CAESAR: We were ten minutes late at Eboricum and they call this a railway.
LIVY: Travelling on business i supose?
CAESAR: i am going up to attack the picts and scots, i hav finished with the gauls and hav attacked so many ramparts and ditches in Italy it will be a nice change.
ROMULUS: Scotios sunt weeds.
CAESAR: Be quiet, boy, and do not put yore nom in the acusative it’s not grammer. Also stop sucking that pabulum. Did you kno that queen boadicea is buried at King’s Cross station?
LIVY: No? How fasscinating!
(He falls aslepe as j. caesar continue and do not wake until Romulus and Remus comence to sing an old roman ditty e.g.
‘DAYVEE CROCKETUS
DAYFEE CROCKETUS
REX OF THE WILD FRONTIER.’
The dreme fade.
But wot is this? We are nearing our journey’s end and steaming into edinburgh station. It is five heures et demie and the ‘flying Scotsman’ is on time cheers cheers cheers. We hav traveled 393 miles in 7½ heures. And wot is the first thing we hear as we get down on the platform plafform plaform? It is e.g.
‘DAYVEE McCROCKET
DAYVEE McCROCKET
KING OF THE WILD FRONTIER.’
And tomorrow we return to king’s cross where, of corse, they sa queen boadicea is buried.
TAKING WINGS
It is a quiet day in the news room at st. custard’s. 2 tipewriters are chatering, 16 boys are chatering harder, peason is dreamily soaking ink from the well onto his blotch, gillibrand carve his initials on his desk, fotherington-tomas (our litterrary critick) read t.s. eliot and the fearful News Editor GRIMES lounge at his desk chiz chiz chiz. Sudenly a well-known figure enter, his hat is on the back of his head and a cig droop from his lips. He slouch over and sit on GRIMES desk. It is ace-reporter nigel molesworth cheers cheers cheers he fear nobody.
‘MOLESWORTH!’ yell GRIMES.
‘Y…Y…Y…Yep, Sir.’
‘Don’t sa “Yep”.’
‘N…N…N…Nope, sir.’
‘Or “Nope”.’
‘Y…Y…Yep, sir.’
This can go on for ever and GRIMES kno that he canot browbeat dauntless, questing newshawk ect. He canot…WAM! the ruler come down on molesworth’s fingers chiz chiz chiz moan moan.
‘MOLESWORTH i hav a story for you. Get something on london airport. How it work, wot it do ect.’
‘Wot, sir, me, sir. Oh no, sir, i mean to sa, sir, that’s a chiz, sir.’
‘Get going, boy! Wot are you wating for? Do you want a condukt mark? You are slack, idle, insubordinate, weedy wet and a weed ect ect.’
*
ZOOOOOOOOOOM!
Two hours after leaving london the car which cary the st. custard’s reporting team crawl past london airport, turn left, through the tunel and with a screech of brakes pull up at the door. ‘Hullo planes, hullo passengers, hullo sky!’ sa a gurly voice so you can guess that fotherington-tomas is here also peason, grabber, gillibrand and molesworth 2 it is no wonder the porters think we are bound for belgrade and the guide who meet us make as if to run awa.
‘Wot go on here?’ i rap, licking my old h.b. ‘Tell us the whole story and make it snappy.’
‘You are “pasenger-processed”.’
This sound v. much like wot go on behind the bushes at st. custard’s when a new bug hav been cheeky you kno we give him the works. But at the airport they just pass you through a chanel as they call it and, by the end, this is very much the same thing.
‘Imagine you are pasengers,’ sa the guide. ‘First you go up to this here desk (grammer) and hav tickets checked ect. Then yore baggage is put on a conveyor belt for the Customs, while you go up to the Concourse on a moving staircase to yore apropriate chanel. The grate thing about the system is that nothing can go wrong.’
O-ho O-ho i think you are uterly wet if you think nothing can go wrong with st. custard’s about you wate. As usual i am rite all the reporters zoom up the moving staircase then charge ta-ran-ta-rah down the other it is beter than the pleasure gardens and it is FREE. It take the loudspeaker system to get them back.
‘WILL ALL BOYS ATACHED TO ST. CUSTARD’S KINDLY COLECT THEIR MARBLES AND PEASHOOTERS. TAKE LEAVE OF THEIR FRINDS AND PROCEED TO CHANNEL 6?’
‘Shan’t,’ sa molesworth 2.
‘WOT’S THAT?’ sa the loudspeaker, ‘WILL ST. CUSTARD’S BOYS PROCEED TO CHANNEL 6 IMMEDIATELY.’
‘Yar boo sucks.’
‘LOOK ’ERE I DON’T WANT ANY MORE OF YORE LIP GET CRACKING OR ELSE.’
This, my dears, is language we can understand and it hav the desired effect. We asemble at the door where a beautiful AIR GURL is standing she is absolutely fizzing more lovely even than prudence entwistle the under matron. My eyes pop and mouth open but all i can say is ‘g…g…gug.’
‘London airport,’ sa the guide, ‘process over 2 million passengers every year, in fakt, to be acurate last year it was 2,683,605.’*
‘g…g…gug.’
‘It can handle 30 planes an hour at a peak period and over 119,000 each year. It is the busiest airport in the world in space. It hav 6 runways, the longest being number one which is 9,300 feet long.’
‘g…g…gug.’
‘Are you listening, boy?’
I come to with a start and take my eyes off the beautiful AIRGURL. She hav a smile on her face can it be for me? Now gosh she is bending towards me can it be true? But wot do she sa? Her words are torture, e.g. ‘You seme unhapy, little fellow. Do not cry for mummy she would not like that. Let me take you by the handy-pandy.’
And she do chiz chiz chiz chiz while all st. custards cheer. Well anybody who take me by the handy-pandy are taking a risk, they are never savoury hem-hem but i supose AIR GURLS hav to be tuough. And so, hand in hand, the little toddler by her side, she lead the way into the CUSTOMS. i shall never live this down.
CUSTOMS!brrh brrh it is like the cave in ali baba when the thieves come back quake quake wot will they do to you? And WOT is this? molesworth 2 hav come through on the moving belt with the bagage and they hav laid him on the counter. Well, if they make him declare wot is inside him i.e. 69 lickorice allsorts, 3 bubble gum, bits of bungy and 9 skool sossages they will get wot is coming to them. But i hav not time to concentrate becos i am standing in front of a man who look like capt. hook in weedy peter pan and rap the counter with his hook.
‘Come on, cough it up. We can tell when you are lying.’
‘Hav you read this? Anything to declare? Come on, cough it up. We can tell when you are lying. No compasses, watches, bungy, blotch, cigs, bikes, magic lanterns, brownie No o or other dutiable goods? No cribs, woollen pants, white mice, caterpillers or doodle bugs?’
He glare at me and I meet his eye quake quake i am about to confess when AIRGURL sa: ‘This little boy is v. sad for his mummy.’ Thwarted he scribble rude things hem-hem in red chalk. ‘Take him to Immigration.’ SAVED! but at wot cost! Immigration is O.K. they just check yore crimes and look at yore passport and then you are through and free to wing away into the blue ect.
Here i check my men. Of eight gallant souls only 2 hav got through, e.g. me and fotherington-tomas. Weep hem-hem for the rest who have perished on the miserable journey which is the worst in the world.
Hist! but now wot is this? Still grasping my handy-pandy the AIRGURL take me and fotherington-tomas to a door. She open it and take us through and wot grisly sight meet my tired eyes? It is a NURSERY chiz chiz chiz chiz full of rocking horses and ickel pritty babies. On all sides are teddy bears and sea-saws. ‘O goody goody,’ sa fotherington-tomas skipping weedily. ‘Let us pla with the bears!’ I turn to escape but the door hav closed. TRAPPED! Trapped with fotherington-tomas, a Nurse, 16 babies, 90 coloured balls, 56 teddy bears and a pedal car it is an uggly predicament.
There is only one course i shall hav to fite my way out. ‘Listen,’ i drawl, drawing a gat, ‘the first baby that draw a bead on me gets plugged, see? I’m kinda hostile to babies and my fin
ger mite slip on the trigger.’
WAM! A mighty coloured ball which weigh 2 tons strike me on the nose and the party get ruough balls and teddy bears fly in all directions, a baby fly off the see-saw and strike his pritty locks on the ceiling and the NURSE fante. Pausing only to shoot out the lights i make good my escape. Outside the guide is waiting.
‘The London airport nursery service for children in transit is quite free. There children may be left in the care of a trained nurse and there are see-saws, shiny toys, teddy bears and baby’s bottle can be quickly prepared.’
‘G…g…gug.’ I sa.
*
And so with this sobering thort we leave London Airport which is joly d. reely and may be completely finished one day and return to the gloom and beetles of our alma mater chiz.
4
I AM GOING TO BE GOOD
HERE WE GO AGANE!
O wild west wind thou breath of autumns being thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead are driven like gostes from an enchanter fleeing. Posh, eh? i bet you 6d. it fooled you. ‘molesworth at his rolling best. Sonorus and sublime’ i expect you said. Aktually it is not me it is a weed called shelley and i copied it from the peotry book.
‘Why?’ sa molesworth 2 who zoom up like the wet he is. ‘Why copy peotry when you mite be buzzing bricks, conking me on the napper or braking windows with yore air pistol go on tell me o you mite.’
‘Becos,’ i tell him, ‘it autumn and the long hols are nearly over. Soon we shall be back at SKOOL.’
At these words he burst out blubbing and will not be comforted. I confess there hav been many times when the thort of GRIMES, the masters, the bullies cads, snekes wets and weeds would hav depressed me too. But not this time.
I AM GOING TO BE GOOD THIS TERM.
i will tell you how this hapened. The other day i am fed up with tuoughing up molesworth 2 and am stooging about saing wot shall i do mum wot shall i do eh?
To this she gives various replies i.e.
(a) go for a walk.
(b) pla with your toys.
(c) watch t.v. childrens hour ect
none of these are acceptable to me so in the end she make a sugestion so rude hem-hem i canot print it here. It is thus i find myself locked in the atick until teatime chiz chiz chiz, and find gran’s old book called chaterbox 1896. There is o to do so i turn its weedy pages and read the story of wee tim:
‘wee tim is riding in his grandpater’s cartage as staunch and sturdy a litle felow as ever you would wish to see. Sudenly he see an old lady who is carying a heavy basket and he clutch his grandpater’s knee. ‘Granpagranpa,’ he sa, ‘can we not let this pore old lady ride in our cariage, eh? She is so weak and frale.’ Wot a good kind thort! His fierce grandpa sa ‘O.K. tim even though i am an earl let us take her for a ride…’
(molesworth thinks: this is where the story get craking. Now wee tim will hit her with a C O S H and pinch wot is in the basket while boris the foul coachman look on with a cruel grin. But no!)
‘Will you ride with us, old lady?’ sa tim and wot a pikture he looked with his long golden curls! ‘Thank you young sir,’ she sa. ‘But i canot ride in the carriage of an earl.’ ‘He is a good earl,’ sa tim, ‘even though he look like that.’ ‘And i,’ she sa, ‘am really a rich old lady and becos you hav been good and gentle i will leave you my fortune when I die…’
Coo ur gosh i mean to sa if that is wot you get for being good it is worth it it is easier than the pools. I look back on my condukt in the hols. Hav it been all it should be?
scene: the molesworth brekfast table.
ME: gosh chiz kippers again this is worse than skool.
FATHEFUL NAN: get on, nigel, you are ungrateful. The pore boys would be glad to have nice kippers for brekfast.
MOLESWORTH 2: Yar boo and sucks molesworth 1 hav a face like a flea.
ME: Et tu, weed, thrice over and no returns.
(A kipper fly through the air).
FATHEFUL NAN: No little gentleman thro kippers, nigel.
MOLESWORTH I: Then i will thro korn flakes instead. Ha ha ha witty boy ha ha ha ect.…
Aktually it is not me it is a weed called Shelley.
i blush with shame at the memory of this unsavoury incident and let’s face it, my dears, it was only one of many. Would wee tim hav thrown a kipper at molesworth 2? Would he hav been cheeky to fatheful nan? I doubt it very much. He would hav given his kipper to the pore boys…O woe i am a weed chiz! Next term i will alter my ways. Already i can pikture the scene at st. custard’s:
a thortful figure is walking among the dead beetles crushed biskuits and old buns which litter the skool passage. He is reading a peotry book.
MOLESWORTH I: The asyrian came down like a wolf on the fold ect.… Wot a luvley poem! To think that even a term ago i drew tadpoles all over it and wrote ‘turn to page 103 if my name ect!’ How can i hav done such a thing? The asyrian came down…
At this moment a huge mob of cads, snekes, oiks, tuoughs, oafs and skool dogs charge ta-ran-ta-rah like the light brigade all covered with marmalade in my direction.
MOLESWORTH 1: Silence! (There is a hush.) Boys, this is foul condukt. You are ragging in the passage an offence under section 88888/b/107 of the skool rules. Go back to yore desks and be good in future. (They slink awa with bowed heads.)
GRIMES the headmaster hav been silently observing this good DEED and he pat me on the head make me head of the skool instead of grabber and give me mrs joyful prize for rafia work.
But, you kno, wot will really hapen? It will be quite different i am afraid and will go like this.
Scene: The klassroom. Enter master for lat. lesson, molesworth 1 hav all his books out, pencils sharp, AND BUNGY at the ready.
ME: Good morning, dere sir. i hope you slept well?
BEAK: (thinks) A trap! (He aim a vicious blow) Take that, you dolt. Do you think you can rag me, the scurge of the skool?
ME: i forgive you, sir. You look pale you hav drunk BEER last night. May i get you a pil?
BEAK: Stand on yore chair, molesworth. Any more and you will get 6!
ME: Do not open that desk, sir, it is full of old cucumbers put there by i kno not whom.
BEAK: Enuff! Wate for me outside.
(A vale is drawn over the foul proceedings.)
Am i rite in this foul proffecy? Shall it alter my determination to be like wee tim? Shall i shake in my resolution? onley time will revele all – wate fellow-weeds, with baited breath, and you mite catch a wopper, ha ha.
THE GRATE MASTER TRAP
Hay ho! Hullo birds! Hullo clouds! Hullo, skool dog! Hullo, sirup of figgs! Hullo, potts and pilcher fr. primer!
Who is this who skip weedily along the skool passage and out towards the den of ye olde skoole pigge? One would really hav thort it was fotherington-tomas so gay is he, so lite-harted. There, dere reader, you make a big mistake as c. dickens (auther of d. Coperfield the book of the film) would sa. No, dere, gentle reader who may chance to con these pages with so much sympathy ect, you make one helluva big mistake. You are way, way out, coyottes. It is i, n. molesworth, the ex-curse of st. custards, who skip weedily, who cry hay-ho, hay-ho ect. And wot hav i been doing, eh?
FLASHBACK! 2 minits ago.
N. MOLESWORTH: Matronne, i have brought you this pressed leaf. May i do yore flowers?
MATRONNE: (reaching for her gat) Scram, scruff! Or i will do you!
N. MOLESWORTH: i forgive you, matronne, for those uncouth words. A still tongue in a wise head.
MATRONNE: Git!
N. MOLESWORTH: i will, indeed. A rolling stone gathers no moss. Likewise, procrastination is the thief of time.
MATRONNE: YAR!
N. MOLESWORTH: As you plese. An empty barrel makes the most noise.
(exit with a courteous bow.)
It is a strange, lonely world when you are GOOD. Is it my fault that i hav been practising my handwriting in the copy books? Now i kno wot pore, pore basil fotherington-tomas, that wet and weed, hav gone through. P
eople seme to avoid me – no friendly hale of darts and inkpots comes my way. Even molesworth 2 refuses my buble-gum and masters pat me on the head.
YETiMUSTKEPE TO MY CHOSEN ROAD.
But, soft, wot is this? It is peason, my grate frend, who worketh upon some strange contraption near the pigge den. Wot mischief can he be up to?
‘Hullo, peason,’ i sa. ‘The devil finds work for idle hands. Wot is that?’
‘Nothing,’ he repli.
‘if’t be nothing, yet ’tis something, for nothing is not but wot something semes (shakespere)’ i riposte, litely. ‘Yet if’t be something—’ He buzz a brick at me. No matter, i try agane.
‘Go on, peason, you mite tell me go on, o you mite the same to you and no returns.’
‘you would not be interested,’ he grate, turning a nut with his spaner. ‘Nowadays you are a weed, a wet and uterly wormlike. Gone are the days when we invented the molesworth/peason lines machine together.’
‘It hav a good streme-line effect and neat basket work. i like the way the electronick brane give easy control and at the same time there is wide vision and plenty of lugage space. Good points are—’
He buzz another brick and, sorowfully, i depart. Ah me, where is there to go? Who else luv me but my old frende the skool pigge, who hav never let me down? Hurrah, hurrah, he leap to greet me and place his piggy paws on the sty wall. He take my buble-gum graciously and lick my hand. i recite a poem i hav written e.g.
O pigge, you are so beautiful!
I luv yore snouty nose!
ect.
n.b. pigs are the cleanest animals in the world, although i sometimes think there are exceptions.
And so, refreshed and strengthened, i return once agane into the wicked world of st. custard’s where peason is still at work. Wot can it be?
It is a strange, lonely world
when you are GOOD.
Is it:
Molesworth Page 23