Molesworth

by Geoffrey Willans

MOLESWORTH 2. Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah. Got you.

  ALL: Ssh!

  MATER: Do you not think it would be better if their heads were not three feet away from their shoulders?

  (Pater go and twiddle knobs. First of all there is a snowstorm then what seem like the batle of jutland, then an electronic bombardment. Finaly a vast explosion.)

  MATER: You hav ruined it, clot.

  NANA: Boost the contrast.

  MOLESWORTH 2: Adjust the definition.

  ME: O gosh, hurry up.

  (Now picture is upside down, then leaning drunkenly, then it disappear altogether amid boos and catcalls. Finaly Nana do it.)

  T.V. Are you conected with seaweed? (Huge cheer)

  MATER: look at tibby the cat he canot stand gilbert harding . . . . .

  ALL: Sssh.

  PATER: He’s a guggle-gouger . . . . .

  (And so it go on. Supper is not cooked, fires go out, kettles boil their heads off, slates fall off the roof and house burn down, but we are all still looking at a nature film in w. africa chiz in fact we hav seen more monkeys since we got the t.v. than ever before xcept at st. custard’s where peason hav the face of a wild baboon.)

  He is going to zoom to the piano and pla fairy bells

  Aktually t.v. is v. cultural for boys and improving to the mind. You learn so many things that when you go back to skool all are quite surprised.

  MOLESWORTH 1. To the q. whether the hydrogen bomb should be banned i give a categorical ‘no’. unless there can be international agreement to co-exist in disarmament.

  MOLESWORTH 2: That is a valid point, o weedy wet. Do you kno the population of chile?

  MOLESWORTH 1: No. But everyone should look both ways before crossing the road and wot can be more dramatic than man’s fight against the locust, eh?

  MOLESWORTH 2: The problem of asia is the problem of over-population and now i will pla brahams etude number 765000 in F flat . . . . .

  You kno wot this mean he is going to zoom to the piano and pla fairy bells nothing can stop him the whole skool will rock and plaster drop from the ceiling, chandeliers will shake and light bulbs burst. Hav to take cover until it is all over when the head of an elk, dislodged by the blast, fall on my head chiz chiz chiz that is life.

  So you will see that t.v. is a joly good thing and very restful to the nerves, my dear. You can talk about it next day, particularly to those who hav no sets and hav not seen the programmes. This make you very popular socially, with the smart set of 3B, and take your mind off the lessons. It also gives rise to several wizard wheezes. For instance, why not start a maths lesson with a ghastley face smiling at you?

  ‘And now, 3B, we are going to show you the elementary principles of vulgar fractions so we hope simper simper you will be able simper to get the things into yore thick heads without carving the desk or sticking compasses into fotherington-Tomas. Simper. May we also remind you that there is cocoa and buns at break and from 10.30 to 11.15 there is a gorgeous lesson in which Cotta will be beaten for the umpteenth time by the Belgians with darts and arows?”

  With a huge SIMPER the picture fade. Which only leave time to prepare placard for the final wizard wheeze.

  molesworth, next sentence. Marcus and Balbus, my dearest friends, are walking out of the city. Come along, boy.

  You do not need to sa er-er and scratch yore head or even ask what the blazes the two cissies are doing walking out of the city for. You just hoist your placard for a technical hitch:

  A NEW DEAL FOR THE TINIES

  Hist! Cave! methinks the bold bad molesworth I have wind that there are tinies around the place, you kno wot tinies are – they are ickle pritty little boys who wear blue corduroy trousis and zoom about on fairy cycles. They hav not come to st custard’s yet they do not kno their fate. They hav mistresses at skool and dance weedily with ickle gurls chiz chiz chiz e.g.

  Now david, now bobby, now cyril stand round me in a fairy ring and join hands with drusilla we will pretend we are all going to fairyland.

  At this all the tinies becom xcited and jump up and down. Goody goody hurray and hip hip they cri shall we see a fairy godmother?

  ‘But,’ sa fotherington-Tomas, when i express these things to him, ‘we must hav the younger tinies to folow in our footsteps. After all,’ he sa, ‘you were a tiny once yourself.’

  ‘Me? Curses!’

  ‘With corduroy trousis and your mother wept when she cut off your curls. You looked just like bubbles, molesworth 1, and the old ladies said how swete you were.’

  With that he skip weedily away singing tra-la-tra-la but i feel there is a grane of truth in wot he sa. Gosh chiz, i dare not think of it. Me in corduroy trousis! 10000000000 boos to bubbles.

  Aktually all boys hav to hav a time when they are not tuough and canot even read. There was even a time when i had no culture myself hem-hem which was when my pater and mater thort i was a brane and would win a skolarship. Not much hope of making me a slave to pay the fees nowadays. But there was a time once when –

  (Scene) the molesworth nursery young nigel molesworth is sitting on the floor braking a hornby trane with a hamer. The place is litered with debris of wheels nuts bolts dinky toys tanks and clockwork mice it is as if there hav been an H-bomb xplosion.

  There was even a time when i had no culture myself

  NURSE: come nigel dere it is time for your reading lesson.

  NIGEL: Boo-hoo-boo-hoo-hoo.

  NURSE: If you are wilful i will smak yore little hand.

  NIGEL: And i will thro the hamer at you. If you want to get tuough, you can hav it tuough dere nana.

  (With a quick judo thro nana come up from behind and disposess the game little chap of his weapon. He sits upon her ample knee with an open book.)

  It is a funy thing about reading when you are a tiny they make you sa Ah-Eh-Ih-Ou-URR etc. which is uterly wet and read about weedy dogs e.g.

  There is a dog. Jack is a…Jack is a…Jack is a…is a bitch. No, not that, nigel, do not guess. Read the word. Wot does DER-OU-GER spell? Jack is a dog he is a bad dog jack steals the bone…(zoom zoom along you can remember it all). Cook is angry. Cook is a cow. Well, that is what dere Dada…Cook is a lady. She whacks jack with the LURAH-DUR-LUR-ER. Wot the blades can that be? She whacks jack with the hamer…with the gun…with the cosh…with the rolling pin…etc. etc. And so it go on until nana fall into a stupor and it is time for the archer family on the wireless.

  Everything is difficult for tinies they hav to write too. But first they pla with plastissene and make drawings in crayons which is like glorious tecknicolour hem-hem i don’t think. When they write it is like this they copy things why dus the owl owl wod pek on the nos. Or, hokey-de-poke de zoopity zing you are under my spel and dus everything i tell.

  wot speling eh?

  Soon however the tinies can use their new found skill and scrible on their books rude things about lambs, roy the rat, tortoises, geese which they hav to read about e.g. ded he is i shot him he is ded yes. This show promise for the future and a brite career at st custards.

  Another thing tinies kno o about is games such as foopball or criket. When they first see a foopball they are amazed. ‘What do we do with it?’ they ask the mistress. ‘You slam the leather right-footed into the reticule, little dears,’ she repli. So they put the ball down and retire to the end of the field then zoom up for huge shot. Ball go two inches and tiny fall on his nose. ‘Ha-ha-ha,’ sa mistress, ‘that will teach you, rat. Now it is cedric’s turn.’

  It is the same with criket, which the tinies ushually learn with their pater on the lawn.

  pater: Set up the stumps, boys.

  Do you not want to be grown-up ?

  tiny: i were playing with my balloon.

  pater: All grown-up men pla criket. Do you not want to be grown-up?”

  tiny: not when i see some grown-up men, Dada.

  But pater is inexorable. He grasps the bat. First tiny bowls the ball backwards over his head, then into the greenhouse, then along the ground and fi
naly the dog run away with it. When the pill is recovered tiny bowl pater with a wizard daisy-cutter. Pater then bowl and hit tiny’s stumps. ‘You’re out!’ he yells. Tiny throw the bat at him and walk off into the house. The game is over.

  So you see. Even the Hugest hav been tinies once. And even when they are huge and hairy as me their maters sometimes sa: “Did I show you that sweet photo of nigel when he was a baby?” And there you are looking weedy on a rug. But it’s all right as long as none of the other boys don’t see. You take another look. You weren’t a bad looking tiny at all quite d. in that peticoat – curses wot am i saing?

  Dere Little Chaps

  Will you take me for a bike ride, dad?

  Parkins shows a good deal of promise.

  nigel is a slo developer.

  You hav caught me, sir, like a treen in a disabled space ship.

  i shouldn’t do that if i were you, old chap.

  SUMER BY THE SEA

  Hurra for the hols agane cheers cheers cheers. Boo and snubs to all skools and masters which are closed for repairs and renovation during august. (‘i think we’ll have big skool done a pale dove grey with petunia lame curtains,’ sa headmaster’s wife hem-hem i do not think. Big skool will be lucky if it get a rinse with the carbolic.)

  Wot will the little chaps do with themselves when they can no longer wake up each day in their beloved alma mater? (SKOOL! SKOOL! SKOOL! BASH ‘EM UP ST CUSTARD’S!) Wot will they do, eh? Frankly i would hardly like to sa it is so unspekeable wot with 3 cokes and ½ a lb of home-made fudge before 10 a.m.

  A few, however, of the more thortful types will be planing ahead for lazy days by the sea e.g.

  ‘i see that striped beachwear is in fashion agane this season,’ sa molesworth 2, laing down his ladies mag hem-hem. ‘Do you intend to be chic this season molesworth 1 in casual slashnecked coton with delectable acessories or do you intend to wear your ushual dirty blue drawers ?’

  ‘Shutup molesworth 2 i am looking at t.v.’

  ‘t.v. is the curse of modern youth. Wot is on?’

  ‘It is a brany chap who hav made a telescope out of a tin of pineaple chunks as a sparetime hoby.’

  (3 hours later, plus 2 mins and 6 sees.)

  ‘The pla is over and i have guesed that it was an etruscan jam jar dated circa Io66a.d.,’ sa molesworth 2. ‘Where shall we all go for our glamorous holiday in the sun? Shall it be breezy ventnor? or rolicking ryde? Do you wish to find health and hapiness at bridlington molesworth one ? Perhaps romance will come your way this year, o weedy wet. Or do you prefer the s. of france ?’

  ‘Ah how joli et gai the s. of france would be!’

  (He dreameth.)

  La France. Beneath an orange umbrela sit molesworth I on a chaise on the terace of the hotel magnifique. there is the scent of jasmin and bullseyes in the air, an orchestra pla the minstrel boy softly, Le soleil brille. molesworth turn to his companion, the glamorous hor tense –

  M. MOLESWORTH: j’aime voo, hortense.

  HORTENSE: Oo la-la and houp-la. c’est vrai?

  M. MOLESWORTH: (souriant soppily) Les loups sont laids, les elephants sont enormes, les girafes sont hauts.

  HORTENSE: Wot the blazes hav that got to do with it, mon amour?

  M. MOLESWORTH: it is all the fr. i can remember it is potts and pilcher fr. primer ex 9B and wot is a grate surprise to all is that all the adjs hav an ‘s’.

  HORTENSE: Why do you always hav to bring the loups into it? The loups are idiotics, they are unnecessaries. they are humides. they are weedys they are unintelligents. (She brake off and stares) Qui est ce beau gars?

  m’sieu molesworth regard autour de lui.

  M. MOLESWORTH: Mon dieu c’est grabber the tete de la skool! Je l’ai eu (i hav had it). He gives another quick blow of the eye. Non, j’ai tort egad c’est M. Hubert our fr. master –

  M. Hubert sees molesworth and reels with dismay. i supose it is hard chedar when you come on a cheap pleasure hol and find me there large as life at the other end. Any case in certain circumstances masters seem to feel boys cramp their style e.g. over GURLS.

  M. HUBERT. Cor cripes its molesworth i must get the blazes out of here. (Il voit hortense) Well this is reel nice, molesworth, is the lady votre mere?

  HORTENSE: Mais essayez-vous clot et dites moi qui vous etes etc?

  La France. Beneath an orange umbrek sit molesworth on a chaise on the terace of the hotel magnifique

  HUBERT: Come again?

  M. MOLESWORTH: She was telling you to sit down and give an account of yourself. Pray join us.

  (the fr. master so betwitched with the beauty of hortense that he take molesworth’s hand and kiss it chiz chiz chiz.)

  MOLESWORTH: As i was saing the loups sont laids. . . . .

  But it is no use hortense and the fr. master gaze into each other s eyes. Finaly armand the boy from the fr. book appear with Papa. Houp-la he sa i see the sea. Big boats go on the sea. Is the sea wet?

  PAPA: Non armand but you are.

  He push him quietly off the port and join the fr. master and hortense. The dream fades. . . . .

  Aktually most boys do not get the chance of a hapy hol in the s. of France. They go on the broads where a steady percentage fall in and are never heard of agane: they go in caravans or camps, they are sent to aged aunts who hav houses au bord de la mer. Anything to save money.

  molesworth 2 and me ushually get a lite sentence at a boarding house at Babbling-by-sea e.g.

  Mon repos is a pritty tuough place and make even st. custard’s seem like the ritz. It always rain when we arive and all in a bad temper. Inside front door is a mat which sa ‘Welcom’ and a huge hairy lady spring out at us and below ‘Wipe your shoes’. In fact this is all you are alowed to do in mon repos the rest e.g. sliding down banisters, having baths, bunging cushions etc is stricktly forbidden. There is no future in wiping your shoes forever so it is beter to brave the elements outside.

  You kno how they describe hols in the childrens books e.g. as soon as mummy and daddy had unpacked the eager little chaps ran off with their bukets and spades to the seashore. If you do this at babblington-on-sea you get blown sixty miles inland the wind is so ferce. You hav to hang on all the way if you want to get down to the beach.

  And then wot do you see? Babies. Nothing but babies. Some sit in pudles, some stager drunkenly across the sand, some beat pat a cake with a spade but most just sit there with their mouths open looking loopy. And when you pass it is always the same thing the mum sa: ‘Baby sa helo to the nice little boy.’ Me nice ? Hem-hem.

  ‘But you were,’ sa molesworth 2, weedily. ‘my first recolection as i opened my blue baby eyes was you molesworth I you were shaking a ratle and sa ‘ickle pritty brudder.’

  ‘i was only saing my lines.’

  ‘That may be but mum always sa i was a beautiful baby.’

  ‘time molesworth 2 works grate changes.’

  Ho for beach criket! As the tide recede leaving vast expanse of seaweed, old bottles, planks and oil wot can be nicer than a joly game of criket? All the fathers encourage their little ones and the little ones gaze at their fathers with their white hary legs and become depresed about the future. If we are all to grow up like that wot is the use of going on, eh? Paters are oblivious of this and encourage all.

  ‘Come on cyril you are in…don’t blub…timothy is not blubing…hit a six old chap…well tried…next man ect ect ect ect.… until all the children are blubing and all the paters are plaing it is the same old story. Wot is left for the new boyhood? They dash into the sea with glad cries and drown themselves. So boo to boarding houses, cliffs, bukets, spades, water wings, windmills, model boats seaweed and striped beachwear – roll on thou grate and restless ocean roll over the LOT.

  Roll on thou grate and restless ocean roll over the LOT

  5

  THE CRUEL HARD WORLD

  WHO WILL BE WOT?

  Fellow weeds, hav you ever cast those blue eyes of yours – just like your mater’s hem-hem – into t
he grimy future? Wot i mean is, we are YOUTH chiz chiz whether we like it or not and as every weed who come to give us prizes sa – The Future is in yore Keeping.

  n.b. it is no use saing We don’t want it. You can keep it etc. Nobody wants the future and we are left holding the baby chiz chiz chiz.

  These Grate and FEARLESS thorts come to me the other day in prep as i stare gloomily at the imperfect subjunk of avoir. From that i allow my gaze to wander out of the window at those little feathered creatures who kno tru freedom. Next i-draw a wizard H-bomb xplosion and then i look around me at my felow weeds.

  All these oiks, tuoughs, weeds, wets, bulies, snekes, cads, dolts and knaves – Wot will Become of Them?

  Hav they tried their best? No. Hav they put the Subjekt in the Nom? No! Hav they kept their eye on the pill at criket? No! Hav they been well-manered and respecktful to the masters? No! Hav they heeded warnings and pi-jaws? Absolutely not!

  Wot is to become of them? The molesworth Daydream Service now merged with Bets, Wagers and Prophesies Inc. produce the answer.

  089281 GRABBER. Everyone kno grabber he is head of the skool and winner of the mrs joyful prize for rafia work.

  He also win every other prize and is collosally rich etc. Everyone now would sa wot a bright future lies before him, the world is at his feet. Ah no, the grate buly hav an ugly fate. First, his pater lose all his money so grabber drift from bad to worse and as he could not be worse now this is joly difficult. First it is the pin-table halls, then pepsi-cola, then dogs, then GURLS and then horses. In fact the only good thing to be said of this wastrel product was that he liked the horses better than the gurls.