Molesworth
Page 25
Pikture the sordid scene with anxious mums, weedy little gurls with ribbons in their hair and 36 fauntleroys of whom Y O U are one. Enter a huge woman flexing her muscles who beam britely and sa: ‘Now we’re all going to be little mice and little rats…no, let’s change our mind…not little rats, let’s be GRATE BIG RATS…Tippy-toes, nigel, tippy toes…You ort to kno how to be a grate big rat…in time to the musick…clap, clap,…now altogether jump into the air!’
Where else do she expect a tiny to jump, eh? Into the big drum? Though if he wear a fauntleroy suit it would be much beter if he did. But you see wot i mean, felow suferers? You’re hardly born before you hav to dansey-dansey. The next attempt is made at a later age when yore mater try it on once agane to presuade yore stuborn boyish nature by swete reason.
Scene: The molesworth brekfast table. Pater and mater present: molesworth 2 eating the cereal with fine relish ha-ha. molesworth 1 sit corektly a smile flitting litely akross his finely moulded features.
MATER: But if you don’t learn, nigel, how will you be able to dance with GURLS at parties?
ME: i shall manage to face that kalamity with composure, mummy.
MATER: (to pater) Ortn’t he to learn to dance, my dere.
PATER: Eh?
MOLESWORTH 2: Pass the marmalade and buter. Make it snappy.
MATER: ORTN’T NIGEL TO LEARN DANCING? MY DERE?
PATER: How much do it cost?
MOLESWORTH 2: Toste and more tea.
ME: After all entertanement at parties you can’t beat throwing the old pink blancmange, mims, my swete.
MATER: O.K., rat, you’ll take dancing next term and like it.
That is the trubble with the youth of the world there is no justice, no court of appeal.
In the shabby finery of ye olde st. custard’s dining room whose floor as usual is littered with old prune stones there were scenes of rolicking gaiety last nite. Under the capable auspises of mrs maplebeck gay youngsters from the skool sported to the capable measures of miss pringle, the skool musick mistress.
‘Take yore partners for the foxtrot!’ yell mrs maplebeck.
Imagine with wot joy molesworth 1, the dasher of the palais, see that he is to dance with his best frend peason.
‘May i hav the pleasure, o weedy worm?’ he sa, bowing. peason respond with a low curtsey.
‘O.k., thou giant rat!’ he sa, with a modest blush.
And so the dance begin and as the evening wear on the joy and xcitement mount to fever pitch as fotherington-tomas do a solo pas de deux with 90 m.p.h., 3000 c.c. jump which send him zooming into the honors board. Finally the skool piano blow up with mitey explosion sending up mushroom cloud of fluff, caterpillers, cig cards ect.
So you see. You may as well put up with it becos DANCING canot be avoided. Later on i am told you will grow to like it so perhaps at the moment we hav not enuff incentives. In the meantime HEIGH-HO for sir roger de coverly tipptoes and don’t forget to make a luvly arch.
HEIGH-HO for sir roger de coverly.
A FEW ROOLS FOR XMAS
Gosh super xmas is here agane cheers cheers. Every boy and weedy gurl must remember not only that this is a time of rejoicing but that they must BEHAVE. Here are a few of the molesworth-peason rools for xmas which we hope you will all obay:
ROOL 1
Claus, santa, recognition of.
Everybode kno even tinies that santa claus is yore…well, hem-hem. It is a chiz for the pore old felow, however, if you let him kno you kno. When he entereth the bedchamber laden with presents, snore deeply: when he drop the lot, stir uneasily as if there were fairies about (see p. pan) Do not sit up in bed and sa: ‘A masterly performance, yore timing is superb, even olivier ect could not hav done better.’ If you do this yore pater…hem-hem will burst out larffing, molesworth 2 will fire a red moon space roket and you will do a handspring off the end of the bed. This may get yore mater in a bate, season of goodwill tho it be. Better far to lie quite still as she bends over the sleping cherubs and hear her doting words: ‘If only he hadn’t got your family’s revolting nose he mite be quite good-looking.’
ROOL 2
Claus, Santa in shop and rekognition of.
Everyone kno this dodge it is only to attrakt trade. Tiny gurls and wee boys are led by the hand chiz and their mummies sa ‘Look at santa claus.’ (n.b. wot are they expected to do, kick him?) The effect of being told to look at santa differ widely among the younger genneration – some weep bitterly, some put their finger in their mouths, others run away screaming and there are some, like molesworth 2, who sa: ‘O.k. santa. Wot you got for me?’ For elder children the direct approche is required e.g. zoom out of the house of the elves and conduct an interview like a t.v. reporter.
‘Is that beard real? Is it cotonwool?’
‘Y…y…yes.’
‘Is it true there’s only sawdust in that sack?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sticking to that?’
‘Sawdust and wood shavings.’
‘Would you or would not sa there is an element of deception tantamount to fraud in your conduct? Are you satisfied and do you contend that you came to this toy department in a reindeer sledge? Wot are you going to do about it?’
Father xmas ushually hav a simple answer to this. e.g. i’m going to chase you round the elves house, into the wonderful gardens, through aladin’s cave and into the fairy grotto and if i get yer, mate, i’ll do yer.’ So beware.
ROOL 3
Dances, Fancy Dress, Corekt Deportment.
When told that dere mrs cracklby and dere lady fotheringay hav thort it a delicious idea to hav a fancy dress dance, most weedy gurls jump up and down in the air. ‘Oh, mummy,’ they sa, ‘can i go as a pixie?’ Boys are difrent. Being used to the horors of life at st. custards they take the dredful tidings with a stiff upper lip e.g. mater, nothing on earth will make me go. i uterly refuse. Comes the day, however, and there he is driven in the family tumbril, exposed to the jeers of the mob and why – he is dressed as a jester and smell of mothballs. Yore mater hav given you the famous words ‘You will enjoy it once you get there’ – and wot a mad delightful press of gay young people clad in multi-coloured costume greets the eye. Wate, however, until the eye getteth hit with a jelly bunged by little sally who hav come as tommy steel. WACKO! Lead me to the blancmange. Honor must be satisfied.
Gosh super xmas is here agane
ROOL 4
Wot to sa when another boy’s present is nicer than yores.
Sa nothing. Just burst into tears and howl the place down.
ROOL 5
Parents, care and upkepe of, at xmas.
There would be no real xmas without parents. Therefore hem-hem it is as much their day as yores. There are several ways in which you can make it a true fragrant xmas for yore parents. Be sure to wake at 5.30 in the morning and trip down to their room to show yore presents. Paters get as much fun as the boys from tranes and cowboy pistols, altho the hour may be early. Then later do not forget to ask yore pater to mend the toys you hav broken and get him to share yore interests by making a vast dredger or cantilever bridge with yore bumpo construktion outfit. The really thortful will give him a nice elektric shok with their tiny toy crane. That will really make mums larff!
A Brite Future for Youth
DING-DONG-PIP-CLANG!
DING-DONG-PIP-CLANG!
Ye olde bells of ye olde church ring out merily – tower shake, rafters quake, death-watch beetles tremble in their shoes. Never hav there been such a din since molesworth 2 pla fairy bells on the olde organ
DING-DONG-PIP-CLANG!
DING-DONG-PIP-CLANG!
Ye olde bell-ringers drink more BEER and bells go
DONG-PIP-CLANG-DING!
PIP-PIP-PIP-PIP!
(n.b. wher hav DONG, CLANG and DING gone? They are lying flat on their backs like their extremely rude forefathers (peotry) and they will feel terible tomorrow.)
What is all this about? It is the NEW YEAR! Hooray, hooray,
hooray! And the bells are ringing it in until the appeal for £1000 to save the church from destruction zoom from its perch and strike ye old vicar on his olde balde nut.
So once agane another year lie before us with all its brite promise. Everyone be he man woman or child (posh prose) will be wondering wot he can do to improve and, in some cases, it ought to take a whole year to find out. Take headmaster GRIMES for xsample. Pikture him if you can on jan 1 writing his resolutions in his study while the candle gutter fitfully in the bode. This is wot he write:
RESOLUTIONS
Less food and all tuck forbiden…more dissipline…buy 60 new kanes…put up skool fees…borow up to £IOO from new master before others can tell him…more produktivity in lat. fr. algy, geom ect…tune skool piano…more water in ink…new chromium plated counter for whelk stall…buy super new car…molesworth?????????
So, pleased with his work, he larff fritefully and creep through the cobweb passages of empty st. custards to his iron bed.
But not all are like GRIMES most want to do GOOD in the new year tho there is not much chance of it. Youth is brave, noble, fearless ect and face the problems of the age with brite, clear-eyed confidence. Even weedy gurls make resolutions chiz which are absolutely wringing wet e.g. you can imagine wot ermintrude (you kno the one with an ickle-pritty bow who dance a fairy dance at parties) write in her little lavender book.
RESOLUTIONS
Take more cowslips to miss pringle…improve my salt, mustard, pepper at skipping until i am as good as basil fotherington-tomas…press more leaves…make a chum of gloria…take more and more cowslips to miss pringle…kepe my back so strate i fall over backwards…don’t be nasty about Jenifer’s lipstick…kepe my desk tidy…take millions of cowslips to miss pringle.
And so it go on and even me, molesworth the goriller of 3B, am not unmoved by the sentiments of the season. Helping myself to 7 spoonfulls of sugar in my tea at brekfast i look pensive.
‘Tell me, bro, wot are you thinking, o weedy wet?’ sa molesworth 2, making a lake of treakle in his poridge.
i slosh him and return to my reverie.
Time 2000.
Scene: The laboratory of sir nigel molesworth, full of atommic instruments, retorts, bunsen burners ect. A copy of a horor comic lie on the table and, in the corner, a plektodotroscope revolve slowly, making calculations.
Enter molesworth 2, now grown more hideous than ever. He is an interviewer for t.v.
MOLESWORTH 2: Good evening, sir nigel. This place does not half ponk, if i may sa so.
‘Ah yes, that removed the figgs from syrup of figgs. A grate boon.’
SIR NIGEL: Even with the technical progress of the 20th century no one hav been able to elliminate ponks from labs. They used to be called ‘stinks’ you kno hee-hee-hee.
MOLESWORTH 2: now, sir nigel, one of your inventions was a cure for smoking, was it not, clot?
SIR NIGEL: Yes, yes, That was a simple matter, i made a cig that was so long no one could reach to the end to light it. A simple application of the laws of pythagoras hee-hee-hee.
MOLESWORTH 2: How weedy. But yore greatest invention, that by which you are world famous was the droposcope?
SIR NIGEL: Ah yes, that removed the figgs from syrup of figgs. A grate boon.
MOLESWORTH 2: No, clot, the droposcope.
SIR NIGEL: Ah yes, i’m sorry. A little hard of hearing. The droposcope. That was the first ballooon to go downwards: i’m afrade it made nonsense of sir isaac newton and, of corse, the rusians were grately discomfited.
MOLESWORTH 2: Was not a boy called peason, an old skool frend, associated with yore diskovery?
SIR NIGEL: Peason? Well, i did kno him and he did a little of the elementary alg…mind you, i don’t want to sa a word against him…but you kno, on quite the wrong line…quite hee-hee-hee.
MOLESWORTH 2: Hav you anything else to sa, sir nigel, in the glory of your later years?
SIR NIGEL: Oui. Scram, you clot-faced worm, or i will utterly bash you up.
(He seizeth the microphone and throweth it in the plektodotroscope. A bird sing: a worm turn ect.)
And so it go on. But i do not think i will ever be the BRANE of BRITAIN as every other boy will be. Perhaps by that time there will be room in the world for a huge lout with o branes. In which case i mite still get a knighthood.
THE END
* a chiz is a swiz or swindle as any fule kno.
*The conker was a huge and glossy one like a racehorse, but like all racehorses which are huge and glosy they fall into a ditch so do not back them. They cross their legs and that is never a good thing for a racehorse or a conker.
****** All the fakts are CORECT for a change.
* All fakts corect for a change.
* All the fakts are CORECT. They have been certified by the board of trade, ticked by Sigismund the Mad Maths Master and approved by the glassblowers union cheers.
Table of Contents
Introduction by Philip Hensher
Down with Skool!
How to be Topp
Whizz for Atomms
Back in the Jug Agane