Back in the Jug Agane

by Geoffrey Willans

  SOCIETY KOLUMN

  ME: Yore hare look as if it hav had a shampoo and all the beetles washed out of it. Is that so?

  COW: How nice of you but it look dreadful i can do nothing with it. i really must go to a new man.

  ME: Yore cote is beautiful and glossy.

  COW: It’s simply in rags i would give my eyes for some of these farmers’ wives minks they are wearing. If only my bull were not so mean.

  ME: Any coment on somerset victory in home-killed meat?

  COW: Poor Butercup! Such a sad end. I knew her well and such a good family. Now if you’ll excuse me i simply must have my afternoon rest…

  Of corse cows can’t talk but it just show you should not believe everything you read in the papers. Heigh ho and back to the show where wizard shambles exists as fotherington-tomas hav been prodded by mechanical fork. Ho for sheep, traktors, meckanical milkers and the aggriculture of our land. If it had anything to worry about it hav much more now cheers cheers cheers, and rilly-me dilly-me.

  Ho for sheep, traktors and meckanical milkers.

  THE FLYING MOLESMAN

  ‘DAYVEE CROCKETT,

  DAYVEE CROCKETT

  KING OF THE WILD FRONTIER.’

  Thus music pour from boyish throtes, golden locks stream in the air, and eager blue eyes are lifted to the skies.

  ‘BE QUIET,’ yell GRIMES, the headmaster. But no one hear him over the hideous din of this famous song which all boys love to sing. It is only when all boys are exorsted that GRIMES can make himself heard.

  ‘Boys,’ he sa, smiling cruelly, ‘we are going to King’s Cross station for a trip on ye olde trane, the “flying scotsman.” You are to report on the journey.’

  A hideous cheer rend the air. We may hav hoped to go on a space rocket but the ‘flying scotsman’ is better than weedy lessons, especially if you hav not done yore prep. And so to King’s cross…

  All are excited and fotherington-tomas skip up and down. ‘Hullo steam! hullo smoke, hullo ralway station buffet!’ he sa as the porter carry our bags. Then he lean towards me and whisper, ‘did you kno that queen boadicea is suposed to be buried here, eh?’ Quick as a flash i see a scoop!…

  BOADICEA DONE. BURIED at kings cross.

  Soon wires will be humming all over the world and ace newshawk molesworth will hav done it agane… but as this hav o to do with the ‘Flying Scotsman’ i will desist. Nay, i must becos a loudspeaker in the roof boom:

  ‘THE TRAYNE NOW STANDING AT NUMBER TWO PLATFORM IS THE 10 A.M. FOR EDINBURGH. GET CRACKING OR IT WILL GO WITHOUT YOU. I WILL NOW SING A VERY FAVOURITE TUNE’

  ‘DAYVEE CROCKETT,

  DAYVEE CROCKETT

  KING OF THE WILD FRONTIER ECT.’

  As the wild song continue and 100 voices take it up, the st. custard’s cads go forward to the engine. For we are to ride on the footplate with the driver cheers cheers cheers. ‘O goody! O cheers the engine is a streamlined Pacific Number 07666655438,’ sa fotherington-tomas. ‘Hullo coal, hullo spade, hullo tender.’ Well, there will be plenty of chances to ‘do’ him on this trip that is one comfort. But now for some fakts. I butonhole joe binks the driver, alias ‘mad jack.’

  ME: Where does the ‘Flying Scotsman’ stop, eh?

  BINKS: i think it’s newcastle but i couldn’t be sure. Where do we stop bill, did you read the notices?

  ME: Never mind. How long has it been running?

  BINKS: I simply haven’t a clue.

  ME: Did you always want to be an engine driver?

  BINKS: Grate heavens no my dere. My parents forced me into it when i faled c.e.

  Hem-hem this is wot is called ‘colour’ for no news stories are true. Aktually the ‘Flying Scotsman’ hav been running for eighty years: it stop once at newcastle and get to edinburgh in 7 hrs. which is not bad as it is 393 m.*

  PEEP!

  Gracious, gracious they are whistling us up, sa joe binks, and it is ten o’clock. Do be an angel and take the brake off!

  WOMP! WOMP! WOMP! WOMP!

  i do not kno if you hav ever been on the footplate of an express but when it start it is like a big gun going off. It is louder than big school on a wet saturday and even louder than when molesworth 2 pla fairy bells on the skool piano smoke is everywhere and all boys blub for mummy. The ‘flying Scotsman’ is on its way and noone can hear themselves speak.

  How to get my story? Luckily i remember the essay we are always set at the end of the summer hols e.g. a day at a railway station. It go as folows viz. ‘Stations are niss nice. Tranes come to stasson stashion stasion and the pasengers get out, alternatively some of the pasengers get in. The sun is shining skinning shining. There is a statshion stashon stasson mast — there is a porter on the plaff—’

  But wot is this? We are now at speed and approaching potters bar. and our coon skins are flying in the wind. On the slope beyond stevenage there was a world speed record for engines of 112 m.p.h. We are on our way north.

  3.4. First stop newcastle.—

  Chiz chiz the st. custard newshawks look as if it is the end of the first half v porridge court as they stager to the platform plafform plaform they hav had their chips. And wot is the first thing that comes to their deafened ears, eh? From the loudspeaker come

  ‘DAYVEE CROCKETT,

  DAYVEE CROCKETT

  KING OF THE WILD FRONTIER ECT.’

  Now we leave joe binks and take our seats in a compartment and study a few more fakts e.g. the engine belong to the loco dept. and the rest belong to the traffick dept.

  ‘No?’ sa peason with brethless interest. ‘that is the kind of thing which grip the reader. You are a born journalist, molesworth 1.’

  ‘Do you reelly think so?’

  ‘yes yes thou art also a measley worm and a wet but so are many born journalists. So they are reelly from 2 depts fasscinating but so wot so wot?’

  ‘Supose,’ i sa slowly, ‘they forget to fix the engine to the trane? Supose the engine arive in edinburgh and the pasengers are still sitting in king’s cross? Wot then, eh?’

  This conversation is interupted by the dining car attendant who ask us to take our seats for tea. Zoom zoom there is a mad rush headed by molesworth 2 and we sit down to wizard toste, cakes buns ect. But i do not forget my assinement so i talk to the dining car attendant.

  ‘No one seme to wonder how we manage in restaurant cars,’ he sa, sadly. ‘No one care how the food get here.’

  fotherington-tomas burst out blubbing, ‘i do i do’ he sa.

  ‘No no go on go on.’.

  ‘They don’t mind that we hav to draw our food from the control dept in the cellars at King’s cross. They are different that we hav to turn up an hour and a half before the trane starts. They do not care all the cooking is done by electrissity in the kitchen.’

  You could hardly expect it to be done in the guard’s van ha-ha, i sa litely. They attendant look at me thortfully.

  Who thinks of the cook when he go to the larder at king’s cross? He asks. Now we are all blubbing and only molesworth 2 repli: i do, he sa, i am sorry i did not go with him.

  Well you kno how many prunes, radiomalts, skool sossages he pinch all the time so i can see he is planning a new job when we get back. He is a weed.

  Now the mity trane rumble over the royal border bridge and soon we are in scotland. we go back to our smoker and lite up our cigs.

  Hav you ever considered, peason, i sa, that we hav been traveling north through country steeped in hist? That the trane folow the grate north road constructed by the romans and julius ceasar the silly old geyser?

  ‘good heavens, you sla me, molesworth.’

  … That at darlington station stands locomotion 1 the first to run on a public railway?

  ‘No no go on go on.’

  … That they sa queen boadicea is buried at king’s cross station? But his eyes are closed and peason hav fallen asleep chiz chiz and so hav all the rest. All the same i let my mind pla upon dremes and fancies (posh prose) of the past.

 
; caesar, livy, romulus and remus are sitting in a compartment.

  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

  DAYVEE 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 7 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 AIRGURL 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, cought 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, woolen pants, white mice, caterpillars 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 an 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 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 finger 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 wildest 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?