OH,  NOH,     SHE   DIDN’T ! (x 2)   by   Perkin Warbeck

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When Queen Elizardbeth the Fecund failed to turn up at the Christmas Sandringham Pantomime it was expected that She would issue a rejoinder to this Noh Show at the New Year Sandringham Pantomime.

Alas, all that was heard on the second occasion was an echo-friendly non-rejoinder:

-Oh, Noh She Didn’t !

Which failure to appear by Madame Butterfly led sadly, but inevitably, to a Caterpillar Tractor load of nib-scratching and tongue-wagging by the Chattering Classes.

The deathless lines composed by Alfred about Albert (Alfred Austin, poet laureate and Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, respectively and of course, great, great grandpops of the Hausfrau in q.) sprang inevitably to mind:

-Over the wires the electric message came

‘He is not better, he is much the same’.

The subject matter which has preoccupied the Chattering Classes is of course, the Succession Stakes (for Novice Chasers). It is a topic which has naturally, even preternaturally preoccupied The Perkin for this is one preoccupation which is in the very Warbeckian DNA. It would be churlish to, erm, Pretend otherwise.

So, where did The Perkin’s inner Pokemon Go go? Not very far, as it happens. To the following headline, in point of f.

-Mrs. Brown is the Queen of Chrimbo Telly !

One was immediately transported back in reverse gear to a year in the Mid-Nineties and another Noh Drama. The setting was the court yard of Government Buildings, Upper Merrion Street, Dublin 2 where a cardboard stand-alone of the famous fin de siècle Parisian poster  ‘Divan Japonais’ had been erected.

There was a hole where the head of Eduard Dujardin a dandy and club dE nuit habitue should be. Along the lines of those holes for the insertion of human heads on the trunk of a dunkey, such as became popular on beaches in Victorian times. (‘You may call one wifey, Al’ – see above).

Mrs. Brown was there in drag, in the smock-up part of Toulouse Lautrec, with palette in one hand, a paint brush in the other, and a grin the size of a rolling pin on her/his mush.

The event was arranged to launch a Charity Appeal along the lines of ‘Be Kind to Caterpillars’, that sorta thingy.

Mrs. Brown’s mammy in real life was a Labour Party TD in her time: hence, the choice of the then Labour Party leader to do the honours of inserting his head into the hole designated in the cardboard stand-alone poster.

Alas, on belatedly arriving at the scene, and after one nano-glance at the nixer , Dick Spring (for it was he!) promptly harrumphed and turned on his heel, muttering:

-Fuggedit. You want me to end up on the cover of next week’s Phoenix?

And with that, the Dawnaiste of a New Eire was out of there, gone as quickly as he came, a great advert entirely for a (gulp) Dick Spring. Later on, the bushy-moustachioed Marxist manqué of the mandatory stoop and a neo-Keynesian but no cigar, was to maintain the Japanese vibe by going on to become a Pooh-bah of Pinstriped Profit-making , being appointed a Director of This and That company (three being a mere crowd).

The Perkin, sensing a political crisis in the offing, perhaps even the most major such since the Arms Trial of CJ Haughey only this time featuring the empty Arms of T. Lautrec, smartly stepped forward into An Bhearna Mhaol , and with the Snaparazzi getting snappier by the mo, offered his head up for the cause.

Sadly, his selfless offer was turned down. So much for being, erm, A Head of One’s Time.

There was a sequel of sorts, shortly afterwards. When Mrs. Brown, aka, Toulouse Latrec had changed out of her costume in Teach an Asail / Toilet ( gender neutral) and was about to make her exit from Teach Mor a n-Asal / Government Buildings, when she was promptly halted. By a putative porter, name of P. Warbeck. (Where careers are concerned, only three things count: vocation, vocation, vocation).

-Halt ! Mrs. Brown. You may exit this building, under one condition.

-Wha’?

At this time the security system at GBs was installed by Lobster Pot Inc (with suspected Blueshirt Connections) which operated on the sound principle that it was easier, much, to get into same edifice than vice versa.

Coincidentally, the same p. applies to the Civil Service. You needed a code to goad the front door into opening – out. This code, of course, was a Stateen secret and will remain so, though the h. fall: ar Eirinn ní neosfainn cé hí.

-Mrs. Brown, you may exit this building as soon as you tell us (meaning the assembled porterage) a (gasp) CLEAN JOKE.

For the second time within the face of a a half an hour Mrs. Brown was left to dangle on the horns of an imbroglio, or something. Eventually, happily to report, and after a breath-holding two minutes, which seemed to,erm, drag on like two hours, she came up with the goods, just about. Not that it was in anyway good, the joke being clean, but the governance of the Free Southern Stateen was permitted to proceed in accordance with the dictates of democracy, and that was the important thingy.

To conclude: Brendan O Carroll (for it is really he!) to be the Next Monarch of Brexitland.

All hail, Queen Brenda !

(Oh, yes, She will).

 

2 Responses to         OH,  NOH,     SHE   DIDN’T ! (x 2)   by   Perkin Warbeck

  1. pjdorrian January 6, 2017 at 3:44 pm #

    Stunning

  2. Perkin Warbeck January 7, 2017 at 1:43 pm #

    When one is treating of a stunna (Sun-speak), pjd, a chara, it is incumbent upon one to be, erm, stunning.