‘Yes, yes,’ he sa, agane.
gran draw herself up to her full height.
‘MR BECKWITH, WHY ARE THERE NO SOPWITHS SOSSAGES FOR MY DERE GRANDSON?’
Mr beckwith turn pale and drop upon his knees for horridges are guilty of this hideous crime. He beg for mercy and sa that he will send out specially and deliver within the hour. He even pat me on the head chiz and sa i am a dere little chap. Gran look as if she will spurn him with her foot but sweep out of the sossage dept. instead.
‘Come, nigel,’ she sa.
Dashed embarassing, wot? i only relate this incident becos lots of grans behave like this in shops also they talk loudly in the bus they seme to hav no idea of the finer feelings of brave noble skoolboys. Also most grans are strikt. You may be a blue-eyed child in the sossage dept. of horridges but once grans get you home it is a v. diffrent story i.e.
WHEN I WAS A GURL little boys always stood UP when a lady come into the room. WHEN I WAS A GURL little boys always leave wun for mr manners. WHEN I WAS A GURL little boys did not put their feet on the cushions ect.
And so it go on. It seme a little impertinent posh prose to ask how long ago it was when gran was a gurl, i.e. about 1066 but i refrane. I am, in fakt, pritty GOOD when gran is around as i have found that crime do not pay chiz. On the other hand you get super meals and, if you are lucky you can read an old copy of chatterbox about wee tim who is a wet and a weed. On the whole, however, it is pritty much like prison or skool which parents should remember when they decide to go to the s. of france and leave their offspring with gran.
‘We are too much of a handful for the older genneration,’ I muse, absent-mindedly drawing beetles on the drawing room wall. ‘We are—’
‘NIGEL WOT ARE YOU DOING? GO TO BED AT ONCE WITHOUT ANY SUPPER.’
Well, you see wot i mean, eh?
3
N. MOLESWORTH ACE REPORTER
AGGRICULTURE
CLANG-PIP, CLANG-PIP once agane it is the skool bell which sumon the fatheful of st custards also the louts oiks bullies cads wets and weeds who infest the place.
‘oh well,’ i sa litely just like bob cherry, harry wharton ect, ‘old GRIMES, the head, hav caught molesworth 2 eating his mortar board and is going to give him the swish.’
‘Cheese it, molesworth,’ sa peason, ‘that greyfriars stuff is out of date.’
i jab a compass into gillibrand. ‘OW Yaroosh Garoo,’ he splutter so it is not so out of date after all.
Wot hav this to do with traktors and aggriculture? Effort, old spud! Allow me to explane. When headmaster GRIMES come into big skool he hav a most unnatural smile upon his face which make it more dredful than before. Wot can be the meaning of this sinister event? Are we all to be kaned? i simply canot bear the thort, my dere, it is too much on a monday morning. i switch off and think of robinhood on t.v.… Sir guy of GRIMES is about to lash molesworth 2 whom he hav cobbed eating the king’s deer when sudenly an arow WING out of the wood and split the kane in two. A figure in lincoln green emerge from Sherwood forest and vault litely over the skool roller. ‘Ha, Sir guy,’ sa robin moles…
The dreme fade. Not for the ushual reason, i.e. a stuning blow on the head. i am aware that the rest of the skool is cheering, desks are banged, fingers are flicked and fotherington-tomas hav fanted. One would judge them to be pleased. Wot can it be? A half-hol? i switch on agane.
‘And the skool we shal visit,’ sa Grimes, ‘is a TRAKTOR SKOOL.’
WIZZ-Oh! That is better than Julius ceasar the silly old geezer ect. In fakt it is super and smashing. Wot can the day hold for us little chaps?
First we go to a traktor factory where all the men are puting the traktors together. SMASH, BIFF, BANG, WALLOP, AR-Um the noise is colossal just like st. custards on a wet Saturday. Conveyor belts are zooming in all directions and there is an assembly line where chaps are bunging on wheels, engins, paint ect also whistling ‘davy crocket’ and working out football pools. A modern english faktory. It engage my interest and i step up to our guide with my reporter’s notebook and fix him with a steely eye.
‘How many parts are there in a traktor?’ i rap.
‘4672,*’ he repli.
‘Gosh!’
‘And there are II½ miles of conveyor belts, we produce 230 traktors a day (approx) and a traktor come off the assembly line every 2 minits.’
‘my dere, you simply stagger me.’
‘Britain is the most heavily mechanised country in the world. It hav more traktors per acre than america or rusia.’
‘Cheers cheers cheers hurrah for st. george and boo to everbody else…’
At this moment there is a suden cry. Where is molesworth 2? A hue and cry ensue. Where can he be? At last the truth is discovered he hav climbed on the conveyor belt and an absent-minded workman is bolting him on instead of a mudguard. molesworth 2 is rescued chiz more fritened than hurt (official communique) a lucky escape for a farmer who mite have got a traktor with 4673 parts one of which was molesworth 2 it would hav been a cranky old grid.
He hav climbed on the conveyor belt and an absent-minded workman is bolting him on instead of a mudguard.
Now to the TRAKTOR skool. Wot do we see? Wizard combine harvesters, traktors, sub-soilers, ploughs and fork-lifters. Everything for the young farmer in fakt. Agane my notebook come out.
‘Why do you hav a skool for traktors?’ i grit.
‘A splendid wizard q.!’ exclame the guide. He turn to GRIMES. ‘Wot a brany, inteligent, outstanding pupil.’
‘er…Yes,’ sa GRIMES, (thinks: i hav always said molesworth would turn out well. A late-developer.)
‘We hav a skool for traktors,’ sa the guide, ‘becos it is no use for a farmer having a traktor unless he kno how to use it and how to keep it in good repare. So we trane people from all over the world how to plow, ridge, avoid soil erosion and other worthy things. The result is more of everything – wheat, beet, turnips, cabage—’
CABAGE! At the mention of the word the whole skool think of cabage and give a groan. More skool CABAGE! And full of beetles and slugs even molesworth 2 will not eat slugs.
‘CABAGE?’ sa molesworth 1, the ace reporter, ‘i supose we shall get more spinach as well?’
‘Yes, yes.’
At the very thort the skool groan agane. Wot is the use of traktors if they get more CABAGE and spinach, eh? We shall get more skool sossages next. Our guide see that he hav made a bish. ‘Who would like to drive a traktor now? Our traktor can be driven by a child of eight.’
A mighty cheer rend the air.
‘Goody goody,’ sa fotherington-tomas, jumping up and down. ‘Hullo clouds, hullo sky here i come, trusty and true, a joly farmer who plow the good rich earth, who, simple soul that he be…’
WAM! 91 boyish hands are raised aganst him, but it is too late.
‘You look a sturdy little chap,’ sa the guide to fotherington-tomas. ‘You shall drive the traktor and now i want a volunteer from the masters to ride behind.’ There is silence. ‘How about you sir?’ sa the guide to GRIMES.
‘Me? Wot me?’
‘Anybody else?’
With a cry like a hyena sigismund the mad maths master spring upon the traktor and stand behind the saddle with straws in his sparse hare, fotherington-tomas grasp the steering wheel zoom the throttle and away they go cheers cheers cheers cheers. ARUM ARA ARUM mud fly in all directions and fotherington-tomas dash into a shed. Will he make it? Out the other end, turn left, zoom through a hay stack then round in a circle.
‘Stop him stop him,’ yell the guide.
fotherington-tomas turn three more circles and make for the open country, then reverse back scattering all, heading for the mane road. Wot will his fate be? But he hit another haystack and stop chiz chiz chiz just when it was getting interesting.
‘Most stimulating,’ sa sigismund the mad maths master.
‘Goody goody,’ sa fotherington-tomas. ‘May I drive a combine now?’
Well you kno a combine it is a mighty th
ing which harvest the corn and put it into sacks you can imagine wot would hapen we should all be harvested and put into sacks too. Anyway, the guide sa something but it is not ‘yes’ it sound quite different. Conduct mark? ‘Lack of control?’ He seme quite pleased that we canot stay any longer.
‘Any free traktors?’ sa headmaster GRIMES, ‘i am very poor the skool do not pay and business in jellied eels is friteful and wot with the cost of living going up—’
Agane the answer is ‘no.’ A pity. All the same the traktor skool was wizard and a boy of 8 can drive one if he is not utterly wet like fotherington-tomas. And don’t forget that traktors hav helped to double the harvest of wheat in this country. Which is wizard if you like wheat. And i expect it is the same for CABAGES too. If you like CABAGES.
CURRENT LIVING. That is wot it is called. It is better than lat. fr. algy. geom. ect., tho, and our next visit is to an AGGRICULTURAL SHOW.
Cheers cheers zoom out of the bus and dash into a large place with a lot of cattle, sheep, implements, BEER, ice creams, fleas, straw, beetles, bottles of pepsi-cola, fat ladies and FREE LEAFLETS. In fakt it is a shambles wot with all the cows mooing and the farmers jumping about becos somerset hav won victory in the killed meat competition.
st. custards descend upon the free leaflets it is every boy for himself. But molesworth 1 hav a sterner task i.e. to report the show without fear or favour. Wot do he see, eh? Look for a joly farmer going to raspberry fair ect. but only a lot of posh chaps smoking cigars. Then sudenly—GRRHHMOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Gosh chiz! Jump six feet in the air and turn round to see an extraordinary sight. The objekt have a huge face, whiskers and long hare in fakt i mite be looking in a mirror and it is ME! We look at each other. Then i see a notice ‘ABERDEEN ANGUS FIRST PRIZE COW also mrs joyful prize for rafia work.’ Promptly i grab my notebook and lick my h.b. pencil for the interview—
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 scots-man.” 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 king’s 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 7½ 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 shining 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 ν 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 t
ake 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 indifferent 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. The 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 soss-ages he pinch all the time so i can see he is planing 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 I 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.
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