Molesworth Page 14
Bad luck aktually getting cobbed but such is the fate of all pioneers. Now to the business of the meeting. HEADMASTER look stern. Tremble tremble quake quake. Wot can it be? Air is blak with sins rising before boys eyes.
SILENCE
‘St. custards,’ sa HEADMASTER, ‘hav always prided itself upon its long tradition of
We are all proud of that, i and the staff (he gives a contemptuous look over his shoulder at the sheepish colection of branes and louts behind him) hav laboured long and hard to preserve it. We have done our best to discourage
Of corse this is only the beginning. It is not for this that we hav been sumoned. These fine phrases are like when molesworth 2 pla fairy bells on skool piano – it take a minit or two before it sound like an H-bomb.
HEADMASTER continue
‘Some boy,’ he sa. (This is it. Always is when a headmaster sa ‘Some boy’) ‘Last night – or in the early hours of this morning – some boy broke out of his dormitory and
O woe tremble tremble agane. Who can hav been so beastley? Wot cad could hav sunk so low? At first there is a feeling of exquisite relief that it wasn’t that little business of dougnuts in the deaf master’s mortar board in which you were hem-hem involved. Then you look about at the little cherub feces for the criminal. Who look guilty? ALL of them, which do not get anyone very far.
And the HEADMASTER? His eyeballs pop out his hair stands on end and the fur on his gown emit electric sparks. His face is purple and his hands twitch convulsively. One would judge him to be angry.
‘Some boy,’ he sa agane, ‘is guilty. Let him own up now before the whole skool. Let him admit his guilt. Let him step before his judges.’
Silence
‘Come on!’ he roar. ‘Oo dunnit, eh?’
Silence
There you hav the weakness of his case. The clot hav not got an earthly – i mean, well, lets face it he simply doesn’t kno. One should really feel sorry for him. He – well, every boy kno wot is coming next.
IF THE BOY DOES NOT OWN UP THE WHOLE SKOOL WILL BE KEPT IN.
It is not always like that sometimes it is the whole skool given six or fifty lines or made to go to bed at six. But it is always the same principle – the Inocent punished on acount of the Guilty in contravention of paragraphs 2 and 3, Sixth Schedule of Standing Orders on British demoracracy. As any fule kno it is therein stated clearly that a guilty party must be arraigned therto and evidence therunto duly and properly brought hem-hem. Any boy kno that and give us 5 minits alone and this is wot would hapen –
Come on grab him by the neck scrag him give him a chinese burn beat him up. Tung Fifth dynasty? You surprise me
DET. INSPECTR THE HON NIGEL MOLESWORTH: Now you kno the rule in cases like this the smallest tick hav to own up. What an exquisite vase Lord Weevil. Is it ming?
A VOICE: Wot hav that got to do with it?
DET. INSPECTR THE HON NIGEL MOLESWORTH: Detectives are very cultured. Come on grab him by the neck scrag him give him a chinese burn beat him up and let him hav it. Tung Fifth dynasty? You surprise me. i would not hav thort that tint of eggshell blue – no matter, tie his hands behind the chair. Now, scum, are you going to own up?
No, o no i am inocent.
O.K. Work him over, butch. Headmasters do not care who is inocent, they only want someone to confess. You will only get 6 with the kane – why hav it both ways? And do not bleed on this rich aubusson carpet which lie upon the floor of Big skool etc.
In the end the victim confess and once agane British justice is served cheers cheers cheers.
Aktually in some cases there is no need for these extreme measures. When the headmaster sa he want to see the boy outside who hav been pinching the raspberries the whole Skool surge to the exits trampling all before them in the rush. But, i ask you, wot petty trifles headmasters get worked up about, eh? A few raspberries, a paltry pair of socks in a drane pipe, tadpoles in the tea – you would think such trivial affairs were beneath their notice it show how mentally undeveloped skoolmasters are.
At this moment HEADMASTER glare round.
‘Well, the culprit hav had the good sense to confess. If this horid crime is comited agane he will not get off so litely ect. . . . .’
As he go out deaf master take off his mortar board and 12 doughnuts fall out.
‘SOME BOY . . . . .!’
SIX-GUN MOLESWORTH
Peace broods over st. custards, that cloistered seat of learning hem-hem. Grabber the head boy – brave, noble, fearless true as all head boys are is smoking a furtive cig in the lib as he reads about Jane. Other seniors lie at ease reading the works of c. dickens and sir w. scott which would be a chiz if they were only covers to conceal RUDE BOOKS within. In his study the headmaster gravely peruses SPACE ACE: a boy reaches for the bell to order tea. . . . .
Hopo! Hopo! Hookahey!
Bang!
Ya-hay. Ya-hay.
Crack! ‘You’re dead i shot you you’ve got to lie down maplethorpe no you didn’t yes i did. . . . .’
‘Injuns!’ gasps grabber, reaching for his Winchester. ‘Get the wagons in a circle, corral the ponies. . . . .’
A senior stirs languidly.
‘It’s only molesworth 2 and fotherington-Tomas plaing with the new bugs. Calm yourself, clot.’
Grabber flushes at his mistake. No one speke but they kno that only a few years ago he also was plaing cowboys. They kno that they were plaing cowboys themselves and they flinch at the recolection. Are such games worthy of the new weedy generation who are to blaze a trail of fearless adventure in the new age?
Inspired, i spring to my feet.
‘Chaps, felows, custardians i am dashed if this is good enuff. Are we not meant to be folowing the footsteps of drake, howard effingham and other good men who are sleeping tha’ below? Are we not suposed to be making a beter world? This low, vulgar game of cowboys and injuns – beg pardon, indians – ort to be stoped for it teaches the tinies ideas of violence. Shall i therefore tuough them up?’
‘Do that thing,’ sa grabber. ‘Knock their heads together squish their ears and hack their young shins until they stop.’
It is a mision after my own heart. i spring to the saddle and joris and he etc i zoom he zooms we zoom all three out into the shrubery where i am greeted with a horid sight e.g. molesworth 2 wraped in a blanket.
‘How,’ he sa.
‘Wot do you mean “how”? it is uterly wet to sa “how” you mite as well sa “when” or “where”.’
‘How.’
‘Look molesworth 2 you mite as well listen becos i shall be a prefect next term.’
‘How.’
‘A box of cigars to the headmaster 20 players to the masters, 5/- to the matron, bone to the skool dog and a box of chox for the maids. That is how.’
‘How.’
i am about to bash him when the situation is saved by 16 new bugs who arive saing bang bang and charging round.
The weediest one stroll up and say, ‘Howdy, stranger?’
To me!!! The gorila of 3B. My veins stand out like whipcords my fists clench and unclench.
‘This game,’ i snap, ‘must cease. Cowboys are weeds and wetstruck.’
‘You’re a kinda crazy galoot, pard,’ sa the new bug. ‘Heck, we’ll drill you fuller of holes than a seive. Take my advice stranger and git – git outa town – git.’
The poor pipsqueak must be bats. No other explanation can be possible. Quite mad and so young.
‘Tell us why you don’t like cowboys,’ come the chorus. ‘Tell us why you do not like them.’
‘How!’ sa molesworth 2.
‘That’s enuff,’ i sa. ‘i shall go bats also, i do not like cowboys for one reason. When the posse chase the hero he always go up a side turning and they always charge past. That is uterly wet. Q.E.D.’
My veins stand out like whipcords
‘Pla with us,’ chorus the new bugs. ‘Go on molesworth 1 pla with us o you mite. Show us how it is done.’
They dance round
me weedily like little gurlies all the same they touch my hart poor weak fule that i am.
O.K.,’ i sa, ‘bags be a cowboy. . . . .’
10 mins 20 secs. later
‘Wot is yon object with a face like a squished turnip which approaches?’
‘i kinda figger its tarzan of the apes. Or mabbe there’s a resemblance to Vora king of space. Wot does big chief Blue Nose think?’
molesworth 2 give another grunt.
‘How?’ he sa.
‘Pardners i guess it’s grabber.’
‘Yep it’s grabber O.K.’
Tremble tremble moan drone grabber approche looking tuough. ‘Look here ticks there’s a jolly sight too much din you will even wake the headmaster which takes a bit of doing at this hour. Wot are you doing, eh?’ He see me and his jaw drop. ‘You molesworth, a senior, plaing cowboys?’
‘Yep, stranger, and he’s plenty light on the trigger too’
‘Yep, stranger, and he’s plenty light on the trigger too,’ sa mapplebeck the new bug. ‘Git and skit while the going’s good.’
grabber fante dead away at such neck. When he come to he find himself by molesworth 2’s wigwam where a huge pot of radio malt is slowly cooking at the fire. Beyond it a delicious meal of dried braces and stewed prunes.
‘Who are you?’ gasp grabber.
‘How,’ come the chorus.
‘How indeed can an apparition so friteful with a blue nose and a smelly old blanket hav come to pass? Wot is it?’
‘How.’
‘This will drive you crazy, pard,’ i sa. ‘Join our merry game we are having a supersonic time. . . . .”
5 mins 6 secs. later
‘Cave, chaps! Here comes the head. You’ve woken him up from his hog-snoring.’
Headmaster it is indeed with the skool coyote scampering at his heels and barking. Headmaster is in good bate and chat with the matron about gillibrand’s vests hem-hem so he is glad to change the subject when the new bug with specs jump out at him.
‘Stick ’em up,’ he sa. ‘Pronto. And that goes for your squaw too.’
‘A game of cowboys,’ sa the headmaster. ‘An excellent game to develop quick thinking. I trust however that when the hero turns to the right the posse do not galop past? You see it is obviously quite simple – ‘
‘Sir sir sir pla with us sir. Sir pla with us . . . . .’
20000 years later
As i said before, the human race hav progressed so much that they hav only tiny legs and the rest of it look like an egg. they hav so many branes. It is afternoon at the Institute Custardhuss. Sudenly a shout rends the air: ‘Tha he goes git after him.’ One egg is hotly pursued by sixteen other eggs . . . . . the first egg pulls up a sidetrack to the right and the other eggs go thundering by . . . . .
There is a lesson in this and wot it is i am sure molesworth 2 can tell us. He ponder for several hours and at last give his verdict.
‘How.’
MORE CULTURE AND A CLEANER BRANE
Now it can be told. The story of our pioneer inventors early struggles. . . . .
‘I think, peason,’ sa prof, molesworth, gravely. ‘That we may now conect the cyclotron to the reactor. We shall then be ready for the plutonium – ”
‘You mean???????’
‘i do not kno wot i mean, o measly weed. But if all do not go well, i would not give 2d for st. custards chances in the local skools charity league next season.’
Above them tower the huge atommic PILE which they hav constructed in the MUSICK room. There are 10 bombs – a litle one which trigger off a bigger one, which trigger off the next one until you get to the last which is super coolossal.
‘Well?’ sa prof, molesworth. ‘You seme thortful?’
‘It is just that it appere to be going to a lot of trubble just to heat the gym.’
CAVE! CAVE MOLESWORTH CAVE!
The warning cry come just in time, HEADMASTER GRIMES puts his hoary head round the door. He beam at the two keen little chaps who are now sitting together at ye olde skool piano plaing a super duet.
‘Bravo,’ he yell above the din. ‘Keep it going, hep-cats, get in the groove. If that is the Flite of the Bumble BEE it must be the biggest bee in the world, in space. It sound more like a comet iv at full boost. It is louder than when molesworth 2 pla Fairy Bells.
‘There are 2 of us at it,’ shout prof, molesworth. ‘Why not join us, sir, on drums?’
‘No, no. Can you lend me a tanner till tuesday?’
GRIMES catch the coin in his mortar board with the skill of long practice and withdraw. Out in the passage he rub his hands. ‘Peason and molesworth are at last settling down to a sense of responsibility,’ he sa. ‘st. custard’s will hav cause to remember them.’
He pick up his banjo and move to the next pitch outside 3B where he strum swannee river with one hand and ratle the bones with the other. Molesworth and peason return to the ‘Young Students Chemistry Set’ which gran hav given molesworth for Xmas . . . . . . . . . .
‘Wot are you doing, molesworth, go on tell me o you mite.’
It is fotherington-tomas who intrude this time skipping weedily he is utterly wet. And is he to be trusted? Hav he been cleared for security, eh?
‘It is the Peason-molesworth Atommic Pile fitted with radio and plug for electric razor.’
‘Goody goody,’ sa fotherington-Tomas. ‘Will it cost a grate deal to get a shave?’
‘About three trillion pounds.’
‘A new era for the world,’ sa fotherington-Tomas. Then he begin to blub. ‘Science is not everything. There is culture as well.’
‘Come agane?’
‘In a mechanised age the things of the spirit are more important than ever. Consider shapespeare, c. dickens, c. kingsley, sir w. scott and others. And wot of christopfer robin, eh?’
His words set up a chain reaction and the skool piano and chemistry set blow up. Only the Peason-Molesworth Atommic Pile seme unaffected tho we use the metronome as a geiger counter. . . . .
That was how it began. That nite in the Pink Dorm i hav DOUBTS. It is the same old q. for a scientist. Should he make his knoledge avalable to everyone? It do not mater one jot in my case becos with my knoledge they would all still be where they were before. And wot about all these books which we hav in eng.? Wot of all those q’s in the exams e.g.
Should he make his knoledge avalable to everyone?
Sa wot you kno of silas marner, queeg, jack the ripper, perseus and mrs do-as-you-would-be-don-by. Writing and neatness will be taken into consideration.
Answer:
A grate thort strike me:
ALL BOOKS WHICH BOYS HAV TO READ ARE WRONG
How dare you, molesworth. You are idle, inattentive, slovenly, stupid, irascible, hopeless and hav o branes. Also you hav drawn beetles all over m. dubois in the fr. book and hav given armand a moustache.
How dare you?
i can see wot will be the answer to my grate thort but i hav my defence.
Take the first book in my little selection this week e.g. O. Twist featuring in the old Curiosity Shoppe introducing douglas fairbanks jr. as fagin. Book and lyrics by grabber 1. From an idea by c. dickens.
You remember how it go? Where is my book bag? Ah, here it is. O. Twist feel that he hav not had enuff skool sossages ect. and ask Mr bumble the beedle for more i.e. he make the message quite clear and sa Please, sir, can i hav some more. Mr bumble is so surprised anyone could want any more he fall into a rage and O. twist get his chips. Now wot would hapen toda?
TWIST: Another sossage, fatty.
BEEDLE: Eh, wot. You hav had yore allocation as presribed in the skool leaving act A/cD/roL.
TWIST: Come on come on. This is the welfare state. Give us a couple also some free milk and orange juice, a corset, some false teeth, old age pension, forecast for the pools, 20 peoms by w. auden, six beetles, a pencil sharpner and anything else you hav in yore poket.
BEEDLE: No, no.
TWIST: Garn, or we’ll rip yer.
/> It is the same with many a well-known charakter. Another is that well-known weed christopfer robin who luv poo bear ect. and watch the changing of the gard at buck house with alace, alice, avise alias Mopp the Mess.
ALICE: They are changing the gard at buckinham palace.
C. ROBIN: So wot so wot?
ALICE: You had better be there. You have yore publick. You hav made the whole place impossible for the q, also the de of e and prince charles.
C. ROBIN: i am getting past it i am slipping.
ALICE: You talk as if you hav to march from wellington baracks every day. And carrying a trombone. Where are yore call-up papers?
Another wet in my book bag is jules verne. He said there would be submarines he is brilliant. Also the flying machine e.g. around the world in 80 days (delay at gander even b.o.a.c. must start to be thinking they mite catch up) jules verne, in fakt, was responsible for SCIENCE Fiktion, also h. g. wells who wrote The First Clots in the Moon.
You remember how it went? Or not?
FOTHERINGTON-TOMAS: Hullo clouds hullo sky. Let’s all go to the moon. Hurray hurray. Prof, cavour hav the answer i.e. the Peason-Molesworth Space Ship (patents pending).
ZOOSH!
The scene switch to the MOON. 20 mushrooms are on watch. They watch the skies. They also watch each other wondering which will be fried with the bacon and skool sossages tomorow. Sudenly a BALL arive. The mushrooms jump up and down.
‘Go on, Stanley, net the leather. Get yore head to it. Foul! Send him off. Shoot! Buy more players. Who’s for tennis?’ SUDENLY there is a husk.
1ST MUSHROOM: Anything the matter?
2ND MUSHROOM: It’s THEM. From THERE.
1ST MUSHROOM: Cripes. Where’s THERE?