Bad and Superbad

Bad and Superbad

or

Irony Byrony What does it matter as long as you love your sister.


The inspiration for the first title was the idea of Nietzsche suffering a cold. The second came from Freud. Incidentally, Goethe believed that this style could not be rendered in German. After all Bismarck was never called the Irony Chancellor. It is in the form of letter to his friend Thomas Moore, the Irish Poet and Lyricist by Lord Byron. This letter was lost for almost 200 years, until his Lordship was kind enough to inspire the hand of Moore's descendent, John Moore. Following this inspiration, the latter assumed the title Don Juan el Moro. He awaits further calls from his muse in his grave at Hucknall for his services as amanuensis .

Bad and Superbad

Dear Thomas

I have taken to writing to you often, and with vigour, as you are most outstanding man of letters of the era bar one. Aside from the greatest poet hero of age, you alone have the edge to cut like the flashing blade of a Scythian chariot, and the burnished reputation to shield you from our hero’s reflection as when Perseus pursued Medusa.

Indeed there are those among the fair when alone,
who metamorphose, not to cold stone,
by the agence of the Gorgon’s snakes,
but to the quivering vibrating shakes
that look to all the world like rapture jelly
as she dreams of our hero’s serpent in her belly.

Last Shrove’s Bacchanal was of a particular fine vintage, although the custom of masque seems wouldst seem to dull a lady’s pleasure in my company. Although I might quaff a bushel I would certainly never hide my light under it.

I encountered within the midnight hour,
as doe eyed a houri as ere sat in a bower.
Although her don was of a great estate,
her desire for pleasure he n’er could slake.
I, her Apollo did seduce her with my lyre.
By half one I was lying by her.
Her skin was brown; her lips both full and soft.
By two was George’s proud English lance aloft
Oh how strange the ways of the east,
as I stoked her hair, she swallowed the beast.
But then delight! Her sister, a Sapphist by repute,
who strummed on languid and lascivious lute,
her inclinations shown only by her dungarees.
Soon removed in a voluptuous striptease.
Shapely as a nymph, she was no dyke this woman,
and did surpass her skill on lute, with tunes on Gordon’s organ
As one steed fades, so the rider takes another saddle.
By the break of dawn could our hero scarce waddle.

After pleasuring the pair with such rigour,
they took to water to revive proud George’s vigour.
Two hour’s natation at the Lido,
did the trick for his libido.
Returning the kindnesses of the dusky donnas,
did with his purple striped pole propel their gondolas.

As their boats did heave upon the lagoon,
our heroines at last did cry and swoon.

After a month a sadder George did realise,
that it is always folly and never wise,
to have one night of unbridled Venus,
and a year of Mercury in your ....

Please forgive me if my rhyming skills desert me there, Tommy, as I am feeling a painful tingling sensation. By the way who is the Minstrel Boy? Why did he go to war in the first place? Give my love to my daughter, but not in the same way as I gave to her auntie. Apparently she is showing unhealthy interest in horse racing and computational techniques. At two, this is to be severely discouraged. (She gets it from her mother, the Princess of Parallelograms, you know).

No good will ever come from computation. It can only erode the creative imagination. People who do that sort of thing will start believing that one dimensional fantasy characters:

Wizards, elves dwarves etc on some mythic quest constitute literature,
And if you state as much you show what a twit you are

Please see to it that my daughter’s reading material, is improving her wisdom and character. Personally I recommend your good self, Wycherley and Pope, (Alexander that is, not the infallible one from the Hitler youth). Under no account should she be allowed to read Wet Willy or his Dottie sister.

Incidentally if that descendant of yours again dares to parody me,
I shall box his ears in hell, with Old Nick as referee.


Incidentally, would you hurry to tap John Murray for an advance. He is making a mint out of me. And do make sure you get the right John Murray this time, the publisher. I am sure that the Middlesex wicket-keeper was most disconcerted when you asked if I might approach him. He kept looking over his shoulder all through the afternoon session. I was sure he was wearing his abdominal protector back to front. He ended up suffering an attack of Dropsy. Six toes Titmus was unimpressed. I was something of a cricketer in my time. My ability to swing both ways was legendary. I helped set up the Eton vs Harrow fixture at Lord's, mostly in the hope of meeting other young men of sound education and burgeoning physique. I was most flattered that the county side based there, took its name from my reputation.

Your humble and suffering servant

John Moore

alias

George Noel Gordon Byron

6th Baron of Rochdale

Wednesday, 27 November 2013

The Bus 500 conversation: Of men, women and sticks

Yesterday in mid afternoon, Carole and I boarded a bus from Oxford, the Martyrs statue, to Water Eaton.

Me: "Oh we can't sit there. Those are for disabled people".

Looking further along the bus, there was a seat with an ideogram, an outline figure wearing a bowler, trousers, and a stick.

Me: "Oh if only I'd brought my stick, we could sit there. Pity. These seats are designated for men with sticks"

Personable, bearded, smartly dressed young man on seat on other side of the aisle, apparently also designated for men with sticks: "I'm only sitting here temporarily."

Me: "I thought you were reserving it for an imaginary friend".

Personable young man: "I wonder where women with sticks are supposed to sit?"

Me: "I don't think they let them on. Women with sticks are far more dangerous"

Gap of about 30 seconds.

Old woman with stick gets on. Sits in disabled seat. Fiddles with gloves money and bus pass, and then drops stick right across the bus aisle.

Me: "See what I told you. They're far too dangerous to be let on the bus"

Personable young man to no-one in particular: "I think I'll move further down the bus"

Personable young man to me: "Mind the stick when you get off".

Me: "I will. Thank you for your advice".

Bus departs, in series of rapid accelerations and jerky stops.

Me: "Just because the bus is red, there is no need for the driver to drive it like a Ferrari".

We pass the "Eagle and Child".

Me: "I think that's where Tolkien and C S Lewis used to drink beer and suck on pipes, thinking up cosy, unwitty novels."

Carole: "Didn't Evelyn Waugh go there as well?"

Me: "The trouble with Keble is it's so red brick"

Me: "I don't know. I associate him more with the "Eagle" at Thame.

We reached Summertown. Personable young man gets off the bus, saying: "Mind the stick". As he passes by on the pavement, Carole and I smile. He smiles back. I tip my grey fedora to him.
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