Pomes, proses, and playsome pleasantries, by Gerald A. (formerly Catweazle). All text & graphics copyright Gerald A.
The Doc asked me if I’d had any contact with frogs recently.
— What you mean?
— You know, frogs.
— Frogs.
— Yes, frogs. Ribbit, ribbit!
—Eh?
— Green chaps. Slimy.
Then he starts jumping up and down, skinny legs flexing like an Olympian. Across the floor —ribbit, ribbit! — onto a bookcase — ribbit, ribbit! — back to his desk — ribbit, ribbit!.
— See? Frogs.
— No, I mean how recently is recently?
Bloody annoyed right now, and with good reason: I ate a Mars bar earlier and did it help me work, rest and play? It did like fuck!
Bloody Martians coming here, taking all our jobs. If my old granddad was alive today he’d turn in his grave. There ought to be a law. And…. and…. I’m fairly sure oranges used to be a lot bigger.
I’ve a good mind to fire off a broadside — letter to the Times, I think. Strike while the iron is hot, and my dander’s up.
Started to rain again, too.
This bloody country’s gone to hell.
There, I’ve said it!
Just had a call from Country Life. They want to do a feature on Castle Catweazle, apparently cos it harks back (their words) to a bygone age of excoriating wit and scintillating jeux de mots, now sadly rare among our literati. Told ’em to bugger off.
Cataclysmic drumroll, then instantaneous voiding of the bowels of Heaven. Quain fairly beetled across the field like a meatloaf out of Hell. He found refuge in the Church of St Anselm the Incontinent.
— The doorposts never speak, but they’re always listening! I was in here with Simon the other night, discussing the wedding plans, and I could feel the doorposts straining to hear. They leaned forward, into the room, to catch every word, and if I’m not mistaken, one of them actually laughed, or at least sniggered. The one on the right.
— Did Simon hear it?
— Oh no. Simon never hears anyone but me, the sweet silly goose!
— And… are they listening now?
— No, I don’t think so. But you’re not very interesting, are you? I mean… to a doorpost.
— And Simon is?
— Well, I am marrying him, aren’t I? And if he interests me, he’d hardly bore a doorpost, would he?
— Hardly. Good point.
…back at the ranch, Chad was blind-stitching the gusset of his panties. Riding the range had taken its toll, and fraying was so unsightly.
In the bunkhouse, Karl was whittling hickory into the shape of a… was it Apollo 11? Whatever the case, Chad’s birthday was fast approaching, and a thoughtful, handmade gift would strike the right note.
Chad examined his needlecraft by placing a small looking-glass near to his manly tegument, and adjusting as required.
Karl flashed a milk-white smile as he stroked and smoothed the hickory.
In the vastness of the prairie sky, a harvest moon looked down on love’s excursions.
Mary had custody of a juvenile Ovis aries, the fleece of which was noteworthy for its pristine whiteness, of a kind often associated with partially frozen water vapour falling earthward (or having fallen) as flakes.
Observers also noted that there was a strong correlation between Mary’s GPS coordinates at any particular time and those of the Ovis.
Quain looked into her eyes, and said ‘Nga wanda ngoo sai, pel mon?’
To which Leonora, blushing sweetly, replied ‘Ngi kaundo mui, mai pranh ngoo.’
Quain’s next words were impassioned: ‘Pranh ngoo? You filthy old cow!’
I’m working on a device that makes people happy. The basic concept is this:
It runs on 2 AA re-chargeable batteries (not included), and has a moulded plastic handle for easy carrying, plus a lightweight foldaway frame for easy storage. Coated in tough, scratch-proof Teflon, it could guarantee a lifetime of happiness to the user. When not in use, it could double as a coldframe for strawberries.
Must phone the Patent Office at once, or it’ll be the ‘Meaning of Life in a Bag’ fiasco all over again.
— Won’t you try my lenitive electuary? It’s a sovereign julep compounded of many simples, and it’s damnably demulcent, my dear.
— But is it a mollifying or a gently stimulating febrifuge?
— For those in grip of fever, it’s a palliative sling, my dear — so saith Pliny.
— Will it restore my youthful ardour? And rejuvenate my alabaster pallor?
— Never known to fail, my dear.
— Does it alleviate the itch associated with Grant’s Palsy? Will it banish thoughts of demons?
— Just drink it, for fuck sake.
C.M. Pudding’s autobiography, Raisins and All, was published in 1995 to critical acclaim. The Times wrote: ‘One feels the soul behind the gestures, the heart behind the rhetoric, the crême behind the brulée.’
Peter Townsley, in the Guardian, wrote: ‘Pudding has finally silenced his critics, for whom the ‘raisins’ of the title were, throughout his long career, all too often used as ammunition against him. Now, at last, the cheek is on the other foot, and Samson has met his Daphne.’
In the Daily Express, Phoebe Dalmatian described Raisins and All as a ‘work of great imaginative power, a tour de force, a coruscatingly acerbic and typically scathing sideswipe at the British establishment of the 1960s and 70s. Pudding takes no prisoners in this rollicking romp that sets light to the brandy of stuffy decorum and fairly polishes the plate of paternalistic parliamentary procedure’.
The second volume, Living with Semolina, was less successful.
Olympic legend Joachim DeRipa won the men’s 100 metres final in a record time of 9.54 seconds. Tremendous applause followed the inspirational athlete as he made his way to the winners’ podium.
Half a world away, Inspector P.J. (‘Me Darlin’) Murphy was watching on TV in his home in London. It was his day off, and he was tired.
He speed-dialled Scotland Yard and while DeRipa was still holding his medal aloft and waving to the crowd, he was hustled to the ground, handcuffed and immobilised by six burly lawmen.
‘You can run but you can’t hide, me darlin’, said Murphy, as he watched from his favourite armchair.
The Reverend Gilead told the Court: ‘The trine mersion in water is very symbolic. The first mersion figures our birth to this world, the second our death, the third our glorious rebirth to everlasting life.’
And so the ducking-stool was built, under the Reverend’s close supervision. He had estimated Leonora’s weight by observing the length and breadth of her shadow at Matins and at Evensong, and averaging out.
It took six weeks to build the apparatus, and required the combined skills of three carpenters and two blacksmiths. A deputation was sent to Stella Maris Rest Home in Norwich to consult with Jeb Postlethwaite, retired Master Mariner, about submerged rocks, whirlpools, and eddies in the River Ouse.
When completed, the ducking-stool extended fifteen feet into the river, and was so efficient that it could be operated by just two men, Tom Elliott and his brother Godber. They tested it repeatedly for a week with diseased sheep and moribund goats, and in the end became quite fond of it. They nicknamed it Swinging Betsy, after their grandmother.
And so, the Great Day dawned, fresh and clear. People began to assemble at the riverside from six in the morning: families with picnic baskets and folding stools, sportive lads and lasses gaily attired, ancient crones in bath-chairs nursed by slaveys. Sarah Sowerbutts had a stall near the bridge, selling simnel cakes and flagons of negus. From sunrise to nine o’clock, the murmur of the crowd rose steadily from idling breeze to rushing wind.
But at five minutes to the hour, all fell deathly silent, when a carriage bearing Leonora was seen to leave the Cambridge Road and head slowly towards the river. All eyes followed it, and then strained to see Leonora as she stepped onto a wooden dais. Clad in black, she appeared calm, demure, even beautiful.
A murmur spread through the crowd, but all eyes remained fixed on the figure in black. An infant cried, somewhere near the bridge.
The Reverend Gilead joined Leonora on the dais, and the whole world fell mute again, save for the waters of the river. Facing the congregation, the Reverend read aloud the Twelfth Order of the Consistory Court of Rheims, and the people bowed their heads. Then holding a wooden crucifix before him, he turned to look directly into Leonora’s face. He spoke in a rich, somewhat sad voice:
— Do you renounce Satan and all his works?
— Yes.
— Fuck. Now you tell me.
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Teen icon Slap Dash is in the news again — for all the WRONG reasons.
The hunky heartthrob was seen coming out of Quangos at 4am with a mystery BLONDE. ‘He came out of Quangos at 4am with a mystery blonde,’ a bystander said.
This comes just WEEKS after jilted ex Patsy De Loreo revealed that Slap used to BITE his fingernails during their lovemaking trysts.
An insider revealed that Slap is about to announce an exciting NEW project that could see him linked to reality TV star Natassyya Del’Whinge.
In the morning, Leonora’s casement was bestrewn with fragrant camomile, meadowsweet, and Canterbury Bells. When she woke, she snoze violently, causing the bedsprings to rattle. She called Quain at once.
— I left it open to entice the morning sunbeam, not a herbal influx. Take them away, Quain. You’re good with dead things.
Dick of Devon and the mooncalf opened the proceedings by leaping up and down and whistling ‘Don’t mind me, Mrs Flanagan’. Not the strongest opening, but then Dick left the stage to be replaced by the mandrill, who told the most lurid jokes as the mooncalf, seated on a conch shell, mimed his words. The bishop left at the beaver joke, but the rest of the audience was highly entertained. The act was rewarded with wild applause and shrill hoo-hooing, and the mooncalf had to be dragged off stage, such was his rapture at the ovation.
After the intermission, the Cat-a-Mountain took to the stage to rambunctious applause. Her now famous manic dance routine, with its contortions and operatic gestures, virtually brought the house down. What a loss to Cornish theatre when she moves to the West End in September. But this was a splendid send-off for a performer who has delighted young and old alike for over ninety years. At routine’s end, Dick of Devon, in his role as MC, presented the Cat-a-Mountain with a bouquet of tansies and burlwort, and the audience rose as one to its respective feet. Then the whole company joined the pair on stage for one final, moving rendition of ‘Kitty, what’s your caper?’ A fitting finale indeed, and a memorable evening.
Ug tugged at the branch and was rewarded with a heap of shiny red
baneberries that dropped at his feet. Experiencing happiness, he squatted
on the ground and began eating the rubicund crop with what we now call
pleasure. The taste might be described as piquant, though Ug was not familiar with the term. His partner Ugeen, and daughter Uglet, perceived him with growing interest.
He had eaten about ten berries when he suddenly began to sweat prodigiously, a cold, sickening sweat that was quite a novelty to Ug. He felt dizzy, and the termite mounds in his garden seemed to spin about his head. Then he felt a spasmodic contraction of his throat, and a violent heave, heaving, AAARRKK of his stomach. His innards, were he aware of them, fought for air, but came there none.
Ug dug into the soil with his fingers and with a single explosive
YYYEAARRKK crossed over history’s one-way threshold.
In that way, Ugeen and Uglet, as well as all future generations, learned the meaning of the word bane.
Judge Horatio Macauley Smallweed
Royal Courts of Justice
The Strand
London WC2A 2LL
Dear Your Honour,
In the matter of Catweazle v Regina, I wish to bring to your esteemed attention the following matters of utmost importance.
Scattergood & Nesbeck cost me 25,000 smackers in legal fees, and that’s after their loyalty discount. For that kind of money, I expected a thoroughly professional service, but what I got was a travesty.
For example, my counsel should have de-emphasised the evidence a lot more skilfully. After all, a severed head with my fingerprints on it does look bad to most jury members, but Scattergood & Co. simply “backed off” at that point. A simple case of botched records would have put me in the clear on that one.
Also, Exhibit C, the torso in the oven — what chance did I have once that was unearthed? It should have been deemed inadmissible on grounds of tampering with a crime scene, or sine qua non, or even extra-judicial bakala bakalorum.
In light of this unfortunate case, I’m calling for root-and-branch reform, with a full public inquiry into the admissibility of body parts as evidence to hang a man by the neck until dead.
Let’s hope my campaign (Registered Charity No. 342167) can prevent any further miscarriages of justice, and you can help by purchasing one of my 100% cotton ‘VICTIM’ T-shirts, available in a wide range of colours. Click here to order, and share on Twitter.
Yours etc,
Catweazle
PN53378092
Belmarsh
If you go just slightly beyond the common baked bean, you’re entering a whole new realm of enquiry, which a single lifetime is hardly long enough to explore.
Take the mung bean, for instance. Common enough — granted — but how many of you can say that you’re really familiar with mung beans? How many? I thought so.
And how many of you know the connection between haricot beans and the fall of Stalingrad? How many? None!
Can anyone tell me the difference between the field bean and the bean of Molucca? No one!
Who discovered the powerful narcotic properties of St Ignatius’s bean? Anyone? No!
Ignorant, crapulous fools! You let your whole lives go by and you don’t even consider these questions! Not one of you! That’s it! Stare at your shoes — I’m sure you’ll find the answers there — like snot-nosed schoolboys, and yet governments around the world allow people like you to vote! Says a lot for democracy, doesn’t it?
Now open your books at page 4, Historical Overview: From Mung to Malabar.
A roustabout meets a musard in the Fox & Garter.
They both order pints of nux vomica and soon they’re gostering like old pals, though it’s mostly a one-way goster.
The roustabout tells tales of gold mining in the Forest of Dean, truck driving in the Alaskan wastes, and feverish dalliances with busty beldams worldwide.
The musard, for his part, has no tales to tell, and is content to listen and muse. He is by nature mumchance to the point of unsociability.
— So that’s how I ended up in Alaska, see? Turned out she was the gaffer’s daughter, wasn’t she? Had to leave a bit sharpish after that — no pay either. Legged it out of there like a scalded cat. Applejohn, his name was.
— Applejohn? From Norwich? Matilda?
— Yeah, we used to call her Waltzing… Why?
— My sister. Jumped off the cathedral roof. Only fifteen.
— I’ll get this.
As we entered the tiny tavern, a lazy Lascar lounged by the door on a bango mat, while all around the rhythmic pulsing of belchwood bongos blent with bulbous babillons to encoomb the starry night. Nimbly stepping over the Lascar, we took a table by the only window in that place, and waited. And waited. Then one of our party (it may have been Cedric) noticed that the menu was written on the ceiling, in quite garish colours, but perfectly legible from any one of the three tables. ‘How thrilling’, said Leonora, as we craned.
‘Oh look’, said Cosmo, ‘they’ve got poulignon en jus. A firm favourite with my great uncle Verna’.
‘Has your great uncle Verna been to Babel?’ I enquired.
‘Oh no, but he kept a trained Lascar for many years, up at Donnington.’
‘I hope he was better trained than that Lascar’, I said, motioning significantly towards the recumbent form on the bango mat.
‘Infinitely so’, said Cosmo. ‘Why, he could even play the clavichord — sweet, sweet Bach during supper.’
Just then the recumbent form reached out and lifted a sugar palm besom into the air, and — still recumbent — erased poulignon en jus from the menu. ’Something something off’, he seemed to say, or words to that effect.
Leonora threw the ledger on the floor before the Lord:
“Don’t you know that I come here of my own accord?
You may take your noxious guilders and return them to your purse,
For I’ll not accept your lucre, no!, nor aught you might disburse!”
“Oh gentle Leonora, pray desist and stay your hand.
My actions speak to chivalry, or else I am unmanned!
Please don’t leap upon the fauteuil — it’s early Belle Epoque —
No, please don’t throw the Reynolds, — oh not the Wedgwood clock!”
“Now good my Lord, I know your japes, your saucy little caper!
To think that I would rub your plums for sheets of printed paper!
You know full well what you must do to alter my position.
Consider it well or bid farewell to Shakespeare, first edition.”
“I’m a man of steadfast honour, and my scutcheon bears no smirch.
The family name has known no shame since Cuthbert left the church.
Please don’t tear that priceless tome — I bought it from Paul Getty —
Yes, of course — I see it now — we can be amoretti!”
“You try to pawn me off with cake, or is it more a biscuit?
In any case I see your game and warn you not to risk it.
My honour cannot be restored with fancy amoretti.
I’m thinking more of diamond rings, and snowdrifts of confetti.”
“Of course, my dear, oh wondrous cheer! The bonds of happy wedlock!”
“Ok, I’ll put the Shakespeare back — and I’m sorry about the clock.”
— Hey, Arnie! Good to see you! How are you today?
— Yo Dirk! I’m out-going, creative, and charismatic. You?
— Oh, you know me! Quiet and mystical, but a tireless idealist who tries to inspire others.
— And the kids?
— Doin’ just great! Marcia is a bold and innovative experimenter, and Josh is spontaneous, energetic, and altruistic. His reliability cannot be doubted.
— Aw, that’s just great. And how’s your wife? I haven’t seen her for a while — she ok?
— Well, she’s a strategic thinker, you know? Bold and imaginative, one of nature’s leaders. She left me for a thoughtful and charming artist.
— This taffeta’s not the ticket, Quain. Despise my clothier.
— Merdurinous mercer, M’Lady.
Sicko Robert Penge ate a bag of CRISPS while his 9-yr-old daughter Tiffany lay sleeping in the NEXT room.
Unemployed Penge, 41, SCOFFED the tasty treat while watching footie on the telly at his council flat in Bleasdale, Yorks.
Do you have a story for our news team? Email us: britishjournalism@itsbest
If all goes to plan, I’ll be moving on to packaging next month. We start small, apparently: milk cartons and whatnot, but then if I show an aptitude it’s on to 9×12 parcels and boxes for private industry. The sky’s the limit, really. It’s all folding boxes, of course. No sharp objects allowed, but still.
I met the Queen of England
while riding on a bus.
I said ‘Queenie, what’s your caper?,
where are you heading thus?’
Well she looked at me and I could see
she had been with the artillery.
She was pissed as a coot
and stank like a boot,
after opening another distillery.
I can remember, as a very small child, sitting by the fire in our cosy country kitchen and watching my dear Mum going about her daily routine. She wore a printed apron and sang snatches of old songs that always made me feel happy.
I can still see her now, standing at the kitchen table, her right arm churning and churning, turning out the most beautiful counterfeit banknotes you could ever imagine.
My dad rarely showed his emotions, but even he would sometimes hold a banknote in his hand and look at it, and then at Mum, and I could see the love-light in his eyes. He would hold her in his arms and kiss her, so warm, so long. And she’d say “Oh stop it, you old fool, can’t you let me finish”, but she was always laughing when she said it.
I’ve tried to be like my old Mum, but she was one in a million.
I’m so excited today! You won’t believe it, but this evening I’m going out with K— C—! We’re due at the Ritz-Carlton at 8 for a candlelit dinner, and then… who knows?
Sorry, I can’t give you her full name cos she’s a major Hollywood star (I mean seriously major!), and if word got out, our romantic dinner would be ruined. We’d be hounded by the paparazzi from soup to nuts.
Speaking of nuts, I suppose technically I should get permission, but I think it’ll be ok. Dr Steinmüller has been really good to me, ever since they brought me here.
Old Cletus useta sit on his porch every evenin’, watchin’ the sun go down.
Soon as the light was gone, he’d stand up and holler ‘Irma! Whoopie time!’ and go back in the house.
Still came as a shock though when Irma shot him in the head, point blank like that.
The thunder said ‘Run like a bastard’.
Jack Sprat was constitutionally averse to adipose tissue. In sharp contrast, his wife was quite partial to it, and eschewed altogether the muscular kind.
Now, in many marriages, such dichotomous diets can provoke division among the conjugal pair, but not in this case. In the Sprat household, potential division was resolved into harmony through mutual cooperation, as follows: While each party independently pursued his/her own dietary proclivity, their combined actions invariably resulted in a pristine platter, thereby eliminating altogether that scourge of domestic harmony, the washing-up.
— How goes it now, Mrs Gamp?
— Ooh, Mr Mould, I never been so frightened of a night and that’s the throof! Why — and I say this compellentially — only last night I seen ‘im again, large as life, and a jellied eel on his platter!
— A jellied eel, Mrs Gamp?
— Big one, Mr Mould. Ooh, tremendous proportions! If I didn’t ‘ave my — you know — flagon o’ comfort, I should be stretched out by now in Highgate’s whispering vale — hopefully wiv your own kind administrations, Mr Mould.
— Yes, hopefully, Mrs Gamp. Well, good day.
— Good day, Mr Mould, and my bestest compelliments to Mrs Mould, as fine a lady as ever wore curl-papers, Sir, ain’t it the throof?
Old Earl useta sit on his porch wearin’ his wife’s undies — the whole rig-out. Real fancy stuff too, bought from Paris, France.
‘I ain’t bein’ funny’, he’d say. ‘It just helps me remember her.’
Preacher went over there to have a word with him: ‘Maybe try to remember her with some clothes on’, he suggested.
‘Don’t think I’d recognise her,’ said Earl.
Lone Words 