PENGUIN BOOKS
BACK IN THE JUG AGANE
Geoffrey Willans, author of Down With Skool!, How to be Topp, Whizz for Atomms and Back in the Jug Agane, was born and educated in England, and spent time not only as a tiny pupil but also as an extremely perceptive schoolmaster. After active service during the Second World War he joined the BBC as a feature writer. His writing appeared frequently in publications like Punch, Liliput and Blackwoods before his untimely death in 1958, at the age of forty-seven.
Ronald Searle was born in Cambridge in 1920 and was educated there at the Cambridge School of Art. On the outbreak of the Second World War he left his studies to serve in the Royal Engineers and in 1942 was captured by the Japanese at Singapore, then held by them for three and a half years. He is a hugely successful graphic artist and pictorial satirist. As well as his collaboration with Geoffrey Willans on the Molesworth books and his invention of St Trinians, his work has been the subject of numerous exhibitions across the world and appears in several major American and European collections. He moved to Paris in 1961 and then, in 1975, to a remote village in Haute-Provence, where he still lives.
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First published by Max Parrish and Co. Ltd 1959
Published in Penguin Books 2009
Copyright © Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle, 1959
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-193263-7
Contents
1 I MITE HAV KNOWN
The Grimes Poll
Television – Smoking – Conversation in Dorms – Rushing Down the Passage – Mob Violence
Music the Food of Luv
Pass The Sputnik, Man!
A Teacher’s World
2 HURRAH FOR EXAMMS
The molesworth/peason electronick brane – the portable roving eye – the v.h.f radio set
Ko-Eddukation at st. custard’s
Tenis anebody?
Mind my bike!
Fr. and english
Guide to Grown-ups
Molesworth Takes Over
Thro’ Horridges with Gran
3 N. MOLESWORTH, ACE REPORTER
Aggriculture
The Flying Molesman
Taking Wings
4 I AM GOING TO BE GOOD
Here We Go Agane!
The Grate Master Trap
So Far So Good
The Karackter Kup
5 COO UR GOSH!
I Luv Gurls
Gurls who stare – Hockey gurls – Tough gurls
Dansey Dansey
A Few Rools for Xmas
A Brite Future for Youth
1
I MITE HAV KNOWN
Well i mite hav expected it. The game’s up. They got me just when i thort i was safe. So here i am back at SKOOL agane for a joly term chiz chiz chiz.
St custard’s, i regret to report, hav not changed in my absence, though perhaps it may hav got worse. It is just the same as any other first day since i started my akademic hem-hem career there some few semesters ago. (It seme as if it were yesterday, my dere.) Same cobwebs, same smell of wet flannel, soap, carbolik ect poo gosh: inside the skool piano there is now a nest of mice, I cig. card, 3 katerpillers and pikture of marylyn monro pinched no doubt from the master’s comon room.
As for my merry felow students, they are still here worse luck. Just look at them — grabber who arrive in a swank-pot rolls, peason my frend who hav a face like a squished tomato, gillibrand, molesworth 2 my bro. And who is this who skip weedily up to me, eh? ‘Hullo clouds, hullo sky,’ he sa. ‘Hullo birds, hullo poetry books, hullo skool sossages, hullo molesworth 1.’ You hav guessed it is dere little basil fotheringtontomas.
Wot brethless adventures lie before these stout little chaps? (And none stouter than fatpot peason.) Wot wizard japes and priceless pranks will they get up to? Before them lie the bright future of a new term — will they accept the chalenge?
(Now read on.)
On arrival all boys stand about with hands in pokets looking utterly fed up and dejected. Finally someone speke.
‘Did you hav a good hols, molesworth?’
‘Not bad.’
(Silence.)
‘Did you have a good hols peason?’
‘Not bad.’
The dialogue is positively scintilating, my dere. Surely they canot kepe it up? There is no chance of that for the wit of these skolars is interupted by a dread sound e.g.
CLANG-PIP. CLANG-PIP. CLANG-PIP.
It is the skool bell which sumon us to asemble in big skool into which enter anon GRIMES, the headmaster surounded by a posse of thugs and strong-arm men in black gowns. The beaks, of course, alias ‘my devoted staff’. You can imagine it a few minits before.
Scene: GRIMES study. A candle is burning in a botle. A botle of GIN stand on the table. A beak is fixing an iron spike on a kane, another is fixing a knuckle-duster, a third practise with a broken botle.
GRIMES: Are they all in, Slugsy?
G. A. POSTLETHEWAITE, m.a. (leeds): Yep, they’re all in, boss.
GRIMES: o.k. then we’re ready to pull the job. You kno the plan. Slugsy, you cover me from the door. Lefty, cover my right flank. Butch, on the other side. Killer, bring up the rear. If there’s any trouble, let them hav it. That clear, Butch?
P. ST. J. NETLETON, b.a. (exeter): Wot about our cut? You still owe us for last terms jobs.
GRIMES: How can you be so sordid?
ect. ect. ect.
Now GRIMES stand on the platform, smiling horibly at the pitiable colection of oiks, snekes, cads, oafs and dirty roters below.
‘Welcome back,’ he snarl, ‘Welcom back to st. custards for a new term. I hope you had a good hols? i did myself — spane, the s. of france, then on for a couple of weeks to the italian riviera. This term, of course, the fees will be higher to meet the mounting costs.’
But this evidence of good humour is short-lived. Without warning, he bare his fangs.
Before them lie the bright future of a new term — will they accept the challenge?
‘Now listen, scum,’ he yell, ‘The last mum hav departed in tears. You are in my clutches agane and there is no escape. And its going to be this way this term. More work, inc
reased production, trades unions supresed and the first boy i hear who sa poo gosh at a skool sossage will get 6. And strikes won’t help you. If you go out the shop stewards will be flogged.’
‘Remember this,’ he leer, ‘You never had it so good.’
Well, this is just wot we expect. We hav it every term and our tiny harts sink to our boots. It will be nothing but lat. fr. arith. geom. algy. geog. ect. and with the winter coming on it would be warmer in siberia in a salt mine. Oh well — we wait for wot we kno will come next.
‘And wot,’ sa GRIMES, ‘hav we all been reading in the hols?’
Tremble tremble moan drone, i hav read nothing but red the redskin and Guide to the Pools, i hav also sat with my mouth open looking at lassie, wonder horse ect on t.v. How to escape? But i hav made a plan.
‘fotherington-tomas,’ sa GRIMES, ‘wot hav you read?’
‘Ivanhothe vicar of wakefieldwuthering heights treasure-islandvanity fairwestwardhothewaterbabies 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, 61 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. 61 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 61 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.
61 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 LUV and of no interest, but it do kepe you on the job until 10. The 61 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. 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 mink.)
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 minks 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 me
ry 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 be 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 semibreve 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 semibreves, 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.
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