Thought for the Day, with Justin Webly, more or less Arch of Cant

Hullo, 

Justin here,

                           

I pen these words on my return from listening to Junior Choir practice. What a joy! Alison Grommet, our junior choir mistress for these past few months has done a truly wonderful job bringing together an hitherto disparate group of under-twelves, many of whom only volunteered after promises of cake, and has created a most effective singing instrument.

                           

Of course, there are still small problems to solve, evident earlier in the choir’s rendition of “In the Bleak Midwinter” You will be familiar, dear reader, with the line, “Snow had fallen sno-ow, snow, sno-o-o- -w on snow."  Clearly, there are three distinct “o” sounds in the middle. Unfortunately, one child, little Craig Hassan, grandson of one of my ethnic advisers, Mr Alberto Hassan, insisted on putting in an extra “o” which as you might imagine, did tend to fracture the rhythm somewhat. When Miss Grommet pointed this out (for the umpteenth time), young Craig, an assertive child said, “So what? Its only a stupid song”, and ate more cake.

What would Jesus have done? Well, I went off to find Grandad Alberto and tactfully outlined the problem, thinking that he might have a quiet word. Mr Hassan’s reaction dismayed me somewhat. “Well I’m with Craig on this,” he said, “Besides, when does it snow where your Jesus bloke came from? Its daft” 

Before I could reply and explain the symbolism of snow and isolation, raised voices from the Lower Kitchen prevented that, I’m afraid.

Sadly, the refurbishment of our Nativity scene is not much further along, and I heard the unmistakable rumble of Mr Crumbling shouting, “Brown. Brown! I’ve run out of brown  and I’ve still got the cow’s ‘ead to do!” “USE BOOT POLISH!" shouted Mrs Wellbeloved. (Mr Crumbling is rather deaf).

I simply cannot type Mr Crumbling’s reply. Taking a deep breath, I resolved to enter and to try to settle differences. By this time, rock buns were flying and once again I was rescued by the apparently ever-present young man with the wire in his ear…

Thought for the Day, with Justin Webly, more or less Arch of Cant

Hullo, Justin here...

                                  
I write now that the clocks have decreed that our daylight hours shall be shorter and minds turn towards the delights and challenges of Winter. For my next sermon, I had in mind the immortal words of Monsignor GuntherTeaspoon, writer, Esperanto poet, philosopher and 1934 World Vatican Yo-Yo champion. He said, "Though I feel a bit chilly, I must remember the chillier". Wise words indeed.

                                  
However, my musings have been interrupted somewhat by what I shall call a vigorous debate about Palace Christmas arrangements which has broken out between my lady wife – aided and abetted by the young man with the wire in his ear, Mrs Wellbeloved, our head cleaner and part-time cook, Mr Alberto Hassan, one of my 27 ethnic advisers, and the sadly ailing Harold Crumbling, the Palace’s longest serving handyman. Most of these good people have in years gone by been responsible for creating Palace Christmas decorations.

                                 
It seems that for decades - well before my time in fact, the Palace has favoured what could be called a traditional theme in Christmas decorations. Indeed, last year’s Nativity scene and array of bells, candles and cotton wool snow seemed to bear witness to this being the way to go again this year. Not so – and hearing raised voices in the Lower Kitchen, I entered and found myself in the middle of a fierce argument, fragments of which I report here.

My lady wife; “The cattle are lowing, the baby awoke. Its there, in the words of the carol for goodness sake!”

Young man with the wire in his ear; “Can’t argue with that, matey”

Mr Hassan: “Oh yes I can. It’s a typical white, middle class, Christian, Dickensian load of hokum!”

At this point I intervened to point out that Christmas is, in fact, a Christian festival. And was told to shut up and put the kettle on. Meanwhile, Mrs Wellbeloved and Mr Crumbling stridently suggested that the inhabitants of our Nativity diorama were past their best. Said Mr Crumbling; “The cow needs repainting and Joseph’s got no nose. AND I’m gettin’ too old to be lugging all that stuff about with my back.”

My lady wife seemed close to tears saying, “But it's traditional. Its what Christmas is all about!” As I sought to intervene once more, Mr Hassan banged the table and shouted, “Traditional for who, exactly? What about all the Jews and Arabs, Rastafarians, Druids, Hindus, Muslims and Inuits? What about them, eh?” This time, I did make myself heard. “But God loves everyone”, I said. At that point, Mr Hassan actually threw one of Mrs Wellbeloved’s notorious rock buns at me.

The young man with the wire in his ear swiftly bundled me from the room.

Pip! Pip!

Justin

Pangolin Villas - new self-catering apartment for rent!

Famed for its local, friendly wildlife

Our featured property of the month is this delightful residence, formerly known as 'House of the Severed Limb', and has always proved a great hit with tourists young and old. There are phantoms to suit all tastes, some resident, and others which can always be recalled from their resting places beyond the grave.

Eddie, one of our resident ghosts

But don't just take our word for it!  Here's a letter from a satisfied customer:

“Dear Mr Wuff,

                              I am a grate believer in gosts and stuff and me and my friend Muriel regulerly go to seances. Recently, these have been interuppted by a horrid old man who pops over from the Other Side and shouts at us by holding up signs with stuff writen on them. I thought you might be iterested in the enclosed photo.

Yours Truly,

Gwen Varnish [Mrs 47]"

The Pangolin Celebrity Guide!!!

Frank Sinatra. 

He was a celebrity. OK, he was very tiny and wore a dreadful wig, but he could sing, dance a bit and hung about with gangsters which doubtless helped with the celebrity thing in that it discouraged yobs from shouting, “Oi, wiggy, do I Done it My Way!”

Attilla the Hun had a fair old following too. You were either for or against him. If you were against him, he killed you. Certainly got him known about the place. 

And Marilyn Monroe – whoa – now there was a celebrity! So it wasn’t her real name, which was Norma Postule or something, but who cared? That lady dazzled.

I could bang off an almost endless list of real celebrities... Ella Fitzgerald, Alma Cogan, Rasputin, Petula Clark, John Wayne, Janis Joplin, Bob Dylan, Sooty, The Queen Mother, Willie Nelson… so could you.

But why were they celebrities? I will tell you. Its because they actually DID something really well. (scrub The Queen Mother although she had a hell of a wave on her). These days we’re awash with thousands, nay, millions, of alleged celebrities who haven’t really done anything. Or if they have, only a little bit of it. Or badly, or both. Why should this be?

Well its all to do with the internet, smart phones and millions of sad young bastards who haven’t got lives. The media panders to these saddoes by producing so-called newspapers which advertise “ALL THE GOSS” - that being snippets of inconsequential tittle-tattle about “Big Bro love-rat nipple ring bust-up” featuring young people you’ve never heard of who don’t actually do anything but get themselves on telly because they’re massively insecure and don’t want to be who they actually are. TV adverts help the whole thing along too with shedloads of deeply irritating, grinning fools pushing toothpaste, or in one UBER-irritating ad, a cool young man taking everything in his stride whilst DRINKING WEETABIX!! Honest. I’d fire the arrogant poser pdq.

Can anything be done about it? Probably not, but eventually Justin Bieber will be fifty and by then he will have stopped being fashionable and irritating. His place will have been taken long before that by another celeb. We can’t even SAY the word properly these days in an age which favours textspeak and WALOS means What a Load of Shite. That certainly works for me. (TCWFM)