mind for the vacant Lord High
Executioner job. I wouldn't mind having a bash at it myself
although the early starts might pose a problem during the quizzing
season. Let me put it through my mental blender and I will get
back to you next week with a nice bowl of pea and ham soup."
Raising the
decibels somewhat a Fr. Paisley, an apprentice Moderator in the Church
of the Poisoned Chalice over in the diocese of Little Britain, Rockall
and The Calf Of Man, fumes to the point of self-inflicted tinnitus:
"I enjoyed last
week's exposé of what really goes on at Vespers Sauna and I enclose my
membership fee for 20 years. I must however break the habit of a
lifetime and rant against the quiz recently set by Ethel Rodin. I
have nothing against the good lady in question. Indeed, over the
years, I have taken much solace and solitary pleasure from Ms Rodin's
"KISS" - but her quiz was an abomination in the sight of my lodge.
What do you mean, do you breed beavers over there? Beavers are
vile playthings of the Devil with sticky-out teeth just like Bernie
Winters and how abominable is that? Shut up and let me rant in
peace! To have one round on popery could have been excused as an
attempt to please an old bigot by teasing him almost to the point of
blessed release but to have FOUR - d'ya hear - I said FOUR rounds on
POPERY in ONE quiz means war. Step outside now Ms Rodin and
choose your instrument of perdition.
P.S. Could you
send me an autographed photie and maybe a used neckerchief?"
The Editor
Replies:
It was POT POURRI
you deaf old goat. 'Pot Pourri' - French for rotten pot.
Speaking of which, have you taken your Epsom Salts yet? Take a Lem
Sip as well and get back into bed or I'll tell the duty nurse you tried
jumping out the window in your longjohns last night to go to the
Westlife concert. Go on. Into bed NOW. And don't
forget the magic words: 'Teeth and toilet'.
P.S. The editor's
decision is final in these matters and you ARE a deaf old goat.
Breaking away from the Editor's tradition of saving the best till last,
we end this week with a letter from a raddled Opsimath who ekes out a
meagre living by solving frameworks - he can't manage the actual
crossword clues yet, just the frames! He writes tediously:
"Here's an
interesting thing" (you just know instinctively at this stage that it
won't be - ED.). Whilst putting last week's article through my
siege engine I sat up as if galvanised when I noticed that you had used
the word "bathos". It certainly is a small world, as they say
(inhabited almost exclusively by small-minded people - ED.). My
great great grandmother's name was Bathos - Bathsheba Bathos to be
precise, which I always try to be.
"I have done
extensive research, sometimes to the detriment of my conjugal lifestyle,
and I have discovered that she was a 16 year old ploughgirl from Horsham
when my great great grandfather claimed her as part of his Droit de
Seigneur package on a windy bluff overlooking what is today East
Grinstead's prestigious new National Bus depot.
"Now my great
great grandfather would have been one of the Thynne-Baths (the first
component thereof being rather idiosyncratically pronounced "tin").
They were a very old Norman family who came over with William The
Conqueror. William's motto, as every schoolboy and some of the
better disciplined schoolgirls know, was "Honi soit qui mal y pong"
which of course means in translation "never leave home without taking a
bath". William seems to have taken this motto very literally
because legend says he never went anywhere, not even on a date, without
having a Thynne-Bath dancing attendance on his every move. A 'By
Royal Appointment' sanitary ware business was thus born and the family
duly cleaned up south of the Wash although they were less successful
when they tried introducing the heathen concept of hygiene into West
Yorkshire.
"You and your
readers will be intrigued to know that our family Coat of Arms still
features "un chat mèchant pissant dans le bain" on an avocet background.
Avocet is, of course, the heraldic term for avocado. Fascinating,
I'm sure you'll agree. I could talk about this subject for hours
and I feel sure that you would be delighted to listen. When are
you free?"
Not now. Michael.
Not ever.
