Sisters of The Serengeti

'Piglet, it can't fail.'

'I think it sort of already has.'

'Nonsense. Those BBC bods will jump at it.'

'In a windowless room, I hope.'

'I'd appreciate some support, my porcine buckawaynerooney.'

'Alright…tell me again.'

'Dear, oh dear. Right. Call The Midwife.'

'Yes.'

'All finished.'

'Well, not quite. I heard they're doing a short prequel series, followed - '

'Yes, yes, yes, but in its current formica. You know, streets of Poplar, postwar, the nuns and nurses of Heynonnynoh House.'

'Nonnatus.'

'Whatever that means.'

'Latin. Now we are nine.'

'Ooh, I'll be needing more than nine of 'em for my purposes.'

'Which are?'

'Translating Poplar to the Serengeti, where they will go about their birthing business under the curious, not to say predatory eyes of the local fauna.'

'Oh…right.'

'Yes indeed…so you'll have Sister Fantabulosa talking Doreen from Balls Pond Road through the discomfiting vagaries of Braxton Hicks contractions in the path of an oncoming cheetah.'

'Hence your title - '

'Maul the Midwife - precisement, to quote Hercule Potpourri.'

'And they will be? Those poor women?'

'No, no, no - or will they? That's the whole point, my troughligate pal. People will keep tuning in to find out. You know, like The Hungary Games. Folk kept following that on the off-chance of seeing some hapless Magyar spatter his goulash.'

'I don't think that was - '

'Besides, it'll set things up nicely for the sequel.'

'Sequel?'

'Cull The Midwife.'

'So it will happen.'

'Of course not. It'll all be done with that computer jiggery-pokery.'

'Ah, CG - '

'CeeBeeBee, exactly. I mean, I won't actually have Sister Pontefractotum being dragged into the scrub by a brunch-fixated lion - or will I?'

'I think it all rather departs from the spirit of the original.'

'Nonsense, Piglet. Dedicated toilers doing what they do in impossible conditions. Besides, the four-pawed nosh-meisters of the Serengeti will be a symbol.'

'Of?'

'Take your pick…indifferent local council, compassion-free Health Board. Figurative, you see. What poets call a metal-fork.'

'And what if it does go wrong? If one of the Poplar team actually does get - ?'

'Enter Sequel Two. Pall The Midwife. A 24/7 Serengeti-based squad of elite undertakers with a pack of hounds trained to sniff out cadavers ponging of Eau de Dettol. Motto: Where Beagles Dare. In they swoop in with no thought - '

'Ah. No thought. Sequel trois.'

'Sequel what?'

'Just thinking of Monsieur Poirot encore une fois.'

'I tried that once. Tasted awful, even with ballistic vinegar.'

In the Bar at the Pride and Prejudice

'A marvel, Piglet. The only word for it.'

'So you keep saying.'

'Every line she writes is a delight. And what an achievement. Two-hundred-and-fifty years old! The world's foremost novelist and a pioneer of cryogenics to boot.'

'I don't think the lady is actually - '

'My favourite of hers - oh, couldn't live without it. Those five high-spirited girls and their droll father. Feckless, too, mind. Drives his wife up the wall. Why she keeps yelling his name: "Gordon Bennett", gasps she, exasperationally. But then that newcomer takes a shine to the eldest. 'Course, we never know his name, just that he works for the Bradford and Bingley.'

'I think his name is in fact Bing - '

'Then that vicar chap sets his cassock at the witty one…he's the bloke with the patroness who always dresses in red in honour of her nephew, Chris de Burgh, and his big hit.'

'I don't think you've - '

'Not that the vicar bloke gets very far with Miss Witty. Loves ice-skating, she does, by the way: 'Next slide please' - magical catchphrase. Anyway, apart from all else, the vicar can't string a sentence together, on account of spending most nights in the bar of the Pride and Prejudice face-down in a tub of Tom Collins.'

'Pooh, you'll find that the vicar's name is Col - '

'So this other lairy lad homes in on the witty one. Wickham…not his proper name, apparently…what they nickname him for his rather forthright modus oprahwinfrey in respect of the ladies, which is a tad racy for 1813 but, you know, Miss Austen, trailblazer.'

'Wickham, Pooh, is the one who ends up with - '

'His nose right out of joint, Piglet, 'cos the witty one is drawn ineluctably, as it were with faery threads, to Mr Darty, the Regency's very own Luke Littler.'

'You might want to have a closer - '

'Not that it's smooth sailing. Miss Austen is too much of a genius for that. No, Darty has to unendisdetangle himself from a tender yet ill-starred understanding with a female coach at a revolutionary Gothic-themed soccer academy for intermittently distressed gentlefolk.'

'Pooh, soccer wasn't even - '

'Yes, sad but true, poor Miss Catherine Morland of Goalhanger Abbey must perforce be disabused, gadzooks, i'faith, pro tem. But worry not, she subsequently finds enduring love with a certain Edward Ferrier, whose mum, in the parlance of the times, has a nifty set of pipes on her and gives a heart-melting rendition of "Blow the Wind Southerly" when they ply their troughs.'

'It's actually plight - '

'Exactly! The condition of anyone who doesn't swoon over our dear Jane, as we, her closest inmates, call her. You should read her, Piglet.'

'I quite like George Eliot.'

'What, the minor character who loses to Darty on that bitter snowswept e'en at the Ally Pally? Dear oh dear, Piglet, you're missing the bigger picture.'

'And you're missing - '

'What?'

'Er - tea.'

'Good grief! Skates on!'

 

 

Christmas 2025: Punch in the Yulebowl, George up yer flagpole.

'Well then, Piglet.'

'Well then, Pooh.'

'Jubilate...'

'Time to parte.'

'Doesn't rhyme.'

'Not a crime.'

'Let it pass...'

'Charge your glass.'

'Clear your throat.'

'Here's the note.'

'So off we go.'

'So da capo.'

'Merry merry.'

'Happy jolly.'

'Tom and Jerry.'

'Buddy Holly.'

'Jolly happy.'

'Outsize nappy.'

'Roaring fire.'

'Midnight choir.'

'Herod duped! Boy survived!'

'Starmer, K, Pee Forty-Fived?'

'Chestnuts a-hotting.'

'Ms Reeves a-totting.'

'Do you mean tottering?'

'Certainly nottering.'

'Houses all tinsely'd.'

'Andy un-Princely'd.'

'Mince pies to dish up.'

'More scandals, Bishop?'

'New Archgaffer is Dame Mullally.'

'Hope their capers don't drive her dullally.'

'Jenrick and Nigey-boy - '

'Wowing the galleroy.'

'Punch in the Yulebowl.'

'George up yer flagpole.'

'Wise Men a-gazing.'

'Half the world blazing.'

'But ne'er mind the chill.'

'Our boots we shall fill.'

'Wine in the cellar.'

'Kenneth McKellar.'

'He's gone to his Maker - '

'Or, like Lucan, faker.'

'Now mirth be o'erflowing - '

'Now bunions be glowing.'

'Though frost is a-glistening - '

'Toffs are a-pissen-'

'Mind your manners.'

'Fly your banners.'

'Happy merry.'

'Tram 'n' ferry.'

'Sleighbells ringing.'

'Bob 'n' Binging.'

'Sprouts 'n' mash.'

'UK crash.'

'Lowly manger.'

'Queens Park Ranger.'

'Heaping snow.'

'Strapped for dough.'

'New Year Joys.'

'Feel the Noize!'

'Bette Davis.'

'Dot 'n' Mavis.'

'Auld Lang Syne.'

'Dogger, Tyne.'

'They call us screwy.'

'Pinch their Drambuie.'

'Fine plan - '

'Good cheer - '

'To everybody.'

'Crazee times!'

'EEET'S HEEER!'

'Ta, Noddy!'

I'll push the pram, You drag the cot....

'So, Pooh…are you feeling the Christmas spirit?'

'Well, yes and no.'

'Oh…right.'

'It's like Mr Lennon sings, Piglet:

Santa's a concept

Bah which we measure ahhh

Pay-ay-ay-ay-ain.'

'I think it's God that he - '

'Ah'll sing it again.'

'Please don't.'

'Anyway, that being so, I've decided to meet Christmas with something like equanimity.'

'How like?'

'A bespoke hairbrush.'

'Oh…right.'

'And to that end, I've resumed minefieldness.'

'You mean mindful - '

'Makes you think good and proper, Piglet. Makes you ponder the imponderosables.'

'Well, I suppose - '

'Consider the humble leaf, Piglet. Can it choose which wind might waft it hither and yin and yang?'

'Is that what you're meant to - ?'

'Nor yet the modest droplet. Does it have a say in which ocean it must perforce nestle?'

'I think if you're perforced - '

'Nor yet yet the fleeting smile. Is it at all canvassed as to the photogenicity of the mush on which it alights?'

'You're not going to start on with how many roads must a man walk down before - '

'For what is a road?

What has it got?

If not itself

Then it has not…

I'll push the pram,

You drag the cot,

This Floyd is Pink,

That Hoople's Mott,

The Co-op's dead,

Waitrose has fled -

We'll shop at Safeway!'

'I think that's Morrisons now.'

'Oh, for pity's sake, Piglet, why on earth would a Belfast-born songster with a penchant for fedoras, Celtic-inflected soul and a distinct lack of gruntlement be bothering with a supermarket?'

'Diversifying his portfolio?'

'What, in full view?'

By the Rivers of Babycham

 

'Nearly done, Piglet.'

'Sorry, Pooh, what's this now?'

'My contribution to Kanga's Advent Singalong.'

'Oh…right.'

'No doubt you're eager - '

'Not if you're - '

'Not at all, my porcine camarade.'

'Oh…right.'

'This year I've opted for a variation on 'Lech Wałęsa's Lass Looked Out.'

'I think it's 'Good' - '

'Even before you've heard it?  A ringing endorsement and no mistake.  I'll remember you in my prayers.'

'I thought you were agnostic.'

'No, Piglet, she was the blonde one in Abba.  Now, here goes:

Hither, Page, and stand by me
Bring the drink and nosh-o,
You are but a noxious oik,
I'm a toothsome posh-o,
Let us find some random pez,
Fete him one night only,
Salve our conscience for the year,
Leave him lost and loneleeeee.

Well?  Doesn't it capture the essence of the nub of the crux?'

'Er…'

'Oh, come on, Piglet, it's right up there with the best celebratory hums - O Weep All Ye Fateful, O Little Town of Bethnal Green, By the Rivers of Babycham - the lot!'

'I don't think By the Riv - '

'No, well, you wouldn't.  Anyway, what are you contributing?'

'I might try 4'33" by that Mr Cage.'

'Let's hear it, then.'

'It's my extended variation.'

'How extended?'

'To the end of this walk.'

 

Happy Jolly Buddy Holly

 

'Well then, Piglet.'

'Well then, Pooh.'

'Jubilate...'

'Time to parte.'

'Doesn't rhyme.'

'Not a crime.'

'Let it pass...'

'Charge your glass.'

'Clear your throat.'

'Here's the note.'

'So off we go.'

'So da capo.'

'Merry merry.'

'Happy jolly.'

'Tom and Jerry.'

'Buddy Holly.'

'Jolly happy.'

'Outsize nappy.'

'Roaring fire.'

'Midnight choir.'

'Herod bemoaning.'

'Starmer milestoning.'

'Chestnuts a-hotting.'

'Ms Reeves a-totting.'

'Do you mean tottering?'

'Certainly nottering.'

'Rum punch for solace.'

'Here's yer bike, Wallace.'

'Mince pies to dish up.'

'More scandal, Bishop?'

'Minstrels a-busking.'

'Monsters a-Musking.'

'Wise Men a-gazing.'

'Half the world blazing.'

'But ne'er mind the chill.'

'Our boots we shall fill.'

'Wine in the cellar.'

'Kenneth McKellar.'

'He's gone to his Maker - '

'Or, like Lucan, faker.'

'Now mirth be o'erflowing - '

'Now bunions be glowing.'

'Though frost is a-glistening - '

'Toffs are a-pissen-'

'Mind your manners.'

'Fly your banners.'

'Happy merry.'

'Tram 'n' ferry.'

'Sleighbells ringing.'

'Bob 'n' Binging.'

'Sprouts 'n' mash.'

'UK crash.'

'Lowly manger.'

'Queens Park Ranger.'

'Heaping snow.'

'Strapped for dough.'

'New Year Joys.'

'Feel the Noize!'

'Bette Davis.'

'Dot 'n' Mavis.'

'Auld Lang Syne.'

'Dogger, Tyne.'

'They call us screwy.'

'Pinch their Drambuie.'

'Fine plan - '

'Good cheer - '

'To everybody.'

'Crazee times!'

'Behold!'

'Our Noddy!'

 

 

Lonely goats

 

'Short and grey and old and haggard

The doc for tonsillitis goes walking

And when he passes

Each one he passes goes

Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh.'

'To repeat, Pooh, it doesn't improve on further hearing.'

'Well I'm not singing the original. I mean, Ipanema...sounds like a fungal incursion among the under-twelves.'

'Three things. It doesn't. Ipanema is a romantic name. No-one's asking you to sing anything.'

'But Kanga's working on the Hundred-Acre Christmas Festival programme right now. I've got to offer something before it's too late.'

'How about a mime?'

'Ah, yes, like that Marcel Morsel. Actually, I could mime clues to a song and then sing it when someone guesses. Kill two berks with one stone.'

'I was thinking more of a stationary - '

'But which song? Back to square one, you see?'

'She's not looking for songs from every - '

'How about that one from The Sound of Music? Plenty of mime potential there.'

'Sorry, which - ?'

'Stood on a high hill, a lonely goat heard.'

'I think you'll find it's High on a hill was a lonely goatherd.'

'No no no, Piglet. The original syntax is all to pot. I've improved it, you see? Still a touch awkward, I admit, but - '

'But it's not goat heard. It's goatherd.'

'That's what I said, if somewhat more slowly and punctuatiliously than you.'

'It's goatherd.'

'Goat heard.'

'Goatherd. Someone who herds goats.'

'Piglet, verb forms are a closed book to you. I hear. You hear. He, she, it, this, that, mum, dad, Shakespeare, Hildegard of Bingen, Tommy Shelby, Nostradamson hears. I heard. You heard. He, she, it, this, that etcetera heard.'

'Pooh - '

'Not heards. How far do you think Mr Dave Edmunds would have got with "I Heards You Knockin'"?'

'Pooh, it's goatherd. All one word. Like a shepherd for goats.'

'Piglet, it's a be-horned, altitudinally insouciant quadruped on his tod. He heard - not heards, mark you - a yodel of rare invention and beguiling timbre.'

'It's the goatherd who's doing the yodel - '

'So:

Stood on a high hill

A lonely goat heard

"Lay, lady lay, 'cross my big brass bed".'

'That's actually Bob - '

'No, Piglet, it's actually Bill. As in Billy. As in goat. You really must expand your porcine frame of refulgence.'

'As you wish.'

'Not wishes, Piglet. Facts. You should dabble your trotters in 'em sometime. Whole new world for you.'

'Well, one fact is that it'll soon be that time again. So I wish you a Merry Christmas, Pooh, and a Happy New Year.'

'And to you, sir. And to all on Sunday.'

'And sundry, Pooh.'

'No no no, Piglet. He, she, it, this, that, mum, dad - '

'Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh!'

 

Dynamic prattling...

 

'Well, Pooh...that spot of rain earlier but not a bad day.'

'I concur.'

'Concur? Oh...right...fair enough.'

'Fifty pence.'

'Sorry?'

'Two words, twenty-five pence each. Whenever you're ready.'

'What? You mean you want me to pay --?'

'Plus two pounds, twenty-five pence.  For what I just said.'

'Two --?'

'Five pounds. For what I just just said.'

'Pooh, what --?'

'Ten pounds. Fifteen pounds. Twenty pounds.'

'What are you on about?'

'The new normal, Piglet. Dynamic prattling. D'you know how much air costs these days?'

'It doesn't cost --'

'Well, well...a pony. That's twenty-five pounds. I'd advise settlement at your earliest convenience in re: yours of the fifth inst.'

'Pooh --'

'Otherwise you might find you have to take out a mortgage to facilitate a second mortgage to ensure the swift completion of item, one debt, item, the full, frank and feckless honouring thereof.'

'This is utter nonsense.'

'Surcharge for emotive lingo. You're now up to three ponies with a ton in sight. Luckily for you, this happens to be my Dandy Discount Day, so I'll chuck in a Clydesdale's fetlock for nothing.'

'Oh, this is all about that reunion.'

'It's about nothing of the sort. Though I did send them one of my hums a while back.'

'Did you now?'

'Dear oh dear, Piglet...three tons and the first glimpse of a monkey's fundament. Ah...the scent of five hundred crispy tofus. Do you have a financial advisor? No? Some Zurich gnome resting between bonanzas?'

'Now look, Pooh --'

'Very pleased with that hum, I was. "Don't Glance Back In Garstang." I thought they'd embrace it.'

'So...they didn't.'

'Congratulations, Piglet...you're up to a monkey and a mandrill and a moor's worth of Shetlands. No, sadly, they didn't. Liam wrote back and said it was a f&&^*))^%$% load of b*^%))?@@.'

'I see.'

'Mind you, Noel wrote that it had a pleasing mellifluousnessness.'

'That doesn't sound like --'

'It wasn't. "Only kidding," he added, "it's a dirty great pile of *&%%%$££**?/".'

'Right.'

'Well, Piglet, you're on a Gibraltar of monkeys. But look, as it's you, I'll settle for half a Whipsnade. And not to worry...my bailiffs are gloved and slippered. You won't know they're there.'

'You disappoint me.'

'That's what I intend to tell that pair when the tour's finished.'

'And presumably lob in a *&&%^^$$""££ for good measure.'

'What, and spend a pony? Do you think I'm a fiscal wonderwall?'

'Definitely.'

'Hmm...maybe.'

 

Clobbered by a clapper

 

'Arrant nonsense!'

'No it isn't, Pooh.'

'Never heard such foolery.'

'It's perfectly -- '

'"Ask not for whom the bell tolls -- it tolls for thee." Utter piffle.'

'It's actually "Send not to know for whom --"'

'I mean, if you don't ask, how will you know?'

'What it means, Pooh, is -- '

'Recipe for chaos, Piglet. I mean, there you are, mooching about, suddenly you see this cove swinging his heart out like that Quasimodusoprahwinfrey. Stroll on, you think, is that my bell? So you gather all your nearest and dearest around for the Big Tarrarabit, get yourself neatly pegged out -- '

'Pooh, if I could just -- '

'Then some spectraliferous voice says, Sorry mush, you weren't due till a week on Tuesday.'

'It doesn't mean a particular person's bell -- '

'Just think of all you could have done with that extra time. Split the antirrhinum. Circumnavigated the glebe.'

'Pooh -- '

'Created a sculpture to surpass Mike 'n' Angela's "David".'

'I really think you're -- '

''Stead of which you've got yourself off'd before your off was in the offing.'

'Pooh, what the poet is trying -- '

'Oh, poet is it? I should have known.'

'What he's trying -- '

'Can't they be stopped? You hear them declaiming in the street. Young children about, nervous clergymen.'

'He was a clergyman -- the one who wrote it.'

'Oh, right, not content with the poetry then. Sacerdotal moonlighting. So who was he?'

'John somebody.'

'Somebody? Couldn't run to a proper surname? Not surprised. Probably used up all his words giving some poor woman bardic earache -- "Shall I discount thee in a summer sale" and all that carry-on.'

'Pooh! It's not about pinning someone's name to their own personal bell. It means that we should all be mindful of our mortality. You hear the bell, you know it will toll for you someday.'

'But what harm would it do to be on the safe side? You might have a holiday lined up in Swanage. Bag packed, living-statue-repellent at the ready, then -- boom! -- clobbered by a clapper.'

'Pooh, the question will answer itself.'

'But you haven't had a chance to put it! I knew it was a mistake getting you "Omniscience for Dummies" last Christmas. It's gone to your -- '

'The line means simply this, Pooh. We all know what awaits. We all know that, if I may phrase it thusly, we shall "peal" off one by one.'

'With an "a".'

'The very same, Pooh.'

'How long have you had that one stored up?'

'About seven weeks.'

 

Rise up through the whelk...

 'Pooh?'

'Yes, Piglet.'

'Do you ever think about dying?'

'Nope. Happy with the colour I've got.'

'No, I mean mortality.'

'Oh, beetling around this vole of tears.'

'Yes.'

'Can't say I have, much. I mean, we're in this life, each of us coiled round our mortal. Not that I've ever met mine. Must be dead shy.'

'I think the phrase is this mort--'

'No, as Mr Creedence Clearwater enjoins us, we must simply keep on chooglin'.'

'How do you choogle?'

'For pity's sake, Piglet, we've been doing it for long enough. You must have a clue. We...you know, get up, wash, brush teeth, dab of Blue Stratos, swift pre-choogle, breakfast, post-pre-choogle, out the door, major choogle for the whole day till we --'

'Un-choogle?'

'As we beguile the twilight with a splosh of Ovaltine, yes.'

'Yes but...where do we go when we go?'

'Oh, you mean that. Well, it's all arranged.'

'Is it?'

'We rise up through the whelk.'

'You mean the welkin.'

'I don't think its family comes into it. We rise up through the whelk and there's Saint Peter flashing his pearly whites. He says how do, you say not so badly apart from being dead, bit of a crimper but never mind, he asks to see your loyalty card, you say half a mo, I've got a barista pass with one bit unstamped, he says fair enough, in you go, keep to the paths, no spitting or ball games, harp distribution in an hour.'

'But some folk think we have to keep coming back...you know, doing it all again and again till we achieve --'

'Oh, I don't hold with that. Having to drink endless Carnation. Addles the tum.'

'I don't think that's quite --'

'No, Piglet, up we go and that's that. And back here we're remembered with a phrase of suitable plangentiousness. "At rest...called home...gone before".'

'Before what?'

'Before we would have gone if we hadn't known we would have been after if we hadn't gone before. Honestly, Piglet, you can be a touch dim-wattled at times.'

'But a lot of people don't believe in heaven and all that.'

'Oh, them. I've no time for Arthurians. Poking people with their lot of lances, brandishing that dead important sword.'

'Excal --'

'Exdirectory...thinking they're so great for going on errands, we all do it, who hasn't picked up a carton of milk at the all-night Londis, we don't wave it about and yell "My liege, behold, attend, vouchsafe - I bring you the necktie of the gods - here, you're not lactose intolerant, are you?"'

'Well....'

'Look Piglet, to put your mind at rest, come round tomorrow and I'll explain exactly how to choogle.'

'And the Blue Stratos. Is that indispensable?'

'Oh, no...pump-action.'

"Quaff some Cool Tize with me..."

 

'Well, Piglet.'

'Well, Pooh.'

'Big celebrations this week.'

'Big -- ? Oh, right, the 6th.'

'I thought I might arrange something here in the Wood. You know, commemoration, celebration of the wartime spirit.'

'Ah.'

'A chance to sing all the old songs. "Run, Rabbit, Run". "Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye".'

'Oh, yes, Britain's train lament.'

'"Down at the Old Bull and Bush". Particular favourite of mine.'

'Is that a wartime song?'

'Well, you know, it's part and parcel. So uplifting:

"Come, come, come and make eyes at me

Down at the old Bull and Bush"...well, come on, Piglet.'

'Oh, sorry...dah-dah-dah.'

'And the rest.'

'Dah-dah.'

'"Come, come, quaff some cool Tize with me -- ".'

'What?'

'Cool Tize. Honestly, Piglet, do you care not a jot about our wartime inheritance? Short for "Cool Tizer". What we poets call an abbreviary. You know, everyone got fed up of going round saying Wotta Brainy Yeats, so he says, fair enough, W.B'll do...Piglet?...say something.'

'I'm just trying to imagine in what possible context Tizer could be called --'

'As in chilled, Piglet. As in just out of the fridge. I mean, the song's over a hundred years old but no matter, every household in the country had a fridge back then, be it never so bumbling.'

'Did they indeed?'

'Of course. Running water, electricity, full stomachs. The benefits of Empire.'

'Right. But I thought the next line was "Come, come, have some port wine with me".'

'And in what possible way could "port wine" rhyme with "make eyes"? Eyes...Tize. See? Assonance.'

'Same to you.'

'No, that's what it's called when two vowels--oh, Heaven help us if you're ever chosen as the nation's Poet Laurelei.'

'But "eyes" and "wine" have the same vowel sound-- '

'Piglet, desist! You speak of that of which you know not whatnot.'

'Go on, call me young feller-me-lad.'

'I shall not. You are utterly devoid of culture--a mere plasticine.'

'Alright...but what about that line "Hear the little German band"? I mean, weren't we fighting -- ?'

'Oh, the song was written long before all that. The line refers to a small but regrettable international incident.'

'I sometimes think that's what we are.'

'What? Anyway, Hans Kreuzer, citizen of Hamburg, was on a cycling holiday over here, and he thought, Mein Gott, why don't I into the Old Bull and Bush gedroppen for a snifter of schnapps?'

'Mein Gott...he actually thought that...because all Germans preface every thought with -- '

'I'm adding a bit of colour, Piglet. I'm setting the tone.'

'Sorry.'

'So in he goes, frags his Frage.'

'What, for all to see?'

'Asks his question, Piglet. Colour...tone.'

'Right.'

'And of course they say, no schnapps here, matey, but we've got a special offer all week on Cool Tize, how's about that for an amuse bouche?'

'Amuse bouche...an English barman...to a German.'

'You do realize that you were the sole reason we were chucked out of the EU.'

'I rather think that we chucked our-- '

'Anyway, Herr Kreuzer, he says no way Jose, and it all kicks off, with the net result that he's herausgeturfened -- '

'-- Mein Gott-ing as he goes, no doubt -- '

'And spends the next half-hour inveighing bitterly against the lack of Hospitalitischenkeit. As he said, he thought Englanders were all about mi casa su casa.'

'Handy that he was on speed-dial Duolingo at the time.'

'So the line is actually "Hear the little German -- banned".'

'Well, well...and he actually passed on cool Tizer.'

'No accounting for taste, Piglet.'

'I think that was their strapline.'

All Good Cheer to Everybody

 'Well then, Piglet...'

'Well then, Pooh.'

'Jubilate...'

'Time to parte.'

'Doesn't rhyme.'

'Is that a crime?'

'Let it pass...'

'Charge your glass.'

'Clear your throat.'

'Here's the note.'

'So off we go.'

'So da capo.'

'Merry merry.'

'Happy jolly.'

'Tom and Jerry.'

'Buddy Holly.'

'Jolly happy.'

'Outsize nappy.'

'Roaring fire,'

'Strikers' ire.'

'Carollers plaguing.'

'Rishi reneging.'

'Bankers distraughted.'

'Jenrick deported.'

'Fox known as Laurence.'

'Wrath and abhorrence.'

'Crazed as a bat.'

'Who'd want to...er...that?'

'Ne'er mind winter's chill.'

'Our boots we shall fill.'

'Fine wines in the cellar.'

'Cross-Channel, Suella.'

'Though mirth be erupted - '

'Our council's bankrupted.'

'Though frost is a-glistening - '

'Yon Hancock's a-pissen-'

'Mind your manners.'

'Fly your banners.'

'Happy merry.'

'Tram 'n' ferry.'

'Sleighbells ringing.'

'Bob 'n' Binging.'

'Sprouts 'n' mash.'

'UK crash.'

'Brave Lionesses.'

'HS-themed messes.'

'Lowly manger.'

'Queens Park Ranger.'

'Heaping snow.'

'Strapped for dough.'

'New Year Joy.'

'Myrna Loy.'

'Bette Davis.'

'Dot 'n' Mavis.'

'Here's to you.'

'To you too too.'

'With a hashtag?'

'Plus a gift-bag.'

'All good cheer to everybody.'

'Feel the Noize! Behold - our Noddy!'

From the archives: 'Mairzy Doat's A Female Deer.'

 

'Lalalalala....Sososososo....mememememeeeee.'

'Pooh, what are you doing?'

'Keeping the old vocal nodules at bay, Piglet. Dohdohdohdohdoh...

Feeegaro...Feeegaro...Figarofigarofigarofeeeegaaaahhroooowww...

Figaro here, Figaro there, Figaro every fu--'

'What for?'

'My chance to shine, Piglet. My chance to showcase all my hums on that TV show.'

'TV show?'

'"Let's Have A Butcher's At Yer Voice, Then".'

'It's "I Can See Your Voice".'

'That's what I said.'

'So which, er, hum to you propose--?'

'A crowd-pleaser, Piglet. A rousing singalong.'

'Oh, yes?'

'"Mairzy Doat's A Female Deer".'

'I think it's "Doh A Deer".'

'I know what it is, Piglet. Always brings a tear to the old eye when Mary Poppins sings it to that Trappist family high in the Austrian Alfs.'

'It's actually The Sound Of--'

'Success, Piglet. And it'll be all mine. Marvellous song. Halfway through the first verse there's that commotion at the back of the circle. Then this Mother Superior sings,

"Mariaaah,

I've just decked a nun

called Mariaaah -

And suddenly that dame

Is walking somewhat lame - you seeeee".'

'That's not how I remember the film you don't remember at all.'

''Course, they have to get a move on with the old "Mairzy Doats." Next thing you know, all those German planes are heading their way.'

'The Luftwaffe.'

'The Stroopwaffel. Exactly. That's when they all have to clear out...you know, climb every mountain, drive Fords across every stream.'

'I think it's "ford every stream", Pooh. As in get across --'

'Though I can't see how they can climb and drive at the same time. Then there's that bit,

"Climb every mountain,

Search high and low."

I mean, you're not going to clock a mountain if you search low, are you? There you are, snout to the ground...your average What'sthematterhorn isn't going to yell "Oi! I'm up here".'

'Pooh, I think--'

'I suppose that's what they call the mystique of cinema.'

'I suppose.'

'Anyway, I'll have a gala time on that show. Very genial host, you know. Paddy McGinty.'

'It's Paddy McGuinn--'

'An Irishman of note, he is. Fell in for a fortune and - bam! - suddenly and unexpectedly advanced himself in goat-fancying circles.'

'Paddy McGuinness, Pooh. And he's from near Bolton.'

'I have no idea to whom who toom you refer, Piglet.'

'I...oh, good luck, Pooh.'

'Thank you, Piglet. And you will come along? The old moral support? Front row?'

'I'll be somewhere.'

'Spendid! Now...lalalalalaaa...mememememeeeeee....Jules-Rimet-fat-solar-flare-tee-dious!'

'Indeed.'

 

Pooh, meditation and minefieldness (with added Vera Lynn and Jimmy Cliff)

 'Pooh, I was wondering -'

'Shhh, Piglet.'

'Sorry?'

'Shhh.'

'Why? What's happening?'

'Let us betake ourselves unto the zone.'

'What zone? Oh, don't tell me someone's slung up an installation right here in -'

'Silence, Piglet. Silence. Tigger says it's essential to mediate. You know, let your mind go plonk.'

'Why should we do that?'

'Words, Piglet. Tigger says that sometimes they can be swords when they should be fraushoes.'

'It's that honey, isn't it? Moment I saw "Produce of Colombia" I just knew--'

'That whereof of which we know whatnot, thereof let us know not it.'

'So…if you don't know something you shouldn't talk about it?'

'Yes.'

'When's that stopped Tigger?'

'For it is written, Piglet: let your yea be yea and your shush be shush.'

'Biblical, is that?'

'Oh, Piglet, Piglet. Jimmy Cliff. 1968. Top tune.'

'I think he might have got it from -'

'He sang about the White Cliffs of Dover, you know. Just like Miss Lynn.'

'I don't think Mr Cliff had quite the same experience of Dover as -'

'Your mind, Piglet, your mind is like unto the sky.'

'What's this "like unto" business?'

'Your thoughts are like clouds, Piglet, having a proper old scud. Happy thoughts. Airy thoughts. Then, all of a sudden, sad thoughts. Not all that very nice thoughts.'

'No, Pooh, that's minefieldness.'

'Not mediation?'

'You mediate between things.'

'Ah. Like the devil and the old brown cow?'

'Deep blue sea, Pooh.'

'Oh, code now, is it? Well, purple sparrow to you.'

'No, it's a saying that -'

'Sorry, Piglet, I'm in the zone. Ow…ow…'

'Oum, Pooh.'

'Ow…cow….'

From The Archives: Rabbit Re-Imaged on National Poetry Day

 'Well, Pooh, it's all go....'

'Really?  I'm sorry I missed it.'

'No, no, Thursday. National Pootling Day.'

'Oh, that, yes.'

'Tigger's been visioning Rabbit.'

'He doesn't want to make a habit of that.'

'It means getting him ready for his poetry launch.'

'Oh, really?'

'Yes. He has a proper poet name and everything.'

'Proper poet name? "Rabbit" not good enough?'

'Well it would have been last year. Tigger says that National Ptomaine Day '15 was all about channelling the edgeland-glade-and-wistful-wood vibe, so "Rabbit" would have done nicely. But as Tigger also says, we were then in the then then but now we're now in the now.'

'He does know he's talking out loud?'

'Yes. Tragically. Anyway, they found a name format that's been lying around for a few months because the previous owner no longer has need of it. Having…you know…'

'Having what?'

'Gone to meet his Mater.'

'Oh…oh, you mean that Mr Bowie.'

'No the other one…the one word--'

'Prance.'

'Yes. Only he stopped being that and became The Artist Formerly Known As Prance.'

'So Rabbit became what?'

'The Poet Formerly Known As Rabbit.'

'Doesn't make sense…'

'No, they realised that--'

'I mean, Mr Prance, that was his name. He could stop using it and keep prancing.'

'Yes, Pooh, they--'

'Whereas Rabbit is called Rabbit and is a rabbit.'

'Pooh, they did--'

'He can't un-Rabbit himself, National Potiphar Day or not.'

'Pooh, they modified it.'

'They?'

'Tigger and his PR.'

'Gosh, he has a proportional representative.'

'Or is it PA?'

'Gosh, he's bought Philadelphia.'

'Personal Assistant.'

'Who is?'

'Tiffany Breathless. She came up with what she called an interim-facing-fix-going-somewhere-or-other.'

'Which is what?'

'The Poet Still Intermittently Called Rabbit.'

'Mmm. No. Timing problem, Piglet.'

'Timing?'

'How will we know when he's a poet and when he's a rabbit? We might see him out and about and say, "Hello, Rabbit, how are you?" but if we, you know, pick the wrong time, we might never get "I'm well, thank you" out of him.'

'Well actually, Pooh, they realised that, too, so--'

'I mean I might just want to pass the time of day with him--as him--but instead I might get an earful of that…you know…stuff.'

'Well, that's why they did what Tiffany called an assessment and unfurther-doingness implement, so--'

'I might say "Hello Rabbit" and he might give me the old, you know, "Thou still unvarnished bed of quietness" and all that.'

'They've decided--'

'Or start wittering about that Arthur League and how he kept going onwards--'

'Pooh, they've changed his name again.'

'To?'

'Brer Baudelaire.'

'What?'

'French poet, Baudelaire was. Tigger says he wrote Fleurs du Mal.'

'What's that mean?'

'Flowery and bad, apparently. But he's really famous. Tiffany says the name has cashew.'

'Fleurs…you sure it isn't Mal's Flowers?'

'Ah, well, now, she and Tigger didn't rule that out either.'

'So we're talking about bouquet-facing sponsorship.'

'A tee-shirt, at the very least.'

'"How's my emoting?" No, can't see Rabbit in a tee-shirt. Or writing a poem, come to that.'

'Oh, that's not a priority. The main thing is to be a poet.'

'Has he written any?'

'Just the one.'

'Which is?'

'"With a wife and twelve kids

  and a leaf in my gob

  that's amore.…"'

'They've got their work cut out.'

'Going forwards.'

'Backwards, Piglet. Emphatically backwards.'

Your Auld Yang Syne

 

'Her eyes widened. She was the very picture of astonishment.'

'Pooh, what are you talking about?'

'At long last she was able to speak.'

'Who was?'

'"Oh, Torquil...is it really you? After all these years?".'

'What?'

'My new venture, Piglet. Romance. I'm writing a story to send to the outfit that does all those love sagas...you know, their eyes went crossed across a rheumy crowd and all that.'

'What, Mills and - '

'Wills and Whiffs, that's the one. All the world loves a lover, Piglet. So I bethought me that I'd betake me to pen and paper and becoin me a few extra bob.'

'So who's your hero?'

'Torquil Broadshoulder. Commissioned officer in India in the last days of Reg.'

'You mean the Raj.'

'No, Reg, his superior, about to retire.'

'Is that a name? Torquil?'

'Of course it is. Old French, you know. Ou le Wisdom Normand, as we initiatives say. Derives from tranquil, which just happens to be his key quality, and Torquay, which just happens to be where he embarked for India.'

'From Torquay?'

'Oh, picky picky...look, I'll chuck in a paragraph about chaotic sailing schedules.'

'Right. And the lady?'

'Lavinia Tempestheart. Youngest of three daughters, still living with her father at his rectory in the village of Soft Verges, a curlew's twitch from Aylesbury.'

'I see.'

'Dutiful, she is. Helping dad. Good works in the parish. But actually she's in an ecstasy of molten passion.'

'Funny sort of rectory.'

'In her secret world, Piglet!'

'Ah, I see...Tempestheart.'

'Pretty nifty, eh? A creative's name, that.'

'Creative what? That's an adjective.'

'Oh, Piglet, where have you been? All adjectives are nouns these days. And all verbs. The barriers are down.'

'I see.'

'Anyway, she and Torquil were childhood sweethearts, gazing hand-in-hand of a summer night upon a golden, rolling Vespa - till fate decreed.'

'Decreed what?'

'Again, Piglet, you're stuck in the starting-trap. Fate doesn't have to fossick about with the why and the warehouse. It just decrees.'

'Well I never.'

'Nor has Lavinia. Anyway, her one pleasure is an occasional trip to London. So there she is, Oxford Street, looking at all the swish shops and imagining a life that, with malevolent caprice, has been so cruelly denied her - when suddenly, she tingles at an intimation.'

'What, in broad daylight?'

'A sound, Piglet. A voice. She hasn't heard it for years but there's no mistaking...it thrills her to the phwoar.'

'Core.'

'You may well say "Cor". This is her moment, Piglet. La plus ca spare change. Her epiffle. Her apotheotheosis. She turns round. She says what I said at the start. Sorry, intones...all trembling, like.'

'And he says?'

'"Lavinia. My darling. I stand before you, your Auld Yang Syne. Yes, it is I it is me except after 'c' - here, cop hold of me troth".'

'I assume that her eyes have opalescent depths.'

'Oh, for pity's sake, Piglet, she's not a drinker.'

'But he needs something to gaze into.'

'Well, all right, he can gaze into his epaulettes.'

'How can you twist your head to gaze - '

'He's taken them off, Piglet! They were chafing him something rotten.'

'Right. And after that?'

'What do you mean, after that? That's it. That's what the readers have been waiting for. Honestly, I'm obviously casting pearls before - '

'Don't say that!'

'Ah...yes, sorry. Anyway...it's a winner, yes? My public will lap it up. Not a dry eye in the hearse.'

'Broadshoulder, eh?'

'Yes, particularly proud of that, I am.'

'So his other shoulder - narrow?'

'I knew I should have tried this out on Barbara Cartload.'