Overheard in a supermarket:
Mother : Ooh look! Pigs in blankets!
Child : I don’t want to see a poor pig in an old blanket.
Overheard in a supermarket:
Mother : Ooh look! Pigs in blankets!
Child : I don’t want to see a poor pig in an old blanket.
In addition to Doktor Kafka the doom-ridden poète maudit of Prague, he gives us Dr Jackdaw (Kavka in Czech), the charming young writer, fond of slapstick humour, who, reading the first chapter of The Trial to his friends, became so convulsed with laughter that “he could not continue reading at times” while they howled “uncontrollably”.
Tim Martin, reviewing Kafka by Reiner Stach
In her “Mind Your Language” column in The Spectator, Dot Wordsworth turns her attention to jejune. It is one of those words (like fulsome) where an erroneous usage is now so common that the correct, original meaning may be lost entirely. Because of its similarity to juvenile and French jeune, jejune is misused to mean childish, naive, callow. (Dot Wordsworth suggests George Bernard Shaw may be to blame.) This is the (wrong) sense given in the finest use of jejune in cinema history:
What jejune actually means is thin, meagre, unsatisfying. Thank heavens there is at least one man who uses the word correctly. Blockbusting potboilerist Pebblehead has embarked on a new series of gaudy paperback potboilers which purport to be sequels, or prequels, or simply complete rewrites, of acknowledged classics. The first title to appear is Pebblehead’s take on Richard Llewellyn’s 1939 novel How Green Was My Valley. Recalling the privations of his childhood in Pang Hill Orphanage, Pebblehead’s book is entitled How Jejune Was My Gruel. It begins:
How jejune was my gruel. Oh, how jejune it was. I remember so vividly how, when given my bowl of gruel in the orphanage dining hall, I was struck by its jejunosity. Has ever a poor orphan child, who grew up to become an internationally successful bestselling paperbackist, been faced with gruel so jejune? I think not.
A film adaptation of How Jejune Was My Gruel is currently in production, starring anybody the producers can find whose career is not in tatters following allegations of sexual misconduct.
Conducting research into the world of children’s comics, I learned that several decades ago there was a brouhaha in the offices of a popular comic for girls. The subeditors and junior reporters rose up in rebellion against the formidable editrix, and ejected her from the building. This became known as The Mutiny On The Bunty.
Apparently, “Escape Henry Cow is a new point & click escape game free from ajazgames. A cow from a nearby village is grazing near the forest and enters it without realizing it is being watched by a tiger. The cow needs your help to escape to safety .Find the clues to help the cow escape and feel satisfied over saving a life .All the best, have fun playing the free escape game from ajazgames.”
In 1964, the Beatles were banned from performing in Israel. An official government investigation into the Liverpudlian moptops discovered compelling evidence that their “’yeah yeah yeah’ howls are capable of striking dead a real beetle”.
Received in the post, seasonal tips for gardeners, peasants, and yokels from those lovely people at eBay.
“When he walks about the garden, his eyebrows are all that are really visible of him.”
Hugh Walpole on Rudyard Kipling, quoted in One On One by Craig Brown (2011)
Conducting my regular Hooting Yard Prose Audit, I was dumbstruck to discover that only once have I written about fubbed pannicles, and that was five years ago. In lieu of anything new to say about this most important of topics, here is a timely repost.
In an appreciative review of the second, expanded edition of Harmonium (1931), R P Blackmur remarked that “the most striking if not the most important thing” about Stevens’s verse was its vocabulary, a heady confect including such rarities as “fubbed”, “girandoles”, “diaphanes”, “pannicles”, “carked”, “ructive”, “cantilene”, “fiscs”, and “princox”.
From Wallace Stevens : Metaphysical Claims Adjuster by Roger Kimball, collected in Experiments Against Reality (2000)
It was a dark and stormy night. Off the Kentish Knock, on the wild and churning waters, the HMS Whither Art? was being tossed about like so much flotsam. The ship’s captain, Captain Plunkett, was all too aware that it was here off the Kentish Knock on a similarly dark and stormy night in 1875 that the SS Deutschland had been wrecked, and five Franciscan nuns, including a peculiarly tall one, had suffered death by drowning. Captain Plunkett had no Franciscan nuns aboard his ship, unless there were stowaways of whose presence he was ignorant, but well he knew the HMS Whither Art? was in equal danger of wreckage on so dark and stormy a night. It would take all his mastery of the nautical arts to bring the ship and its crew safely through to dawn, and port.
Clinging to the wheel, he cried out for the first mate, First Mate Hoon. Weedy and neurasthenic yet impossibly valiant, Hoon came staggering on to the bridge. He was sopping wet, drenched by both the teeming rain and by sloshing seawater.
“Hoon!” yelled the captain over the howling gale, “It has suddenly occurred to me that we may have stowaways aboard of whom I am ignorant, nuns, Franciscan nuns, hiding in the pannicles! Detail a detail of deckhands to search every last inch!”
“Aye aye, captain!” yelled Hoon, “But I’ve just had a report over the ructive hooter from the princox that the pannicles are fubbed!”
Captain Plunkett took one hand off the wheel, curled it into a sort of perch, turned it towards his head, and bent forward, resting his mouth and chin on his hand, striking an attitude almost identical to Rodin’s Thinker. He was thinking. He was thinking how it could have happened, on his watch, that the pannicles had been fubbed. He was thinking how it had come about that he had not heard the princox’s message over the ructive hooter. He was thinking that he had completely forgotten the name of the princox. And he was thinking that, if there were any stowaway Franciscan nuns hiding in the pannicles of the HMS Whither Art?, then they would surely have been carked by the fubbing. When he had finished thinking, he lifted his head, put his hand back to the wheel, and cried aloud again to Hoon.
“Hoon! Scrub that last command to detail a detail of deckhands!”
“Aye aye, captain! I have obliterated it from my brain so rapidly and thoroughly that already I have forgotten to what the word ‘it’ refers!”
The wind continued to howl and rage, the rain to teem, the sea to slosh, and the storm to toss the ship upon the waters.
“Hoon!” cried the captain, “What is the princox’s name?”
“I know him only as Alan,” shouted the first mate, “As in Ladd or Whicker or Freeman, known as Fluff.”
“The princox is called Fluff?” cried Captain Plunkett.
“Aye, captain, by those of the crew who are radio enthusiasts.”
“Detail Fluff to man the diaphanes, Hoon!”
“Aye aye, captain!”.
And Hoon left the bridge, staggering below decks in search of the princox. The storm did not abate. The captain struggled manfully with the wheel. His head was now empty of thought. He was engaged in an elemental battle, man versus sea, or man versus storm, or better, perhaps, man versus stormy sea.
Meanwhile, on one of the decks, poop or orlop, one of the girandoles had been torn loose from its cantilene and was clattering about perilously. First Mate Hoon, making his slow unsteady way to the princox’s nest, saw what had happened and realised he had to make an instant decision. There was no time to think. He could not afford to curl one hand into a sort of perch, turn it towards his head, and bend forward, resting his mouth and chin on his hand, striking an attitude almost identical to Rodin’s Thinker. He staggered back to the bridge.
“Captain Plunkett!” he screamed, “One of the girandoles has been torn loose from its cantilene and is clattering about perilously on the poop or orlop deck!”
“Where is Fluff the princox?” cried the captain.
“Still in his nest I expect,” yelled Hoon, “For when I saw that one of the girandoles had been torn loose from its cantilene and was clattering about perilously on the poop or orlop deck, I made an instant decision to tell you about it as soon as I possibly could!”
“You should have used the ructive hooter!” cried Captain Plunkett.
“Believe me, captain, I would have done had you heard the ructive hooter message regarding the fubbed pannicles. But you did not, and I dared not risk that a second ructive hooter message would go unheard by you!”
“That shows good seamanship, Hoon,” cried the captain, “Let me pin a golden star to your cap.”
“Thank you, captain. I appreciate such recognition, it compensates for the lack of pay and the worm-riddled biscuits.”
And all of a sudden there was a lull in the storm, and the captain and the first mate looked up at the stars in the sky. For a few precious moments, the HMS Whither Art? was safe upon the sea. And down below in the pannicles, the sudden calm prompted five stowaway Franciscan nuns of whose presence Captain Plunkett was ignorant, one peculiarly tall, to pop their heads out from the rickety fiscs wherein they were hiding, and to sing a hymn of thanks to Almighty God, that He had delivered them from the fubbing.
Reviewing a new book about God in The Spectator, Alexander Waugh notes
the ancient Jewish Hekhalot gives precise measurements of the space between God’s thighs and his neck, revealing that from head to toe he is 1,298 billion km tall.
(That’s 806½ billion miles, for those of us who still use sensible measurements.)
This week is meant to be Dobson Week at Hooting Yard (atoll, pickle, mosh pit), but we must interrupt with important news o’ toads. Devoted readers will recall The Book Of Gnats (collected in the slim anthology We Were Puny, They Were Vapid – buy it now if you have not already done so). In part one, we read:
And then my eyes saw, standing fiery on a wooden plinth ringed by scum-pools, the obscene figure of Winckelmann. In his left hand he brandished aloft a scrap of burning linoleum. His right hand was made into a fist. As, dribbling, I watched, the fist was slowly opened to reveal a….. I cannot say. I do not know. For just at the moment my peering, watery eyes would have seen that… that thing, I was startled by a toad, which leapt up at my face, and thwacked me on the forehead, leaving an imprint which remains there to this day, like a brand.
The narrator of part one then turns up in part two as The Man With The Mark Of The Toad! (He invariably attracts an exclamation mark.)
Now, years later, far far away and banished to a pompous land, Mr Mike Jennings has unearthed this piece of comic book art by the creator of Spiderman, one Steve Ditko. An eerie premonition …
The church of St Adalbert, in the market square of Krakow, is almost a thousand years old. On one side of it there is a low wall – much more recent – on the inner part of which, for no apparent reason, a single small tile has been embedded.
On this tile is depicted a bird. This bird has recently been designated as the Hooting Yard Bird Emblem. Next time you go to Krakow, make sure you pay due obeisance to the bird by sprawling on the ground before it and thinking of Dobson.
It’s been, oooh, at least a couple of weeks since we mentioned Tuesday Weld here at Hooting Yard, so I am very grateful to Max Décharné for bringing to my attention this leaflet, which explains how you can weld on a Tuesday.
Number Umpteen in our series of Inconsequential Yet Somehow Arresting Facts.
Stephen Lynn (above) is the doctor whose flat Alec borrows for his “inexpressibly vulgar” (and abortive) assignation with Laura in Brief Encounter (1945).
Stephen Lynn (below) is the doctor who was Director of the Emergency Room at Roosevelt Hospital in New York and who tried (and failed) to resuscitate John Lennon (1980).
Here is a recording, gouged out of Mr Key’s radio programme, of “British Psychology” from Further Science, Book 20 by Norman Davies (of whom, more soon …)