‘fotherington-tomas,’ sa GRIMES, ‘wot hav you read?’
‘Ivanhothe vicar of wakefieldwuthering heights treasure-islandvanity fair west ward hothe water babies and —’
‘That is enuff. Good boy. And molesworth?’
He grin horibly.
‘What hav you read, molesworth?’
gulp gulp a rat in a trap.
‘Proust, sir.’
‘Come agane?’
‘Proust, sir. A grate fr. writer. The book in question was swan’s way.’
‘Gorblimey. Wot did you think of it, eh?’
‘The style was exquisite, sir, and the characterisation superb. The long evocative passages—’
‘SILENCE!’ thunder GRIMES. ‘There is no such book, impertinent boy. I shall hav to teach you culture the hard way. Report for the kane after prayers.’
Chiz chiz to think i hav learned all that by hart. It’s not fair they get you every way. And so our first day end when we join together singing our own skool song.
St. custard’s is brave.
SWISH.
St. custard’s is fair.
BIFF BANG WALOP.
Hurrah hurrah for st. custard’s.
SWISH SWISH SWISH.
As lashed by the beaks we join our boyish trebles in this fine old song we feel positively inspired i do not think. We are in for the joliest term on record. In fakt, i am back in the jug agane.
THE GRIMES POLL
Headmaster GRIMES lay down his mitey pen. The crossed skool nib hav ceased scratching: the watery skool ink is dry upon the ex book: candle in the bottle in his studdy gutter fitfully. ‘Finished,’ he sa. ‘Completed.’
To wot do he refer, eh? Is it to the corektions of our weedy lat prep i.e. balbum amas puellae? Could it be, perhaps, a letter to our pore parents putting up the fees? Could it be the anual statement of his whelk stall accounts? No chiz it is none of these things. It is his master work on the behaviour of boys – SECRETS OF THE BOOT ROOM by phineas GRIMES, b.a. (stoke-on-trent) to be published in the autumn by messers grabber at 30 bob.
However by courtesy of the molesworth chizzery and spy service it is now possible to reveal some of the startling fakts contaned in this huge opus.
TELEVISION
Out of 62 pupils at st. custard’s, stay up late at nite gawping at the t.v. To do this they employ unbelievable cuning saing mum, can we? ect. o pleese, mum, just till 7.30 when that grate dog who rescue people and bark like mad will be finished. mums out of 62 fall for this becos it mean a little quiet in the house (xcept for the grate dog barking, this, however, appere preferable to our boyish cries.) Wot hapen next? The grate dog is folowed by an even grater fool i.e. plunket of the yard. This is a program highly suitable for small boys as there is murder and various other CRIMES in it. The grate thing is to manage to sit gawping until the new program begin: then, when yore mum come in and sa britely ‘Time for bed, chaps’ ect, she will get wraped up in the brutal crime which go on. This take boys out of 62 until 8 p.m. when there is a quiz chiz. Pater storm in and sa ‘aren’t these boys in bed yet?’ He then kno the answer to the first q. i.e. wot is the capital of england? This set him going since he wish to give a demonstration of his prowess.
‘Any fule would kno that,’ he sa.
boys out of 62 restrane any comment on this, knoing they will get sent to bed. Pater go on saing weedy things i.e. china, of corse, edison, e.a.poe also that he ought to go in for it he would win a lot of money, mum do not restrane coment on the last point and by the time the argument is over we can hav a little peace with the play. This is about L U V and of no interest, but it do kepe you on the job until 10. The boys then get into there pajamas and come back to sa good nite. They stretch forward for loving embrace when sudenly they are turned into pilar of salt e.g. lot’s wife becos a HORSE is in terible trubble on the screen with a ruough master. 11 p.m. bed and swete dreams.
SMOKING
Enuff said. Just count the cig. ends behind the skool potting shed. It look as if the skool gardener must smoke 500 a day.
CONVERSATION IN DORMS
The news is grave. 62 boys out of 62 indulge in this forbidden practise after lights out. Moreover the conversation is not on a high level i.e. you hav a face like a squished tomato same to you with no returns ass silly ass i said it first yes i did no i didn’t. This frequently end up in BLOWS with ye olde concrete pilows. From 1 boy alone do we get GOOD CONVERSATION i think you kno to whom i refer. Oui! c’est basil fotherington- (hullo clouds, hullo sky) tomas who bore us to slepe with proust and t.s.eliot.
RUSHING DOWN THE PASSAGE
There is something about the sight of a passage which raise the worst in a boy. No sooner than he see the end of it than he wish to sa charge ta-ran-ta-rah and do so, sliding the soles off his house shoes. ½ a boy, however, do walk slowly and with corekt deportment, one hand on hip, until overtaken and troden on by the mob. And good ridance.
MOB VIOLENCE
We must do something about this: we canot hav it, you kno. In future there must be no more scrums in the gim. The honor of the skool is at stake. And the answer is easy. Organise some morris dancing and all will be well. Or not.
And wot is GRIMES conklusion, eh? Modern youth is on the way down. But he was a boy once (i supose). Can it get any lower?
MUSIC THE FOOD OF LUV
Sooner or later yore parents decide that they ought to give you a chance to hav a bash at the piano. So wot hapen, eh? They go up to GRIMES, headmaster, who is dealing in his inimitable way, my dere, with a number of problems from other parents e.g. fotherington-tomas’s vests, peasons cough drops, grabber’s gold pen and pore, pore mrs gillibrand thinks that ian (who is so sensitive) is the tiniest bit unhappy about the condukt of sigismund the mad maths master. (Who wouldn’t be? He is utterly bats and more crooked than the angle A.) Finally come the turn of those super, smashing and cultured family hem-hem the molesworths. Mum step forward britely:
Oh, mr GRIMES, she sa, we think it would be so nice for nigel and his wee bro, molesworth 2, to learn the piano this term.
(GRIMES thinks: Another mug. One born every minit.)
GRIMES: Yes, yes, mrs molesworth, i think we could manage to squeeze them in. Judging from their drawings both yore sons hav strong artistick tendencies, i see them in their later years drawing solace from bach and beethoven ect in some cloistered drawing room. It’ll cost you ten nicker and not a penny less.
PATER: (feebly) I sa—
GRIMES: Look at the wear and tear on the piano – it’s a bektenstein, you kno. Then there’s the metronome – had to have new sparking plugs last hols and the time is coming when we’ve got to hav a new pianoforte tutor.
Pater and Mater weakly agree and the old GRIMES cash register ring merily out again. It is in this way that that grate genius of the keyboard, molesworth 2, learned to pla that grate piece fairy bells chiz chiz chiz.
The first thing when you learn to pla the piano is to stare out of the window for 20 minits with yore mouth open. Then scratch yore head and carve yore name, adding it to the illustrious list already inscribed on the top of the piano. Should, however, GRIMES or any of the other beaks becom aware that there is no sound of mery musick, the pupil should pretend to be studdying the KEYBOARD in his instruktion book.
Before getting on to rimski-korsakov it is as well to kno wot you are up aganst
This is meant to teach the eager pupil the names of the notes ect. The skool piano may hav looked like that once, but toda it is very different. Before getting on to rimski-korsakov it is as well to kno wot you are up aganst. Here is the guide –
C—this one go plunk.
D—the top hav come off the note and you strike melody from something like a cheese finger.
E—sticks down when you hit it. Bring yore screwdriver to lever it up.
F—have never been the same since molesworth 2 put his chewing gum under it.
G—nothing hapen when you hit this note at all.
Do not b
e discouraged, however, show grit, courage, determination, concentrate, attend and soon you will get yoreself a piece. This will probably be called Happy Thorts and there is a strong warning at the beginning which sa Not Too Fast. Who do they think i am, eh, Stirling moss?
Scene: fort twirp, h.q. of davy croket, wyatt earp, last of the mohicans, lone ranger ect. Enter a quaver spuring his horse.
QUAVER: (quavering) Larrfffing lemonade, the Indian semi-breve is on the war path.
CROKET: Oo, gosh!
EARP: This is yore job, lone ranger, i guess.
L. RANGER: Wouldn’t want to get mixed up with all them breves and semi-breves, mr earp. To sa nothing of the crotchets and quavers. When they get mad, they get real mad. Where’s the sheriff?
(Enter Chief Larrfffing Lemonade.)
CHIEF L L.: i feel really crotchety. Guess i’ll have a half of minim…
Ect. And so it go on. But wot really hapen, when yore aged musick mistress is on the job?
‘And a one, to, three…softly, softly, molesworth, that is a pedal not a clutch…and a two, three, four…lah-dee, dah…this is a lake not an ocean…get cracking…hep, hep…sweetly, sweetly…hit the right note, rat.’
Well, musick is just another of those things. Wot i sa is. Either you have it or you haven’t. And i would rather not.
PASS THE SPUTNIK, MAN!
‘Wot is yore opinion of colin wilson, the new philosopher?’ sa fotherington-tomas, hanging by his weedy heels from the crossbar.
‘Advanced, forthright, signifficant,’ i repli, kicking off the mud from my footer boots.
‘He takes, i think, the place of t.s. eliot in speaking for the younger genneration. Have you any idea of the score?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Those rufians hav interrupted us 6 times. So one must assume half a dozen goles. If only our defence was more lively, quicker on the takle! Now as i was saing about colin wilson –’
Yes, clots, weeds, and fellow suferers, it means the good old footer season is with us and jack the shepherd is a good deal warmer when he blows his nail than we are. Birds are frozen: little children sink with a vast buble in the mud and are not heard of agane: sigismund the mad maths master don his long white woollen hem-hems. Yes, this is the time when we are driven out with whip and lash upon ye old soccer field.
Mind you, there are some who think soccer is super. These are the ones who charge, biff, tackle and slam the leather first-time into the net ect. They hav badges and hav a horible foto taken at the end of term with their arms folded and the year chalked upon the pill. This foto cost there parents 7/6 on the skool bill and i hope they think it is worth it. i would not care for grabber’s face on my walls, that’s all.
Of corse i’m no good…no, i mean it…i simply am no good…no, please, grabber, my body-swerve…well, it go in the wrong direcktion…o, i sa, no…wot a nice thing to hear about myself…if i try hard i’ll be in the seconds! And then how much further on would i be in the career of life, eh?
I speke for millions when i sa i AM NO GOOD AT SOCCER. You can, of corse, watch it from the touchline in that case. Very diffrent.
‘Pass…get it out to the wing…move in to the centre…wot are you plaing about at?…Get rid of it.’
I need hardly tell you the esential thing about a football i.e. nobody need tell me to get rid of it. i do not want it in the first place. Wot is the use of having a soaking wet piece of leather pushed at you? Give me a hadock every time, at least you can eat it.
However, where would headmaster GRIMES be without the good old game? No longer would he be able to look up from those delicious crumpets, which he eat before a roring fire and observe: ‘The third game ort to be finished in about 20 minits. Cold out there. About 50 below zero. Damn it, forgot to stoke the baths! o well, a spot of cold water did nobody any harm, eh?’
However, there is no doubt about it the honour of the old skool depend a grate deal on whether you can score more than wot i may litely call ‘the oposition’. Scoring more than the ‘oposition’ is practically imposible, but it sometimes hapen. Beware when it do becos you hav to bang yore spoon on the table, just when you want to help yourself to the jam, and yell RA, RA, RA! Well done SKOOL, SKOOL, SKOOL!
And who is it who have achieved this sukcess? None other than the games master, who hav given his life, his time, his bootlaces and his premium bonds into making the Ist XI into a well-oiled footballing machine. There are lots of diffrent kinds of games masters, but there are usually 2 types who are able to be distinguished by us weeds on the touchline e.g.
Type One: He do no not sa anything: he put his hands in his mack and watch. After about 17 minits of the first half he is heard to sa ‘O, potts-rogers’. He knock out his pipe at half-time when the team are sucking lemons and whisper: ‘good show, get on with it.’ Then he relapse into silence and, about 2 minits from time, sa ‘o god’.
The other type of games master is exactly the oposite.
‘Mind you, there are some who think soccer is super.’
Remembering his own football prime (one day we must go into the rekords of games masters, must we not?) he think he can score a gole with his own voice. Some of them can: or ort to be able to.
‘COME ON, ST. CUSTARD’S…GET INTO HIM…PASS!…MARK YORE MAN!…BLOW YORE NOSE…INTO THE CENTRE.… NO, THE CENTRE NOT THE ARTERIAL ROAD…GET IT IN!…COME ON NOW! SHOOT!…’
This is the last desparing cry. Lots of games masters have been carted awa murmuring faintly ‘Shoot!’ In 999 cases if they were aiming at gole someone missed: but ocasionaly the shot hit the mark. And it was an elfin-ray pistol with atommic atachment that do the damage.
A TEACHER’S WORLD
‘The New Year stretches before us, molesworth,’ sa fotherington-tomas, skipping weedily.
‘Wot of it?’ i sa ‘Wot of it, o weedy wet? It will be the same as any other, all geom.fr. geog ect and weedy walks on sunda.’
‘It was just – well, have you ever thort of becoming a skoolmaster when you grow up?’
Curses! Curses! That i should live to see the day when these things were spoken!
‘Sa that agane,’ i grit, ‘and i will conk you on the head and/or thoroughly bash you up.’
‘Do not,’ he sa, ‘get into a bate, i was only trying to help. A skoolmaster is better than a fashion designer. Besides, you hav all the qualifications.’
‘Hav i?’ i sa, in spite of myself. ‘How super, fotherington-tomas. Tell me about them, go on o you mite.’
‘You are qualified,’ sa fotherington-tomas, ‘becos you can frankly never pass an exam and have o branes. Obviously you will be a skoolmaster – there is no other choice.’
Enraged i buzz a conker at him. It miss and strike the skool dog wandsworth who zoom across the footer field at mach. I and trip the reff cheers cheers.
As it hapen this witty conversation take place during the 2nd XI footer match ν porridge court. There comes a warning shout from the spektators. fotherington-tomas skip back weedily into gole and i remane where i am, a bleeding hart on the left wing.
All the same the conversation have me worried and affekt my game. (See report)
‘For the rest of the match molesworth 1 was not in the smashing form which have earned him the soobriquet of the “Dribbling Wizard” He was not fastening on to his passes.’ (m. thinks: you mean when someone hack a huge muddy ball in my direction? Wot a pass.) ‘The opposition had him at sea.’ (m. thinks: it’s amateurs still at prep skool, isn’t it? Or are porridge court buying players?) ‘Where was that body swerve? That familiar jink?’ (m. thinks: Gone, my dear. Absolument disparu like mother’s mink.)
And so it is the old story. The better team won, ha-ha. All clap each other on the back and hug each other. ‘Where are your lovely flowers, molesworth, which porridge court spartak hav given you?’ ‘i hav thrown them to ye olde matronne before disappearing into the dressing room.’ Well you kno wot go on in there. WAM BIFF SOCKO ZOOSH. CRASH. BASH. Headmaster GRIMES emerge smiling
. ‘A little disappointing but we must learn to swallow defeat.’
‘Of corse,’ sa mater. ‘How are nigel’s spots?’
‘Hav he got spots? gosh chiz i haven’t had measles yet myself, i must get awa from this.’
‘i was a little surprised to find him playing, nigel is so delikate, so thin, so nervy, so tense, so neurotick (strike out the word which do not apply), i felt that he mite perhaps hav been in bed ect.…’
And so it go on at football matches. But, as that nite i lie awake on my downy couch hem-hem in the PINK DORM the conversation come back to me as it was a nightmare. Me a Skoolmaster! Me a BEAK! Me an Usher! Wot an idea – and yet look around you. There are so many of them that it is obviously a fate which is difficult to avoid.
My head nods the tired brane drowses. i slip i slide (peotry THE BROOK) into merciful oblivion. Soon the dorm resound with a steady note plaster falls off the ceiling, the paint blisters pop. My snores join the others but there is no rest i am shaken by a terible NIGHTMARE.
i am sitting at the master’s desk looking with horor at a see of faces, fat ones, thin ones, contorted, spotty, green, and black ones, there is no doubt of whose they are – it is 3B.
And who is that horid creature dodging behind gillibrand and trying to conceal the fact that he is chewing buble gum? It is me, molesworth 1 chiz chiz chiz. i am teaching myself!
‘Boy!’ i rasp, in a voice i can scarcely recognise it is hoarse and thick with pasion. ‘Boy, stand up. Wot is yore name?’
‘molesworth I, sir.’
‘That is very interesting, molesworth very interesting indeed. Can it be, however, that you are having some difikulty in enunciating? i thort there was some slight suspicion of er congestion in the mouth? Some er impediment of the speech?’
‘N—no, sir. Nnnnnnn—no, sir.’
‘BOY HOW DARE YOU?’
My face is red as a tomato i shake with rage my eyes are those of a MANIAK. Like any other master i hav forgotten that i was ever a boy i hav forgoten brave noble fearless youth cheers cheers. My hand go back like a flash and i buzz the red chalk striking the victim on the nose. The rest of the klass titter they are sicophants and toadies i diskard them.
Molesworth Page 19
