Saint Nicholas (Santa Claus). Although an impressive figure, it seems to me that it says a lot for the courage and hardihood of the younger generation, that they don't flee on sight from this strange figure; but a good many of them stayed and chatted quite politely to him, I suppose in the hope of getting something decent from him in their stockings on Christmas morning. Shows, as I say, courage, and also good sense, and proves that there is hope yet, for the future of Britain.
Good night all.
9 comments:
Dash it, Mike! Have you been on a vitamin binge again? I've never seen your whiskers sprout so fast and so far, prolific though they already were.)Can it really be yourself peering through that luxuriant, hirsute and canopic bosciness?
Dash it all, young Carl!!! How can you imagine that I, your quiet, restrained, self effacing, elder brother could swank round in an outfit like that ???? No, the fellow behind those ridiculously over stated, obviously false, whiskers,is a fellow choir member (although only a tenor/ light baritone, who notoriously, have very little conscience about these things), who is a recently retired, C.of E. minister. He quite likes doing it (partly, I think, because, of course, no one will recognise him, behind that shrubbery - quite a liberating thought for him, I imagine).
I'm still a little hurt that you think I should make such an exhibition of myself. Singing "Have some madeira, m'dear" in public, is one thing. But really, there are limits, you know...........
Deepest apologies Dear Chap! Thank you for the reassurance, I am pleased to hear it was not yourself - the idea of you in a lacy frock and silly hat is an unmanageable concept indeed.
Upon replacing my spectacles I detect there is no raffish twinkle in Santa's eye - proving it cannot have been your own dear self depicted.
I suppose some mere tenors have to be allowed into the choir, if only to stop the little sissies crying!
Now there's a familiar face:)
Ooops! Seems I'm mistaken:)
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I say, what!! Don't take on so, old bean. Steady the Buffs and all that, what!
In these modern times even a basso-profundo can wear a lacy frock in public (having purchased a performing-arts licence from the local council tax office and carrying written proof that he's a member of Equity and at least three photographic identity documents, and a copy of the Riot Act in case he's a magistrate and public disorder ensues)whenever the whim or a seasonal excuse such as Christmas arises.
Modern times, Eh!.... Puts you in mind of old Billy Blake and his poem about everything being taxed, licensed or chartered.
I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:
How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.
But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.
Willm. Blake's LONDON
This was the pome wot i fort ov but it dont quite fit wiv modern timze,
fingz ain't quite this bad yet, well not round here anyways...er...I fink.
Of course, dear Will'm balanced things up by writing about the innocence of life as well as the experience, so out of respect for him and wishful thinking for humanity here's the counterpart to 'London' - It's called 'Jerusalem'.
The dark Satanic element is still present but as an undertone rather than the full kitchen-sink Monty, if I may meet my mixaphors.
I fear we live closer to 'London' than 'Jerusalem'!!
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
Remind me to have a shave in the morning...;-)
Good grief!!! And to think I used to believe in him...er...it...er...whatever
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