Monday 28 February 2011

Onomatopoeia

Listen! The coins went clink, clinkety clink as they poured into his knapsack. He’d asked his father for his inheritance, and now he was off. Birds twittered in the rustling trees as he headed into the continual hubbub of Dissipation City.  

Once there, the gurgling of drinkers filled the air; ice cubes clinked in the fizzing drinks as revellers swigged and sloshed. Chuckles and smooching were also noteworthy. What a buzz! But when the cash tills ceased their clatter and beep-beeping, there was nothing but a resounding silence. 

Famine struck the land, and everywhere was filled with the bubbling of rumbling tummies (fitz; rowr) [1] whimper. He had grunting pigs to look after, as they snuffled and snorted their way through squishy, squashy, rotting pods, some of which gushed oozingly. Whaam! [2] A light went on in the boy’s head and he came to his senses. ‘I will go home and work there as a hired hand.’ 

But even while he was shuffling his way, his father ran, shouting, covered him with smackers, jingled jewellery, and jangled the buckles on his new loud shoes. Soon the air was filled with the hiss and crackle of a fire and the spit, fizzle and sputtering of fatted-calf, plus the chattery babbling merry-making of munching, chomping glugging partygoers.  

‘My son was lost, but now he’s found; was dead, but now is alive!’ bellowed father, at great volume.

[1] acknowledgement to Mad Magazine's Don Martin
[2] acknowledgement to Roy Lichtenstein's famous cartoon-style painting of 
a missile-firing jet

Friday 25 February 2011

So glad to see him again!

father
 
My younger boy came to me and asked for his share of the inheritance. I didn’t want him to go, but I gave him his share. Off he went anyway. Every day I went to the roof whenever I could to see if he was returning.
 
Then we heard that famine was spreading, especially in the places where we feared he had gone. I still went to the roof each day, but I must admit I had convinced that he was dead; either killed for the money he was carrying in a famine-struck land, or starved.

I still went to the roof, and one day saw him on the road. My son! I ran to him and showered him with acceptance. He was trying to say something about ‘not worthy’ or something, but this was my son, whom I had almost given up for dead. I cannot imagine what could have inspired him to return; but I was deeply glad he had decided upon that course. 

I called the servants to bring a coat, shoes and a ring to signify that he was part of the family once again. I ordered that we should have a big slap-up feed, and so it was hot roast beef all round, with yorkshire puddings and flagons of wine.  

The noise from the party was colossal!

Thursday 24 February 2011

D

Demanding dosh, dysfunctional Derek disappears Dissi-pationville-wards.
    
Dances, dames, drunkenness, disposes dollars dramatically. Downturn denies demograph.
    
Didactic distraction! Decides differently.
    
Dad dresses Derek, distresses Daisy. Dhansak, devilled duck, dabs, dates, damsons; dancing.

‘Dead? Disbelieve!’

Wednesday 23 February 2011

C

Cowman Cuthbert called cleverly ‘Clanhead, count cash.’
 
‘Course,’ commented Crusty. Completely coining-it, Cuthbert covered course Corruption City-wards.
 
Culpable criminal! 
 
Conspicuous consumption complete, countrywide crust-craving. Cuthbert cowered closely: corkscrew-tailed creatures, coveting comestibles.
 
Cranial change came; course correction centrally considered. Crusty commands cygnet-ring, clogs, coat; cooks cow, covers Cuthbert cuddlingly.
 
Celebration!
    
‘Considered corpse; completely cured!’

Tuesday 22 February 2011

Retrograde

starting at the end, working backwards
 
‘Hallelujah! It is clear that this boy is alive, yet he was considered dead! Now he’s found, despite being, understandably, reckoned to be lost!’
 
The party continued, as the father celebrated the son’s return. 
The boy showed off his new coat, ring and sandals, remembering with great pleasure the moment when his father had bestowed them upon him, along with many expressions of affection. 

He’d still been a long way off, starting to say ‘No longer worthy to be called your son, but make me one of your hired hands.’ He’d planned this while on his journey from the pig sty, where he said to himself ‘I will go to my father, once I have arisen.’
 
This decision followed the realization that even his father’s hired men were being fed every day, while here he was thinking that the pig food looked good… This was on account of his great hunger, which in turn was due to the great famine. His pockets were empty, and his friends were gone, despite his former lavish exuberance in spending and wild living, which had started some time earlier, almost as soon as he got to Dissipation City.
 
The moment of arrival was the natural consequence of a journey away from the home farm, bags stashed with large wedges of cash garnered from his father as part of a positive response to a simple request: ‘Please give me my share of the inheritance.’ He was the younger son.

Monday 21 February 2011

Parts of speech

Nouns    man; two sons; one; share of the estate; his property; all he had; distant country; wealth; everything; famine; whole country; citizen of that country; fields; pigs; stomach; pods; no one; men; food; father; son; compassion; robe; ring; finger; sandals; feet; calf; feast
 
Adjectives     younger; wild; severe; long; hired; best; fattened; this; dead; alive; lost; found

Pronouns     his; me; he; them; your; they

Verbs     said to; divided; got together; set off; squandered; living; spent; to be in need; went; hired himself out; sent; feed; longed; fill; eating; gave; came to his senses; said; to spare; I am starving; I will set out; go back; say; I have sinned; I am no longer worthy; to be called; make me; got up; went; he was; saw; filled; ran; threw; kissed; Bring; put; Bring; kill; Let’s have; celebrate; began

Adverbs     There was; had; between; Not long after; After; began; to death; like; while; with; for; of

Articles    a; the

Prepositions    against heaven; against you 

Conjunctions     so; with; and; But

Interjections     Father; Quick!


Friday 18 February 2011

Nested stories (part five of five)

UP ON THE roof, Jack blinked. What was this? Another charity worker? No, he was too thin and didn’t seem to be in much of a rush. A salesman? No; he’d got no product with him. This character, still a long way off, seemed to be walking very slowly, like a man without shoes on a stony road… And he seemed to have no coat, either. His hair was unfashionably long, with a straggly beard as well… but… could it be? He stood up and looked very carefully.

The figure had just come over the distant hill, way beyond the present extent of his farm, since he’d sold off those outlying fields.

Jack couldn’t contain his rising excitement that it might just possibly… He ran down the stairs, and, tucking his tunic into his belt, began to run, undignified, to see this approaching character. It might be Thomas. It might be. Or someone with news of him, at least. 

He ran at full pelt, shouting ‘Thomas! Is it you? My son!’
   
IT SURPRISED THOMAS that the outlying fields of Glamis farm were in such contrast to the ones nearer the farmhouse. The outlying ones were sad-looking, over tilled and unproductive, while the fields near the farmhouse were waving their corny greeting with generosity and fruitfulness.   

But what was this? Some madman was coming up the road, shouting and waving. Perhaps his father had sent a hired hand to scare him off. Perhaps he was just the first of a group of men sent to force him to leave… What was he shouting? ‘Go away! You’re not welcome here!’ No… it was hard to make it out, but it was more like ‘Commerce... In situ… bison…’ No, that doesn’t make any sense at all. 

As the apparently mad fellow drew closer, his voice became more distinct, even though he was getting out of puff. ‘Thomas… is it you? My son!’
 
OH, HE WAS sure now. It really was his long-lost son! He renewed his gallop, and eventually covered the distance. He ran to his boy – a hairy, skinny, smelly version of his boy – and threw his arms around him. He kissed him and greeted him with great warmth.

Thomas tried to say his speech. ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against…’ but Jack wasn’t listening. 

‘How did you get on? How did you survive? Why are you so thin? Have you not been eating? What happened to your shoes? And can you believe how happy I am to see you? Oh, how we’ve missed you! I love you, son!’

Jack and Thomas walked arm in arm towards Glamis Farm, and servants and hired men came running to see what all this fuss was about.

‘Quick, fetch some shoes for the boy,’ ordered Jack. ‘And get my signet ring from the dresser by my bed. And a coat – are you cold, son? – bring it anyway.’

When the servants arrived with the ring, shoes and coat, Jack put them onto his son. Tears streamed down his face, and Thomas was emotional as well.

The next day, Jack decided to have a grand celebration and invited everyone in the village to attend. 

‘What shall we eat, sir?’ asked one of the servants. ‘We can’t fob them off with meat pies or those awful sausages, can we? After all, you complain about them every morning, don’t you, sir?’

‘No, no, you’re right!’ laughed Jack. ‘Kill one of the fatted calves and we’ll have a right slap-up barbecue!’
 
And that’s what they did. 

One of the invitations went to the village elder who was Chairman of the Chamber of Commerce, and another to the founder and president of FASHION.

Thursday 17 February 2011

Nested stories (part four of five)

ON THE OTHER hand, Jack Glamis seemed to have turned the corner. 

His fields were flourishing with crops; his dairy efforts had been stood down and the cattle sold off; his calves were looking very healthy and his prospects were good; at least in the short-term. He reckoned that he could survive the year, with fewer costs from having abandoned the milking and cheese production efforts, which were labour-intensive.

And he thought he’d do well from his admittedly reduced grain harvest, as the famine was forcing a little gentle inflation, and he’d get a better price for his grain this year.

Meanwhile, there was a supply of (not very good) sausages and meat pies to eat, along with some half-decent cheese and yoghurt.

He’d adopted a new system for his crops; he’d decided to leave the blanket of nutrients and vegetable matter on the surface of the soil; he’d abandoned the constant tilling which caused the topsoil to blow away (especially when irrigation was an issue). Besides, leaving everything alone was less effort, and seemed to be maximizing the effectiveness of the land. His farm was becoming a credible business, he reckoned, and this spurred him on to work hard, and suffer the indignities of his rubbish meat pies.

He still missed his son, and spent time every day looking out for him.
   
REVELATION DAWNED UPON the mind of Thomas Glamis.

He found himself envying the diseased pigs; he longed to eat their food – that’s how hungry he was! 

‘I bet that the men who work for my old dad at Glamis Farm are eating okay. They probably get lovely meals provided for them; yes, they have to work hard but they are treated with dignity and respect… 

‘What if I were to go back there, and humble myself, and say to my father that I understand that I have sinned against him and against heaven and no longer deserve to be called his son? My wickedness has been that serious, actually, and I could ask him to make me one of his hired men, and that way I’d get to be back near him, see if he will forgive me, and maybe get a square meal, lest I die of starvation.’

So he got up and started on his long journey home.

It was many miles, and while he walked, he considered how to express himself to his father. 

Will Dad even be willing to talk? He had every right to dismiss me – I’d effectively wished him dead, after all. He might even call upon his hired men to beat me up and send me packing… I wonder how he’ll feel about my return? Maybe he’s come to terms with me no longer being his son, and he won’t want to open up those wounds.

But I have to try to seek his forgiveness.

I don’t want to die owing him such a great debt – both financially and emotionally… How could I have wished him dead? How could I have wasted his fortune? How can I ever pay him back? Will he even listen to my pleas?
 
IT WAS A cold, bright morning, and the sausages for Farmer Jack’s breakfast were grim, as ever. He made sure the hired men were busy and being effective – feeding the calves, tending the fields, sorting out the accounts (not a lot of income, but still the books need to balance).

Tired and lonely, he made his way onto the roof to maintain his vigil for Thomas. Could today be the day? He’d spent a lot of time up here over the last eighteen months, and had never seen anyone that even slightly resembled his son. Men looking for work, charity workers looking for donations, pig farmers looking to sell bacon (not many takers around here) and refugees from the famine in the neighboring country. But none of them were Thomas. Could today be any different?

No.

IT WAS A cold bright morning, and Jack didn’t much fancy his breakfast, but he ate it anyway; today might be the day, and he needed his strength. But none of the people who walked up the road was Thomas.

IT WAS A cold, bright morning and the terrible breakfast sausages were beginning to get on his nerves. It was still a few weeks before the grain harvesting could start, and even then, there would be a delay before the grain could be processed and made into flour and then into bread and then into a decent breakfast. It had been a long time since he’d had quality rolls or toast or crumpets or a crusty bloomer.

He slowly climbed the stairs and sat down on the roof to maintain his vigil. Could today be the day Thomas comes home?

KNOWING HE WAS getting close caused Thomas Glamis to become nervous. Had he made the right decision? Would he be welcome? Would he be tolerated? Would he be chased away? Would he be struck out of anger? Would he be forced to flee for his life? Any of these were possibilities.

He was several miles from Glamis Farm, but once he reached the brow of this hill, he’d be able to see the outlying fields, with the familiar corn waving in the breeze.

to be concluded

Wednesday 16 February 2011

Nested stories (part three of five)

EXPERIMENTING FARMER GLAMIS was thrilled at first when his dairy cattle started to produce quality milk. He was busy arranging a distribution network of daily deliveries, as well as discovering the techniques required to make cheese and yoghurt. Even his early attempts at a soft blue cheese were a success, and his range of fruit yoghurts was also welcomed in the local shops, and eagerly sought out by customers.
 
Unfortunately, his experience as an arable farmer did not transfer easily to the daily duties of dairy production. Additionally, a number of his farm hands were laid off as he no longer had the large bonus to his annual income when the time came for reckoning up his grain and hay sales from his vastly reduced fields. This combination left him short-handed in the milking parlour, and without the cashflow to hire anyone else.
 
So he tried to sell a few cows, to reduce the workload.
 
This proved rather complicated, as Farmer Glamis wasn’t offering enough cattle to start up a business, and none of the existing dairy farms in the district were looking to expand at this time of economic uncertainty. So what could he do?
 
He decided to try butchery, and took two of his dairy cows to the abattoir. But the cows had been reared with maximized milk production in mind, but not to build muscle or fat. Their meat was tough and unpleasant.
 
Yet it was food, and Farmer Glamis had to make the most of it. He would grind it down to mince, mix it with breadcrumbs and cheap herbs and make sausages and pies. But all this extra work took manpower, and his meat sales were insufficient to offset the extra costs. So he lived on his own expensive produce, and thus on a spiral to oblivion.
 
He knew this wasn’t working well, and felt a little guilty that he was making a fist of the opportunity the Chamber of Commerce had so generously provided. He took three of his best cows to be serviced by a bull, and was pleased when two of them produced calves.
 
These he treated with the appropriate feed to ensure they were good for slaughter, and would provide excellent eating. Perhaps he was turning things around. His cashflow continued to be a problem, but at least there was light at the end of the tunnel.    
 
One thing was preoccupying him, however. 

How was his son Thomas? Was he lost? Was he alive? Could he have survived? Had he made a name for himself in the big city? Was he happy? Was he satisfied? Was he content, now?
 
Each day, Jack spent time up on the roof of his house, looking to see if his son Thomas was returning. He hadn’t come back yesterday, but it’s possible he would return today, and Jack wanted to be there to welcome him. 

But then disaster struck everyone.

HIS YOUNGER SON, Thomas, had packed up his belongings, and set off for – as it happened – Dissipation City, where the bars, restaurants, casinos, theatres and nightclubs beckoned with dazzling sparkle and a lure that Thomas could not resist.
 

He met a number of young men and women who were more than willing to help him have a good time and eat, drink and be very merry as often as possible. He’d take his new-found friends out for meals and lots of cocktails and to a show and then on to a club or out for a wild night of debauchery or a trip to the casino.
 
His friends didn’t contribute to the expense; they just incurred it, with abandon.
 
Pretty soon, his money ran out and he was penniless and without anywhere to stay, as he could no longer afford to live in an hotel and there were not many guest houses.
 
He wandered the streets for several days until a wino showed him that he could probably get a bed in one of the hostels for the homeless. He wandered to the address and liked the look of the place, which had the name FASHION on the door. He made enquiries and, having qualified for help, lay down on one of the beds and got a decent nights’ sleep. 

He had not realized that disaster had struck everyone.

FOOD WAS IN short supply. The crops had failed; the weather had been unfavorable and even the best-organised farms couldn’t magic grain from nowhere.
 
The people began to starve and famine gripped the land.

THE QUALITY AND quantity of the food scraps that people were throwing out was, as Charles Cooterie discovered, greatly reduced; there was a small amount of very low-quality pods and husks, plus a lot of inedible waste (even for pigs). His animals began to suffer, and he had to lay off many of his hired men, which put extra pressure on the remainder, and there was not sufficient income to support them. It was a nightmare.

MEANWHILE YOUNG THOMAS Glamis was feeling sorry for himself, partly because he was still staying in the FASHION House. He spoke to the supervisor in charge of rehabilitation, and together they discussed the prospects.

‘I think you are ready to go and seek some work.’

‘Okay…’

‘The charity is prepared to smooth the way, as we are still receiving adequate gifts and legacies. So what we will do is encourage you to present yourself to a local entrepreneur and ask him to employ you; in the meanwhile, we’ll make a bursary available to him, to make it easier for him – you know, providing cash so that he can afford to employ you. 

‘Do you see? He gets a financial incentive to employ you; you get the dignity of work and everyone benefits from the charity. Good, eh?’
 
‘Sounds like a plan. To whom shall I apply?’
 
‘Well, we have made arrangements with a local firm; Charles Cooterie needs some more workers and is providing a good service to the community, so that’s a win-win situation.’

‘I’m on my way.’

SO, A LITTLE while later, Thomas Glamis was sitting by a trough where a few skinny, diseased pigs were shuffling and rooting about among the pathetic-looking pods and waste for any bits that were suitable for food. 

Thomas was very hungry, too, as when he had taken his meagre wages to the shop, there was no food to buy – no sausages, no dairy products, no bread or any other goods. 

He was contemplating his circumstances.
to be continued

Tuesday 15 February 2011

Nested stories (part two of five)

THE VILLAGE ELDERS were meeting to discuss the situation at Glamis Farm.

‘You know, he’s sold off almost half of his land, and much of it with fine crops already growing in the fields… He’s going to really suffer at the end of the season when he adds up the income from what he has left, as now he not only has a whole lot less, he’ll get a poorer price for his grain and his hay, since he can no longer supply in the kinds of quantities he’s been able to provide up to now… I can’t understand why he did it. He must need the capital for something, but it doesn’t seems to have the ring of entrepreneurial skill about it that Glamis has exhibited thus far.’

‘Is there anything we can do to help his cashflow?’

‘There is plenty we can do, but whether he’ll see the point is another question…’

‘The harm it’ll do to local industry if he goes under will be enormous. He employs a lot of hired hands, you know, and if he can’t afford grain for planting, there’ll be no planting, no tending, no harvest, and no grain next year. It’s a downward spiral…’

‘I think we should dip into the community chest and provide him with some help.’

‘Why should we? It’s his own fault…’

‘Yes it is, but we should help him because the alternative is that this village suffers from this disaster he’s brought upon himself and us.’

So the elders arranged for a gift of 30 head of dairy cattle to be given to Glamis Farm, along with the building of a Milking Parlour. ‘You’ll have to hire some men for the daily duties,’ Glamis was told, ‘and learn how to keep livestock – we realize you’ve only had an arable farm to this point, but with the income from the milk sales coming in on a regular basis, it should help to keep the cashflow a little more buoyant.’
 
‘I am truly grateful to the Chamber of Commerce for this generous grant,’ said Farmer Jack Glamis. ‘I know next to nothing about keeping dairy cattle – we’ve had a couple of goats, but never been a livestock sort of chap. This will change things but should help me keep my head above water, and provide a much-needed additional supply of milk, butter, cheese and yoghurt for the local community.’

The elders were rather pleased with themselves; but then disaster struck.

THE CHARITABLE WORK was growing, thanks to grants and legacies, and was able not only to open a number of hostels for the homeless, but also to consider establishing a variety of enterprises to provide opportunities for their residents to find work in a protected environment, which would be a sort of half-way-house for getting them back into the community.

One of the beneficiaries of the wealth that flowed through the accounts of FASHION was Charles Cooterie. He had spent a while as a beneficiary of their accommodation, but qualified for a bursary when he proved himself to be a trustworthy and reliable man with a desire to contribute to the community that had helped him in his hour of need. 

Cooterie recognized that city folk were disposing of their food scraps and waste in the streets outside their houses, leaving it to rot and causing pollution, an open invitation for vermin and disease, and an unsightly mess as well. He took the capital and arranged for hired men to take a fleet of barrows from house to house to collect waste. They brought it to his farm, where he buried some of the waste, and fed the scraps to a few pigs. His long-term intention was to increase his livestock holding until he could farm the animals and send them to market, to provide further food and help provide for his family.

The pigs grew healthy at first, feasting on slops and throwaway food scraps; but then disaster struck.

to be continued

Monday 14 February 2011

Nested stories (part one of five)

WELL-RESPECTED AND wealthy farmer Jack Glamis sat and looked at his account-book. He realized that there was a vast surplus and that his profitability was growing. He’d made good decisions about crops and other investments on Glamis Farm, and was going to be very well-off for the rest of his days.

So he gave thanks to God and decided to make a charitable donation to the Fund for the Assistance of the Suddenly Homeless In Our Neighbourhood. This organization supported homeless people in a far-away place known as Dissipation City, where the need was great.

His donation could provide beds, facilities and workers in a hostel for those who were down and out. He paid the money, and felt like he’d made a seriously worthwhile contribution.

However, the day after he’d spent all his liquid assets, his younger son Thomas made some demands. ‘Look, Father, the time has come for me to get out of this dead-end place. I can see there’s no future for me here, so what I want to do is to fast-forward to the time when you die, and take my inheritance now.’

‘Are you wishing me dead, then, son?’

‘Not exactly. But I’m wishing I didn’t have to wait and work and wait and work and wait some more until I get the chance to make something of myself…'

‘You don’t think staying here and working on my farm could possibly be the course your life is supposed to take?’

‘No, I intend to have a good time and then see what I can do with some serious capital.

‘Well, you have no right to demand this of me, but I’ll agree anyway, and let you have the cash as soon as I can raise it.’ He looked again at his accounts and sighed. There was no way he could afford to give Thomas the money he asked for; he had no cashflow left. So he had to persuade a few local farms to buy some of his fields, complete with the crops that had already been planted and nurtured, and raise the money that way. It was shortsighted business practice, but it was necessary.

It was unlikely to be a success long-term; but then disaster struck.

to be continued

Friday 11 February 2011

Haiku

three lines of five, seven and five syllables respectively

Son spent all Dad’s cash:
Famine; pigswill; repented!
Welcomed home again.

Thursday 10 February 2011

Epic metaphore

telling the whole story by means of one illustration

The Inspector oiled the wheels and the bus [1] began to move away. Lumbering at first, it started off towards Dissipation Terminus, gathering pace as fellow-travellers hopped on the platform and took their seats, some downstairs, some on the top deck, all asking for fourpenny ones.
 
The conductor (it was well before the days of one-man operation) rang the bell three times and cried ‘We’re full right up inside!’ as they raced past bus shelters and avoided low bridges. Someone started whistling We’re all going on a Summer Holiday!, but they were actively discouraged.
 
After a while, there were not any more fayres to attend. It seemed there had been a leak of brake fluid, as the vehicle hurtled out of control. But the dead weight of those who were just there for the ride expended its momentum. So, having run at great velocity, it ground to a halt, out of fuel, finished, spent, conked out. The conductor had to lean a seat-cushion (stood on its end) up against the back of the bus to indicate its status. All the filling stations were exhausted, so no vehicles could move, and everyone resorted to shank’s pony. Nobody was even trying to ride on the rear platform, an activity that contravened several bylaws, as well as health and safety directives.
 
Beyond that, the bus driver sat with animals, perhaps waiting for them to die, be buried, become compressed and turn eventually into oil, which could be processed into petrol for the bus. That might have been a long wait. No, instead, his thoughts turned to the familiar garage from whence he came; the clang of wrenches being dropped into the inspection pit; the intense light from the oxy-acetylene welding equipment; the cheery banter of the mechanics; the dog-eared girlie calendars; the distinctive aroma and unctuous viscosity of the Swarfega.
 
As he gazed into this rear-view mirror of memory, an idea occurred to him. ‘I will arise and go to the Inspector and ask if I can work as part of his team.’ He decided to use his reserve fuel. He was faced with a long journey, yet enthusiastically wound the destination display until it read

NOT IN SERVICE 

RETURNING TO DEPOT

He revved up, put himself into gear and gave very clear hand signals through the little window allocated for the purpose, indicating he was about to pull out in front of other vehicles and swerve aggressively, without warning, into the flow of traffic.
 
While he was more than a fare stage away, Blakey [2] saw him and bestowed a tarpaulin, new tyres, a washer and a once-over with the chamois.

‘The driver had mislaid his RAC Atlas of the Road, but now he has a sat nav; he’d pulled over at a service station, but now has finished his hot, sweet tea and all-day breakfast and is full right up inside, ready for another extended spell at the wheel. Just to ride inside that thirty foot long by ten foot wide – inside that monarch of the road, observer of the Highway Code, big six-wheeler scarlet-painted London transport diesel-engined 97-horsepower (97-horsepower) omnibus. [3]

Hold very tight, please!’ Ding ding.

1 Raymond Queneau's Exercises in Style (my main inspiration) features a story which takes place on a bus
2 the Inspector from London Weekend’s tv series On the Buses 
3 A Transport of Delight by Michael Flanders & Donald Swann (1959). The song scans thanks to errors of fact: engines in RM, RML & RMC models produced 115 bhp; all were just 8ft 2.44m wide; the RML was 30ft 9.14m long – and RM & RMC models were 2ft 6in 0.76m shorter, at 27ft 6in 8.4m

Wednesday 9 February 2011

Vealbeast

plot: Overcoming the monster 

In his dark, musty, cramped stall, the thin bull calf lay on a bed of straw, chewing slowly. In another time and place, he might have become viener schnitzel, but his plan was rather more dramatic. 

Without warning but (thanks to clockwork) regularly, the trapdoor that released grain into his feeding tough clanged open and shut, and he stood to munch on the generous portion of vitamin-enriched corn.

The boy and his father were having another blazing row. 

‘What you ask is foolish, my son,’ declared the old man. ‘I cannot survive if I give you your inheritance now.’ 

The boy vented his frustration and anger. ‘I feel trapped! I will die if I have to stay here, and I will certainly die if I go off to seek fame and friendship elsewhere without some capital behind me. So I insist you give me what is due.’  

Eventually, the old man was persuaded. Reluctantly, he gave the boy a large amount of money and he took his rage, recklessness and irresponsibility elsewhere.

The calf was growing, and the stall seemed already too small for him. His grain portion remained the same, but the shutter clanged open more often.  

His horns were developing.

The boy spent all the money on women and gambling and fine dining and wild living. Soon, surprisingly soon, he was without funds and friends. And then the bull market collapsed, and fierce famine struck the land. 

He found a job tending pigs, and longed to eat the meagre food the pigs were given. That was when he came to his senses. The revelation shone a light into his dark heart. Even my father’s hired hands have plenty to eat, he thought. I shall arise and go home and explain I want to work as a hired hand. I’m no longer worthy to be called a son. 

So he got up and went home.

Meanwhile, the calf grew wider and taller and stronger; also growing was the resentment at being trapped in the dark, inadequate stall. The calf was musing in the gloom, in readiness for the day some fool stepped up to open the door.

But while the boy was still a long way off, his father spotted him approaching, from his vantage point on the roof. ‘My boy!’ he shouted and ran to greet him with a kiss. He called for a ring and a coat and some shoes for his son, and issued a Bull to one of the hired men to slaughter the fatted calf.
 
‘My lord? The fatted calf? Surely not…’ The hired man was fearful of the beast and reluctant to obey. The father asked all his men and received the same reply. None was ready to enter the stall and do battle with the beast, so great had it grown, and mighty.
 
‘Father, I am no longer worthy to be called your son, but I am your hired man. I shall obey your instruction.’ The son stepped up and took the knife from one of the refuseniks.  

He approached the calf’s stall and tried to ease the bolt open silently. But the metal had been in the sun and rain too often, and the rusty bolt creaked, momentarily jammed and then shot open.

The dark, terrifying beast, so long held captive, burst forth with a deep growl, blinking in the harsh, bright light but furious and oh, so determined to do bloody murder to his imprisoner.
 
So, this was the boy! He had been younger last time the calf had glimpsed him through the slats of the battened-down window, but it was definitely him.
 
The calf had grown way too big for his claustrophobic stall. He was large enough to be called a grown animal now; heavily muscled, fully horned, snorting, pawing at the ground, scratching up dust, threatening, alarming.
 
He roared and suddenly charged, catching the boy by surprise, throwing him to the ground. The bullcalf stamped down and pinned his tormentor. The bull turned his head first one way and then the other, goring the boy in the thigh. He cried out in pain, and wriggled free with the energy provided by the burst of adrenaline.
 
He leapt to his feet and threw himself at the bull calf’s thick, powerful neck. He held tight with one arm, and reached around with the other, willing the knife blade to find the throat of the beast. The bull bucked and roared, tossing his head to dislodge the boy. But to no avail.
 
The blade bit deeply into the soft tissue of the bull’s throat ripping arteries, muscle, veins and windpipe.
 
The boy’s knife, hand and arm were swathed in the hot blood of the suddenly dying bull. The animal, still full of rage but without breath, collapsed to his knees, dislodging the boy – way too late. Blood splashed onto the dusty ground and was immediately soaked up. Never mind, there was more to follow.
 
Hired men came running now the danger was passed, and helped the boy to his feet. It was as much as he could do to keep them from carrying him aloft.
 
Within a couple of hours, the monster, who had grown so fearsome on the farm, was spitted, roasted and served (topped with cheese, on bread rolls, with salad and mayonnaisse and plenty of wine). All the villagers tucked in. 

Meanwhile, the boy’s personal monster of rage and frustration had also been sublimated. Growing fearsome within the boy while he was working on the farm, it was however subdued by his revelation in the pigsty, and at last had been overcome by the loving, forgiving, gracious welcome of his father.

Clerihew

two unevenly-metred couplets, traditionally biographical
 

Having wasted all the cash on girls not coy but comely,
That prodigal son of Farmer Cholmondley
Understood, when in a sty
That he certainly was, unconditionally, the absolute
          apple of his doting father’s eye.

Tuesday 8 February 2011

Rap

Listen up in da house, gotta message for you
And a radical way of expressin’ my view
Jesus told this parable to help us to see
That da Father’s love is vast and eternal and free.
Your boy took the cash from the farmer’s hand
And went right away to a far-off land.
This father’s boy was a Prodigal child;
That means he wasted the money with living that was wild.

His friends all left; he was alone and felt gauche; a
Few days later, got a job that wasn’t kosher —
Looking after pigs, jealous of their pods,
He had a revelation that was one of God’s.
‘I shall go back home and serve my dad;
I have to admit that I’ve been really bad.’
On his way home he knew he’d been a mug;
But his Pa rushed out and gave him a hug

And a ring and a coat and some lovely shoes,
And he also killed the animal that moos!
‘I thought he was dead, and I was mourning him
But it turns out he’s alive and now I’ve no need to feel grim!
You know, repenting is good and a recommended move
By a loving God. At this party you’ll groove.’
That’s the end of my story so now I’m gone;
Respect to the Father of that Prodigal Son.

B

‘Big bunse, buckshee!’ boy briefly begged. Bucks, brothels, babes, booze… busted – borasic!

Bad belly; bacon-makers’ breakfast.

Bingo! Boy began buckling, brought back. Brothel-creepers, boots, beef, bonded, banquet! Bloomers, brown baps, barmcakes, braised brisket, baby beetroots, Bisto, bhuna, bloaters, brill, bream, bread, broken biscuits, black beans, bitter beer. 

‘Boy blanked, boxed; but breathing – brilliant!’

A

Another asked ‘All amounts apportioned appropriately, although actual agonies ahead.’ Agreed and away.

Amorous associations!

All accounted-for, appalling anguish approached. Attempts at appropriating animal ambrosia abandoned, ancestral-abode-appeal added.

As approaching, aged Abba arrives, and apportions an anorak, and an adornment - additionals, also. Antipasto, Angus, anchovies, avocado, angelcake, advocaat.

‘Asleep? Alive! Allelujah!’

Right-wing politics

It seemed sound to begin with, but the
manager unwisely invested fully one third
of his considerable wealth in an unstable,
youthful, unruly fool, crippling both his
cash flow and personal pension scheme.


The idiotic whippersnapper took his share
and (with scant regard for a mature way of
making considerations), redistributed it
among the working classes. He failed to buy
stocks and shares, or to salt any capital away as
a nest egg to insure himself against disaster,
accident, fire, flood or… famine! When his
financial resources had dwindled towards
bankruptcy, the scallywag started arranging
a personal overdraft and a career change.

He secured employment in the agricultural
sector, and had an internal battle. He made a
decision to return to his home to try to seek a
post within the family.

But as he approached, his father (who seemed
to have forgotten how the young shaver had
robbed him) ran and greeted him with clothing,
food and a gift that re-established the boy on
the gold standard.


‘The jolly offspring was financially embarrassed,
but now he’s liquid again.’


Left-wing Politics

Remarkably (some might say totally
against character), the landowner released
his funds for the young member of the
proletariat to enjoy, which he did.
Of course, it was nothing like enough,
and general poverty swept through the
country. Government funding was not
forthcoming, which is absolutely typical
of a reactionary fascist dictatorship, and
the down-trodden, oppressed working
classes suffered the most, of course.


The young man was reduced to what
seem to be restrictive farming practices,
without luncheon vouchers or proper meal
breaks, and at less than the minimum wage,
contrary to the Employment Act. He decided
to return to the member of the gentry for
renegotiation of his contract.


As he approached, the landowner cynically
provided some clothing, a meal and then
blatantly bribed the citizen with precious
metal. He allegedly said ‘My boy was long
gone, don’t you know, but now he’s returned!’

His appallingly ‘charitable’, do-gooding attitude
was highly distasteful for all concerned, but the
youngster simply had to grind his teeth and put
up with it.

Polysyllables Only

Second offspring demanded any inheritance. Father agreed; prodigal departed, later making towards foreign country. Recklessly, inheritance became whittled away until banknotes began bulging every other persons’ wallet.

Famine ravished foreign country; offspring starving until employed feeding ague-ridden pigswill into porkers. Envy overtook conscience; senses received divine revelation. ‘Even pater’s labourers satisfy themselves nutritionally every weekday!’

Recognised personal floccinaucinihilipilification.

Travelled homeward, anticipating difficult complicated encounter. Father, taking every opportunity, expected return. Seeing prodigal, Father sprinted along towards offspring.

Greetings followed, gifting wayward-issue jacket, jewellery, sandals; also party! Fatted cattle rotisseried.

Father declared ‘Progeny behaved profligatorily; whereabouts became uncertain; vitality even questioned. However, presence among current company demonstrates healthiness! Merry-making until morning!’

Monosyllables Only

Son two said to his dad: ‘Give me my share of what I ought to get when you die.’ Dad gave part of his cash to this boy, who left home and broughammed [1] to a land miles hence. He spent the loot in wild ways, with drink and girls (some of whom were less than schooled), and much sin.

When the cash was all gone, lack of food struck in the land far away. The boy scraunched down and fed waste to pigs that scratched in the dirt; he longed to put some of their pods his own mouth. He had a thought that shed some light on where he had gone wrong. ‘Dad’s men (he hires them on a day-by-day deal) eat well, yet here I am with no food; I shall go and ask him to let me serve in the farm; I should not be thought of as his son.’ He squelched his way back home. 

When he was still a long way off, dad clocked him on the road, and ran to greet him, with splayed arms. He hugged him (each arms had great strengths), shrugged and called for freights – gave him a pair of shoes, put a fine coat on him and a gold ring too; and sang and danced. Had calf killed, put on spit, cooked, sliced and served, where they schnappsed, munched and then schmaltzed to good tunes with all the folk from near the farm.

‘This my son was dead and I was vexed; now he is here and he lives!’ he said with great joy.

1 Brougham (pronounced broom or brohm) refers to an C18th horse-drawn carriage. If travel by cart can be enverbed (is that a word?) carted, then, with max-length monosyllables in mind, I’ll coin broughammed. Also used for Cadillac’s Eldorado Brougham (1957-60) and Fleetwood Brougham ('65-86)