Molesworth

by Geoffrey Willans

An atommic fast-bowling machine?

  An automatick golekeeper?

  A loudspeker for calling ‘Fire!’ in the middle of maths lessons?

  A measles-rash injector?

  Curiosity overcome me and i return.

  ‘No honestly, peason, word of honour cross my hart fingers uncrossed and pax tell me, rat, wot it is or i will uterly tuough you up.’

  “That is better, clot. Now i will tell you – it is a MASTER TRAP.’

  Hurrah! Hurrah! A trap for beaks! Wot a wizard wheeze! Gosh, absolutely super and smashing! Good show! Charge ta-ran-ta-rah! Dozens of masters – lat. masters fr. geom. algy. div masters all caught and eliminated. And it work for mistresses, too! But chiz wot am i saing? For a moment i thort the world mite be safe in future for children – i must be careful.

  ‘Kindly explane,’ i sa, a triffel stiffly (but not enuff to make him withdraw into the silence usuhually so alien to him).

  He tell me all. There is a bait of lat. books. Attracted iresistibly the beak creep stealthily in through the door and before he can get to ex.1. the trap hav closed. A see-saw tip him into a cold bath and an endless belt take him to a third chamber where he get six from the automatick caning machine.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ i sa, excitedly. ‘Wot then! Wot devilish fate waits for them then?’

  ‘They die sloly on a diet of skool food!’

  ‘Gosh, yes! Or you mite hang a skool sossage eternally out of reach.’

  That would be no punishment, oaf. And you are lucky, i am going to make my first experiment with YOU!’

  Too late i see the plot, chiz! A dozen hands with beetles and earwigs drawn on them scrag me. The leader is grabber, the tete de la skool. ‘Make haste slowly,’ i yell. ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth; Help; Rescue.’ But whereas in the old days fifty trusty boys would hav leaped from the thickets at the sound – today none come. None at all. And robin hood had better take note of it. i am pushed towards the infernal trap and my DOOM IS SEALED.

  But wot is this? My trusty frende the skool pigge hav got there first. Before they can stop him he is inside: he eat the lat. books: enjoy the bath, the caning machine tickle him litely, he wolf the skool food and with one heave of his mitey flanks he knock the whole machine for SIX! Cheers, cheers, cheers i am saved. But wot a narow shave, eh? That nite i rite carefully in my dere copy book

  Virtue is its own reward

  ‘You’re so right,’ sa fotherington-tomas. ‘So true, so true! Hullo, clouds! Hullo sky!’

  This all needs a lot of thort.

  ‘I hear you’re rustlin’ raffia work, pardner.

  SO FAR SO GOOD

  It is evening after prep at st. custard’s. The curtanes hav been drawn, the gas lites are popping merrily and the crow hav long since gone to its nest, tho where else it could go to i do not kno. In every nook and crany, knee-deep in blotch pelets, bits of bungy, old lines and pages of deten the gay little chaps enjoy there freedom. Some toste sossages over the gas mantle, others, more adventurous, swing upside down on the chandeleres. The air echo with cries of pax, unpax, fains, roter, shutup, and the same to you with no returns. WOW-EEEEEE sa molesworth 2 zooming past as a jet bomber.

  But who is this quiet student who reads The book of berds and there eggs, eh? It is me, molesworth 1 believe it or not, for i hav determined to be GOOD and it is easy pappy and absolutely o to it at all. E.g. soon i put down my book, mark the place with an old pressed leaf, put it in my tidy desk and make my way quietly to the study of GRIMES the headmaster. Knock tap tap tap!

  Wot is it, molesworth? sa GRIMES, looking up from his pools.

  i hav been reading a most interesting book, sir. It is called berds and there eggs. Take the jackdaw, sir. It frequents parks, old buildings and often perform aerial acrobaticks. It hav a propensity for hiding food and other objects. Eggs ushually 4 to 6.

  yes, yes, molesworth, indeed? Thank you for the information. Now—

  Sometimes, however, sir, only 2 eggs are to be found. The linet, on the other hand – shall i tell you about the linet?

  Some other time, molesworth. i am very busy now. times are hard how about 5 bob till tuesday?

  (Thinks: it is worth a try. A mug is born every minit.)

  Here is a pound, sir, i sa, o forget yore gratitude it would be a pore hart who did not aid an old frend in distress. It is a gift. If you want any good deed done agane just let me kno.

  (GRIMES thinks: stone the crows who would hav thort it? A hem-hem plaster saint. No need to take out the old whelk stall this week now.)

  And so it go on. That is just one example. Another thing i hav become a swot and a brane. I am top in lat, hist, algy, geom, div. ect.

  Brave, proud and fearless molesworth 1 can face the world safe in the knoledge that SWOTING ALWAYS PAYS.

  Scene: a t.v. studio, poorly furnished, a table with three legs, lit by a candle in a botle. An interviewer in rags come forward.

  INTERVIEWER: This is the 960 million quid programme. Who is the next contestant wot subjeckt do you choose?

  ST. M. it is i. wigan, lanes, i certainly do. i would. me and the wife will certainly hope to. History.

  INTERVIEWER: Half a mo. Wate for me to ask the q’s. Who burned the cakes?

  ST. M. Who pinched the cakes, you mean, molesworth 2, of corse.

  INTERVIEWER: You hav won 6000 quid would you car to go for the jakpot? Go into the box can you hear me ect. Now for 960 quid wot berd frequents parks, does aerial acrobaticks, hides food and usually lay 4 to 6 eggs, eh?

  ST. M. The – um – o gosh it’s ur-er choke gosh garble.

  INTERVIEWER: i’m sorry. i’m very sorry. i’m very sorry indeed. The answer was – A JACKDAW!

  (Exit st. m. blubbing on the arm of a beautiful GURL.)

  Well, there you are. Being GOOD is pappay. Try it. Try it toda. Try it brighter, try it whiter, try it with or without a hole in the family size. But wot is this? As i walk upon my pious way i come upon a MASTER who bendeth over. He is a sitting target. Wot a chance! With foot drawn back molesworth bare his fangs. Will he sukumb to temptation?

  (see another daring, palpittating instalment in our next issue.)

  THE KARACKTER KUP

  ‘Boys,’ sa GRIMES, the headmaster, smiling horibly, ‘the time have come to present the scrimgeour kup for good karackter. This is never an easy kup to award’ (of course not, it is ushually at the pornbrokers) becos there must be no doubt either in my mind or those of the staff’ – he give an even more horible smile at the thugs seated around – ‘that the winner is WORTHY of this supreme honor. The choice hav to be a most careful one ect.’

  Aktually i do not see the dificulty. If you look at the 56 gallant little pupils of st. custards, each with his own peculiar ways, it is easy, pappy to devise a SYSTEM. You simply get rid of them in this way i.e. there are: 5 squits, 9 snekes, 19 cribbers, 2 maniaks, 3 bookmakers, 4 swots, II cig. smokers. Total 53.

  Chiz this leaves only one pupil to whom the kup can posibly be awarded. Well, you kno, i mean to sa, i hav been joly GOOD lately and sucking up to the beaks. Obviously this fakt hav been noted. GRIMES continue:

  ‘The boy who win this kup must be noble, upright, brave, fearless, intreppid and honnest. He must not have been afrade to stick up for wot he kno to be right. He must protekt the weak. He must luv the highest when he see it.’

  Oh come on, gosh chiz this is going a bit far. i blush to the roots.

  ‘Every boy at st custard’s,’ continue GRIMES, ‘must search himself to see if he comes up to these high standards and if he do not the pot is not his. Hav he been a help to the masters?’

  Well, that one is easy. Look wot hapened only yesterday.

  Scene: Klassroom of 3B, early dawn. A pupil stands on guard with a sten gun, the rest snore at their desks. Outside a burd sings sweetly.

  A beak drags himself in to his desk.

  BEAK: Gosh blime, i feel terible.

  MOLESWORTH: Pore sir, you have missed brekfast. Let me get you some skool fish or a ni
ce runny egg.

  (Takt, but the beak do not seme to fancy my sugestion. He shudereth and groweth pale.)

  BEAK: Ugh. Wot lesson is it? I thort you was all due for woodwork in the carpentry shed. You can go along there if you like.

  MOLESWORTH: Oh, no, sir. We prefer to stay with you and do our peotry.

  BEAK: i was afraid of it. Gillibrand, say yore prep.

  GILLIBRAND: Who, sir, wot me, sir.

  BEAK: Wot was the name of the famous peom of which you were required to learn 24 lines?

  The boy who win this kup must be noble, upright, brave, fearless, intreppid and honnest.

  GILLIBRAND: Search me, sir.

  BEAK: (some of his old fire reviving) i do not wish to search you, gillibrand, i mite be appaled at wot i should find.

  (Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha from all, gillibrand struggle to his feet, his mouth open like a fish, he stare, he stammer, he scratcheth his head and the ushual shower of beetles fall out.)

  You seme nonplussed, gillibrand. Can it be that you were drawing H-bombs during prep? TAKE A DETEN. Now which of you scum can sa the peom?

  MOLESWORTH: (flipping his fingers like bulet shots, dancing on the points of his tiny toes.) Oh, gosh, sir. Please, sir. Gosh, sir, can i, sir?

  BEAK: Ah, molesworth. i had not thort of you heretofor as one keen on the arts. Let us see. Sa prep.

  (molesworth stand to attention, fingers in line with the seam of his trousis, eyes straight ahead.)

  MOLESWORTH: ‘THE SAND OF DEE BY C. KING SLEY.’

  O Mary, go and call the catle home.

  And call the catle home.

  And call the catle home,

  Across the sands o’ dee.

  The western wind was wild—

  BEAK: (hastily) That’s enuff, molesworth. v.g.v.g., indeed.

  MOLESWORTH: – and dank wi fome,

  And all alone went she.

  The creeping tide came up along the sand, and o’er and o’er—

  BEAK: well done molesworth joly good ten out of ten you can stop now.

  MOLESWORTH: – the sand,

  And round and round the sand,

  As far as eye could see:

  The blinding mist came down and hid the land,

  And never home came she.

  (fotherington-tomas burst out blubbing)

  O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair?—

  BEAK: Thank you, molesworth, thank you. excellent.

  (But nothing can stop me. i continue to the end of the peom despite a hale of ink darts. At the conclusion i bow low and strike my nose upon the desk. All look at me as if amazed.)

  Yes, i think i may sa i hav been a help to the masters the kup is as good as mine. Wot else? GRIMES looks around.

  ‘Hav he been a help to the other members of the huge staff to whom i owe so much? (i.e. about 9 million quid back wages.) Hav he helped our very overworked skool gardener? And matron – how do he and she get on?’

  All too well, old top, if you are thinking of PRUDENCE ENTWHISTLE, the glamorous under-matron. But it must be MATRON herself, who look like a gunman’s moll in a gangster pikture. But even here my record is good—

  Scene: Matronne’s room, the doors of ye olde physick cupboard are open.

  MOLESWORTH: i hav been reading of the labours of hercules, matronne, may i clean out yore cupboard?…Wot hav we here in the syrup of figgs bot? It smell like G-I-N…and wot can these BEER bottles be doing, as if hidden behind the radio-malt?…I will arrange them neatly in the front row…And wot is this which look like the skeleton of a boy chained to the wall…ect. O.K. there, you see. Now for the Kup.

  ‘The winner must be of excellent repute, (o come, sire). Talented, (o fie!). Inspired.’ (Enuff. You sla me.)

  ‘And so,’ sa Grimes smiling more horibly than ever, ‘i hav no hesitation in awarding the kup to GRABBER.’

  Well its the old story. A fat cheque and you can fix anything but right, i supose, will triumph in the end. In the meantime o mary go and call the catle home ect, or go and do something, i am fed up.

  5

  COO UR GOSH!

  I LUV GURLS

  Coo ur gosh i expect this is a bit of a shock especially for the gurls. As you kno it hav long been an open secret in 3b that i never intend to get maried. This hav been becos if you get maried it hav to be to a GURL chiz and hitherto my conviction hav been that GURLS are uterly wet and weed-struck. But this is Xmas the season of luv and goodwill cheers cheers crackers crak berds sing balloons pop and the fur from a milion davy crocket hats fly through the air.

  AND SO as I sit here biting grate chunks from my old h.b. (n.b. why do not pencil makers produce a pencil out of buble gum, eh?) anyway as i sit here i write these fateful words which may cut me off for ever from my felow oiks, cads, bulies, and dirty roters – i am determined to LUV GURLS.

  ‘Oh goody,’ sa fotherington-tomas who see wot my bold hand hav written, ‘I knew you would come round to my point of view, molesworth. Wot sort of gurls do you like?’

  ‘All of them,’ i repli. ‘i shall spare myself nothing.’

  ‘Even gurls who giggle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even gurls who recite weedy rhymes i.e. higldy piggledy i solicity umpa-la-ra-jig?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Gurls with skipping ropes who sa “Salt vinegar mustard peper ect?’”

  ‘Yes, but you are trying me hard, fotherington-tomas, very hard indeed.’

  ‘Oh, goody, molesworth luvs gurls with skipping ropes.’peason pass by with his face covered with ink splodges as per ushual. He faint dead awa and hav to be taken up to matron.

  It is only now that i see wot this mean and i ponder on the nature of the feminine gender hem-hem. First of all, there seme to be as many kinds of gurls as there are licorice all-sorts i.e.

  GURLS WHO STARE. This is a very comon type. When a brave noble and fearless boy is engaged on some super project as it mite be making a stink bomb poo gosh or a man-trap for a master the GURL come up and look at him. She sa nothing. She just stand there looking soppy. The boy hope she will scram but she do not. The boy wishes to sa git and skit but maners prevent him and soon the master-hand which is engaged on the task grows nervous. He move off to another project. The gurl follow he canot get rid of her. Finally she speak. She sa ‘One-two-three-four-five-six-sevving.’ That is all. Is she bats or wot? i shal find it hard to luv these.

  JOLLY HOCKEY GURLS. These gurls wear gym tunics and hav bulging muscles, they line the touchline and shout, ‘Hurrah for Coll!’ This is worse than at st. custard’s where we sa ‘go it grabber you’ll never score. Wot a pass, man. buck up yore ideas.’ Hockey gurls luv their school and if hermione misses a biff at gole in the cercle she hav let the whole place down. As it is falling down anyway this do not mater very much. On satterdays after a glorious victory over st. minniver’s coll for ladies (without millicent at right half, too! Water on the knee the old trubble) they all sing the skool war cry:

  HURRA for bat!

  Hurra for ball!

  Hurra for crosse and lax

  And all.

  Forty years on we’ll still be chums.

  Ta-ran-ta-rah for st. etheldrums.

  (all copyright reserved by miss edwina prinknash, headmistress. Send stamped addressed envelope with P/O for 1/3.).

  TOUGH GURLS. Believe it or not all gurls are not edducated at colls ect. Some there be (posh prose hem-hem) who hav not had the advantages of a pater on the verge of suicide trying to pay the fees. Such a one (it gets posher and posher, eh?) such a one is Ermintrude you kno the one who likes boiled sweets better if they hav been dropped on the carpet. ermintrude hav not washed for several years oh wot a thing wot a thing. Also she hang upside down on the railings and shout ‘hi liberace’ as you pass chiz chiz chiz. The only thing is to ignore gurls like these and when she buzz a conker at you pretend the incident hav not hapened. Still, this is dificult when she also refer to molesworth 2 as ‘my bruther george.’

  Such a o
ne is Ermintrude.

  Of corse i could go on becos there are many more types of gurls – fat gurls, gurls with dollies, bossy gurls and, on some occasions, gurls who are beter at lessons than you. (‘Oh, nigel, don’t you really know the ablative singular of armiger?’ I don’t supose you even kno what it means’).

  But this thing must not go too far. Imagine wot would hapen at st. custard’s if we were like gurls and got a CRUSH on somebody. e.g.

  FOTHERINGTON-TOMAS: oh, nigel, may i take yore books to the fr. class this morning?

  NIGEL: foolish little thing. Peason hav already offered.

  FOTHERINGTON-TOMAS (blubbing): oh.

  NIGEL: never mind. You may wash the tanks and tractors which i hav drawn off my bungy.

  FOTHERINGTON-TOMAS: Oh, goody! And may I clean out yore locker for you?

  NIGEL: at yore own risk.

  And so it go on. ANYWAY, gurls are jolly d. They are pritty, super and smashing. Wot would we young chaps do without them at xmas parties, eh? Well, there’d be a lot more jelly and trifle to go round and, whether you like it or not, you hav to put up with them. So make the best of them.

  n.b. any offers of mariage as the result of this will be considered in strikt rotation.

  DANSEY DANSEY

  The fell words are spoken chiz they fall upon my weedy shoulders like GRIMES lash, they strike a super shuder in my sole. Wot can these words be, eh? They are words which every brave, noble and fearless boy heard in his time i.e. when Mum sa swetely: ‘It is time, nigel, you learned to dance.’

  Any boy, except fotherington-tomas, hav the answer to this. ‘No, mater, I won’t, nothing will make me, i won’t won’t won’t ect.’ In the end, however, he always find himself in a weedy dancing klass sliding across the polished floor in shiny dancing pumps with darling bows on them chiz chiz chiz.

  In fakt, come to think of it, there are not many times in his life when a weed is free from dancing klasses. It begin almost as soon as he can patter on his 2 tiny feet and his mum admire his long golden curls. There he is plaing with ratle and saing ‘goo’ over the top of his pla pen when his mum sneke up behind him and stick a gat in his ribs: ‘o.k. blue eyes we’re going to dancing klass. Get moving and no funny business.’ The pore baby hav no answer to this and he hav to submit while he is dressed in a velvet suit chiz little todling shoes chiz chiz and look like little lord fauntleroy chiz chiz chiz. Then he is zoomed in a high-powered car to the klass.