Back in the Jug Agane

by Geoffrey Willans

  To this she gives various replies i.e.

  (a)go for a walk.

  (b)pla with your toys.

  (c)watch t.v. childrens hour ect.

  none of these are acceptable to me so in the end she make a sugestion so rude hem-hem i canot print it here. It is thus i find myself locked in the atick until teatime chiz chiz chiz, and find gran’s old book called chaterbox 1896. There is o to do so i turn its weedy pages and read the story of wee tim:

  ‘wee tim is riding in his grandpater’s cariage as staunch and sturdy a litle felow as ever you would wish to see. Sudenly he see an old lady who is carying a heavy basket and he clutch his grandpater’s knee. ‘Granpa granpa,’ he sa, ‘can we not let this pore old lady ride in our cariage, eh? She is so weak and frale.’ Wot a good kind thort! His fierce grandpa sa ‘O.K. tim even though i am an earl let us take her for a ride…’

  (molesworth thinks: this is where the story get craking. Now wee tim will hit her with a COSH and pinch wot is in the basket while boris the foul coachman look on with a cruel grin. But no!)

  ‘Will you ride with us, old lady?’ sa tim and wot a pikture he looked with his long golden curls! ‘Thank you young sir,’ she sa. ‘But i canot ride in the carriage of an earl.’ ‘He is a good earl,’ sa tim, ‘even though he look like that.’ ‘And i,’ she sa, ‘am really a rich old lady and becos you hav been good and gentle i will leave you my fortune when i die…’

  Coo ur gosh i mean to sa if that is wot you get for being good it is worth it it is easier than the pools. I look back on my condukt in the hols. Hav it been all it should be?

  scene: the molesworth brekfast table.

  ME: gosh chiz kippers again this is worse than skool.

  FATHEFUL NAN: get on, nigel, you are ungrateful. The pore boys would be glad to have nice kippers for brekfast.

  MOLESWORTH 2: Yar boo and sucks molesworth 1 hav a face like a flea.

  ME: Et tu, weed, thrice over and no returns.

  (A kipper fly through the air).

  FATHEFUL NAN: NO little gentleman thro kippers, nigel.

  MOLESWORTH 1: Then i will thro korn flakes instead. Ha ha ha witty boy ha ha ha ect.…

  Aktually it is not me it is a weed called Shelley.

  i blush with shame at the memory of this unsavoury incident and let’s face it, my dears, it was only one of many. Would wee tim hav thrown a kipper at molesworth 2? Would he hav been cheeky to fatheful nan? I doubt it very much. He would hav given his kipper to the pore boys… O woe i am a weed chiz! Next term i will alter my ways. Already i can pikture the scene at st. custard’s:

  a thortful figure is walking among the dead beetles crushed biskuits and old buns which litter the skool passage. He is reading a peotry book.

  MOLESWORTH 1: The asyrian came down like a wolf on the fold ect.… Wot a luvley poem! To think that even a term ago i drew tadpoles all over it and wrote ‘turn to page 103 if my name ect!’ How can i hav done such a thing? The asyrian came down…

  At this moment a huge mob of cads, snekes, oiks, tuoughs, oafs and skool dogs charge ta-ran-ta-rah like the light brigade all covered with marmalade in my direction.

  MOLESWORTH 1: Silence! (There is a hush.) Boys, this is foul condukt. You are ragging in the passage an offence under section 88888/b/107 of the skool rules. Go back to yore desks and be good in future. (They slink awa with bowed heads.)

  GRIMES the headmaster hav been silently observing this good DEED and he pat me on the head make me head of the skool instead of grabber and give me mrs joyful prize for rafia work.

  But, you kno, wot will really hapen? It will be quite different i am afraid and will go like this.

  Scene: The klassroom. Enter master for lat. lesson, molesworth 1 hav all his books out, pencils sharp, AND BUNGY at the ready.

  ME: Good morning, dere sir. i hope you slept well?

  BEAK: (thinks) A trap! (He aim a vicious blow) Take that, you dolt. Do you think you can rag me, the scurge of the skool?

  ME: i forgive you, sir. You look pale you hav drunk BEER last night. May i get you a pil?

  BEAK: Stand on yore chair, molesworth. Any more and you will get 6!

  ME: DO not open that desk, sir, it is full of old cucumbers put there by i kno not whom.

  BEAK: Enuff! Wate for me outside.

  (A vale is drawn over the foul proceedings.)

  Am i rite in this foul proffecy? Shall it alter my determination to be like wee tim? Shall i shake in my resolution? onley time will revele all – wate fellow-weeds, with baited breath, and you mite catch a wopper, ha ha.

  THE GRATE MASTER TRAP

  Hay ho! Hullo birds! Hullo clouds! Hullo, skool dog! Hullo, sirup of figgs! Hullo, potts and pilcher fr. primer!

  Who is this who skip weedily along the skool passage and out towards the den of ye olde skoole pigge? One would really hav thort it was fotherington-tomas so gay is he, so lite-harted. There, dere reader, you make a big mistake as c. dickens (auther of d. Coperfield the book of the film) would sa. No, dere, gentle reader who may chance to con these pages with so much sympathy ect, you make one helluva big mistake. You are way, way out, coyottes. It is i, n. moles-worth, the ex-curse of st. custards, who skip weedily, who cry hay-ho, hay-ho ect. And wot hav i been doing, eh?

  FLASHBACK! 2 minits ago.

  N. MOLESWORTH: Matronne, i have brought you this pressed leaf. May i do yore flowers?

  MATRONNE: (reaching for her gat) Scram, scruff! Or i will do you!

  N. MOLESWORTH: i forgive you, matronne, for those uncouth words. A still tongue in a wise head.

  MATRONNE: Git!

  N. MOLESWORTH: i will, indeed. A rolling stone gathers no moss. Likewise, procrastination is the thief of time.

  MATRONNE: YAR!

  N. MOLESWORTH: As you plese. An empty barrel makes the most noise.

  (exit with a courteous bow.)

  It is a strange, lonely world when you are GOOD. Is it my fault that i hav been practising my handwriting in the copy books? Now i kno wot pore, pore basil fotherington-tomas, that wet and weed, hav gone through. People seme to avoid me – no friendly hale of darts and inkpots comes my way. Even molesworth 2 refuses my buble-gum and masters pat me on the head.

  YET i MUST KEPE TO MY CHOSEN ROAD.

  But, soft, wot is this? It is peason, my grate frend, who worketh upon some strange contraption near the pigge den. Wot mischief can he be up to?

  ‘Hullo, peason,’ i sa. ‘The devil finds work for idle hands. Wot is that?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he repli.

  ‘if’t be nothing, yet ’tis something, for nothing is not but wot something semes (shakespere)’ i riposte, litely. ‘Yet if’t be something—’ He buzz a brick at me. No matter, i try agane.

  ‘Go on, peason, you mite tell me go on, o you mite the same to you and no returns.’

  ‘you would not be interested,’ he grate, turning a nut with his spaner. ‘Nowadays you are a weed, a wet and uterly wormlike. Gone are the days when we invented the moles-worth/peason lines machine together.’

  ‘It hav a good streme-line effect and neat basket work. i like the way the electronick brane give easy control and at the same time there is wide vision and plenty of lugage space. Good points are—’

  He buzz another brick and, sorowfully, i depart. Ah me, where is there to go? Who else luv me but my old frende the skool pigge, who hav never let me down? Hurrah, hurrah, he leap to greet me and place his piggy paws on the sty wall. He take my buble-gum graciously and lick my hand. i recite a poem i hav written e.g.

  O pigge? you are so beautiful!

  I luv yore snouty nose!

  ect.

  n.b. pigs are the cleanest animals in the world, although i sometimes think there are exceptions.

  And so, refreshed and strengthened, i return once agane into the wicked world of st. custard’s where peason is still at work. Wot can it be?

  It is a strange, lonely world

  when you are GOOD.

  Is it:

  An atom
mic fast-bowling machine?

  An automatick golekeeper?

  A loudeker for calling ‘Fire!’ in the middle of maths lessons?

  A measles-rash injector?

  Curiosity overcome me and i return.

  ‘No honestly, peason, word of honour cross my hart ringers uncrossed and pax tell me, rat, wot it is or i will uterly tuough you up.’

  ‘That is better, clot. Now i will tell you – it is a MASTER TRAP.’

  Hurrah! Hurrah! A trap for beaks! Wot a wizard wheeze! Gosh, absolutely super and smashing! Good show! Charge ta-ran-ta-rah! Dozens of masters – lat. masters fr. geom. algy. div masters all caught and eliminated. And it work for mistresses, too! But chiz wot am i saing? For a moment i thort the world mite be safe in future for children – i must be careful.

  ‘Kindly explane,’ i sa, a triffel stiffly (but not enuff to make him withdraw into the silence usuhually so alien to him).

  He tell me all. There is a bait of lat. books. Attracted iresistibly the beak creep stealthily in through the door and before he can get to ex.1. the trap hav closed. A see-saw tip him into a cold bath and an endless belt take him to a third chamber where he get six from the automatick caning machine.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ i sa, excitedly. ‘Wot then! Wot devilish fate waits for them then?’

  ‘They die sloly on a diet of skool food!’

  ‘Gosh, yes! Or you mite hang a skool sossage eternally out of reach.’

  ‘That would be no punishment, oaf. And you are lucky, i am going to make my first experiment with YOU!’

  Too la i see the plot, chiz! A dozen hands with beetles and earwigs drawn on them scrag me. The leader is grabber, the tete de la skool. ‘Make haste slowly,’ i yell. ‘Too many cooks spoil the broth; Help; Rescue.’ But whereas in the old days fifty trusty boys would hav leaped from the thickets at the sound — today none come. None at all. And robin hood had better take note of it. i am pushed towards the infernal trap and my DOOM IS SEALED.

  But wot is this? My trusty frende the skool pigge hav got there first. Before they can stop him he is inside: he eat the lat. books: enjoy the bath, the caning machine tickle him litely, he wolf the skool food and with one heave of his mitey flanks he knock the whole machine for SIX! Cheers, cheers, cheers i am saved. But wot a narow shave, eh? That nite i rite carefully in my dere copy book

  Virtue is its own reward

  ‘You’re so right,’ sa fotherington-tomas. ‘So true, so true! Hullo, clouds! Hullo sky!’

  This all needs a lot of thort.

  ‘I hear you’re rustlin’ raffia work, pardner.

  SO FAR SO GOOD

  It is evening after prep at st. custard’s. The curtanes hav been drawn, the gas lites are popping merrily and the crow hav long since gone to its nest, tho where else it could go to i do not kno. In every nook and crany, knee-deep in blotch pelets, bits of bungy, old lines and pages of deten the gay little chaps enjoy there freedom. Some toste sossages over the gas mantle, others, more adventurous, swing upside down on the chandeleres. The air echo with cries of pax, unpax, fains, roter, shutup, and the same to you with no returns. WOW-EEEEEE sa molesworth 2 zooming past as a jet bomber.

  But who is this quiet student who reads The book of berds and there eggs, eh? It is me, molesworth I believe it or not, for i hav determined to be GOOD and it is easy pappy and absolutely o to it at all. E.g. soon i put down my book, mark the place with an old pressed leaf, put it in my tidy desk and make my way quietly to the study of GRIMES the headmaster. Knock tap tap tap!

  Wot is it, molesworth? sa GRIMES, looking up from his pools.

  i hav been reading a most interesting book, sir. It is called berds and there eggs. Take the jackdaw, sir. It frequents parks, old buildings and often perform aerial acrobaticks. It hav a propensity for hiding food and other objects. Eggs ushually 4 to 6.

  yes, yes, molesworth, indeed? Thank you for the information. Now—

  Sometimes, however, sir, only 2 eggs are to be found. The linet, on the other hand – shall i tell you about the linet?

  Some other time, molesworth. i am very busy now. times are hard how about 5 bob till tuesday?

  (Thinks: it is worth a try. A mug is horn every minit.)

  Here is a pound, sir, i sa, o forget yore gratitude it would be a pore hart who did not aid an old frend in distress. It is a gift. If you want any good deed done agane just let me kno.

  (GRIMES thinks: stone the crows who would hav thort it? A hem-hem plaster saint. No need to take out the old whelk stall this week now.)

  And so it go on. That is just one example. Another thing i hav become a swot and a brane. I am top in lat, hist, algy, geom, div. ect.

  Brave, proud and fearless molesworth i can face the world safe in the knoledge that SWOTING ALWAYS PAYS.

  Scene: a t.v. studio, poorly furnished, a table with three legs, lit by a candle in a botle. An interviewer in rags come forward.

  INTERVIEWER: This is the 960 million quid programme. Who is the next contestant wot subjeckt do you choose?

  ST. M. it is i. wigan, lanes. i certainly do. i would. me and the wife will certainly hope to. History.

  INTERVIEWER: Half a mo. Wate for me to ask the q’s. Who burned the cakes?

  ST. M. Who pinched the cakes, you mean, molesworth 2, of corse.

  INTERVIEWER: You hav won 6000 quid would you car to go for the jakpot? Go into the box can you hear me ect. Now for 960 quid wot berd frequents parks, does aerial acrobaticks, hides food and usually lay 4 to 6 eggs, eh?

  ST. M. The – um – o gosh it’s ur-er choke gosh garble.

  INTERVIEWER: i’m sorry, i’m very sorry. i’m very sorry indeed. The answer was — A JACKDAW!

  (Exit st. m. blubbing on the arm of a beautiful GURL.)

  Well, there you are. Being GOOD is pappay. Try it. Try it toda. Try it brighter, try it whiter, try it with or without a hole in the family size. But wot is this? As i walk upon my pious way i come upon a MASTER who bendeth over. He is a sitting target. Wot a chance! With foot drawn back molesworth bare his fangs. Will he sukumb to temptation?

  (see another daring, palpittating instalment in our next issue.)

  THE KARACKTER KUP

  ‘Boys,’ sa GRIMES, the headmaster, smiling horibly, ‘the time have come to present the scrimgeour kup for good karackter. This is never an easy kup to award’ (of course not, it is ushually at the pornbrokers) becos there must be no doubt either in my mind or those of the staff’ — he give an even more horible smile at the thugs seated around — ‘that the winner is WORTHY of this supreme honor. The choice hav to be a most careful one ect.’

  Aktually i do not see the dificulty. If you look at the 56 gallant little pupils of st. custards, each with his own peculiar ways, it is easy, pappy to devise a SYSTEM. You simply get rid of them in this way i.e. there are: 5 squits, 9 snekes, 19 cribbers, 2 maniaks, 3 bookmakers, 4 swots, 11 cig. smokers. Total 53.

  Chiz this leaves only one pupil to whom the kup can posibly be awarded. Well, you kno, i mean to sa, i hav been joly GOOD lately and sucking up to the beaks. Obviously this fakt hav been noted. GRIMES continue:

  ‘The boy who win this kup must be noble, upright, brave, fearless, intreppid and honnest. He must not have been afrade to stick up for wot he kno to be right. He must protekt the weak. He must luv the highest when he see it.’

  Oh come on, gosh chiz this is going a bit far. i blush to the roots.

  ‘Every boy at st custard’s,’ continue GRIMES, ‘must search himself to see if he comes up to these high standards and if he do not the pot is not his. Hav he been a help to the masters?’

  Well, that one is easy. Look wot hapened only yesterday.

  Scene: Klassroom of 3B, early dawn. A pupil stands on guard with a sten gun, the rest snore at their desks. Outside a burd sings sweetly.

  A beak drags himself in to his desk.

  BEAK: Gosh blime, i feel terible.

  MOLESWORTH: Pore sir, you have missed brekfast. Let me get you some skool fish or a nice runny
egg.

  (Takt, but the beak do not seme to fancy my sugestion. He shudereth and groweth pale.)

  BEAK: Ugh. Wot lesson is it? I thort you was all due for woodwork in the carpentry shed. You can go along there if you like.

  MOLESWORTH: Oh, no, sir. We prefer to stay with you and do our peotry.

  BEAK: i was afraid of it. Gillibrand, say yore prep.

  GILLIBRAND: Who, sir, wot me, sir.

  BEAK: Wot was the name of the famous peom of which you were required to learn 24 lines?

  The boy who win this kup must be noble, upright, brave, fearless, intrepid and honnest.

  GILLIBRAND: Search me, sir.

  BEAK: (some of his old fire reviving) i do not wish to search you, gillibrand, i mite be appaled at wot i should find.

  (Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha from all, gillibrand struggle to his feet, his mouth open like a fish, he stare, he stammer, he scratcheth his head and the ushual shower of beetles fall out.)

  You seme nonplussed, gillibrand. Can it be that you were drawing H-bombs during prep? TAKE A DETEN. Now which of you scum can sa the peom?

  MOLESWORTH: (flipping his fingers like bulet shots, dancing on the points of his tiny toes.) Oh, gosh, sir. Please, sir. Gosh, sir, can i, sir?

  BEAK: Ah, molesworth. i had not thort of you heretofor as one keen on the arts. Let us see. Sa prep.

  (molesworth stand to attention, fingers in line with the seam of his trousis, eyes straight ahead.)

  MOLESWORTH: ‘THE SAND OF DEE BY C. KINGSLEY.’

  O Mary, go and call the catle home.

  And call the catle home.

  And call the catle home,

  Across the sands o’ dee.

  The western wind was wild—

  BEAK: (hastily) That’s enuff, molesworth. v.g.v.g., indeed.

  MOLESWORTH: – and dank wi fome,

  And all alone went she.

  The creeping tide came up along the sand,

  and o’er and o’er—

  BEAK: well done molesworth joly good ten out often you can stop now.