Windmills Of My Mind.
Hi,
.
There was I, sitting quietly and minding my own business, looking through all of the background information that I can access, whilst fiddling around with the running of my Jaksie site.
I did not feel like moving at all, because I had just made Big H and myself a huge bowl of chilli each, and lots of buttered toast to go with it.
I will have you know that it was my own homemade chilli too, made from scratch.
It may seem immodest, but I do not do such tasty, clever stuff in order to keep my culinary talents under a bushel…whatever that is.
I just could not bear to have to shift myself, because I felt so totally stuffed.
.
Oh buggeration, now I suppose I will not get any peace until I find out just what on earth a bushel is…but I shall try to ignore the bloody urgings of my ridiculously exaggerated curiosity.
.
Anyway, while I was on my site I noticed that a lot of recent visitors have been reading a poem called ‘Crackers For Cheese’.
I began aimlessly wondering why that particular, naughty poem was popular at the moment, and came up with the following possible scenario.
.
.
Perhaps people who have to give an after dinner speech were looking for a poem about cheese and crackers, so that they could refer to the what their audience would be eating at the end of the meal, and thus help to pad out their speech at the same time.
Perhaps there are not many such poems to choose from, so that they may well decide to borrow mine, even though it is rude.
After all, surely everyone is an adult. who will have had a good few drinks, and so they will not be offended by it.
.
Let’s just suppose that some well meaning man like, let’s say, a Mr Fothergill, a General Manager of a widget producing company, decides to use just that poem in his hopefully funny speech.
Suppose also, that the hapless Mr Fothergill has got started on his after dinner speech, and he has only just reached the poetic reference to their last course, consisting unimaginatively, of fresh coffee, cheese and biscuits.
Let us further suppose. that some of the more tight-arsed amongst us are working at his firm, and are therefore present at at this particular firm’s Do.
They, of course, would never dream of partaking of more than one sweet sherry in any one calendar week
So there they would be, lips compressed, immediately walking out on the works do, en masse.
“I cannot believe it”, they say,feeling greatly shocked,”To think that our Mr Fothergill, the General Manager, would be so ill mannered as to subject US to such depraved sexual innuendo and smut. It is a disgrace.”
They all nod furiously in agreement, like electrocuted chickens.
“Oh my god,” says one of them, eyes wide, “You don’t think that our Mr Fothergill, our formerly highly respected General Manager, actually wrote that filth himself do you?”
They gape in horror as that terrible possibility finally dawns upon them.
“Right “, says Beryl Longbottom, moral evangelist, already fired up by a similar shocking occurrence of her own, many years before, one that had made her contemplate spending the rest of her natural life hiding in a closed-order Nunnery, “I have no truck with people who write filth. They must be hounded out of our decent communities. We shall leave no stone unturned”
At this point they all turn righteously and head homeward, to partake of their bedtime Horlicks, meanly made with only half milk and half water, each thinking up righteous names for this new crusade.
.
Poor, poor Mr Fothergill.
And guilty, guilty me!
.
j
