Tag Archives: nonsense

2108. Would you believe?

I was walking along the road when I saw it. It was a lovely summer’s afternoon. Not much traffic. And there it was! On the side of the road. I was blown away. I had never seen anything like it before.

When I got home I told my wife.

“You won’t believe what I saw today. Suddenly. On the side of the road. There it was.”

“Goodness gracious!” she said. “Is it safe?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I suppose I should report it.”

“But who do you report it to?” she asked. “The police?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’d imagine the police wouldn’t be interested. It’s not a crime.”

“Well who then?” she asked.

“Do you want to come and have a look?” I said. “It will probably still be there.”

So we walked along the road. It was really rather exciting. But when we got there it was nowhere to be seen.

“Blast!” said Janina. “I’ve never seen the rare Purple-Spotted Seven-Toed Toad before.”

2085. Like a pig in muck

Wow! I’ve just been awarded the “I’m the Only One in the World to Get this Award” Award! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you to the anonymous benefactor. It didn’t come via email or via any social media. It didn’t come via a blog. It came via traditional mail post; or if it didn’t it could well have.

There are a whole lot of responsibilities that come with this Award – like nominating ten more bloggers but not telling any of them who you are. In fact it should be so secret that it’s recommended that you don’t even tell the people you have nominated. If you’re reading this, you know who you are.

I also have to answer heaps of questions, like “How does one do that?” and “What are those things made of?” and “Tell us something you don’t know”. They’re the type of questions that Oprah would ask.

One of my favourite questions is: “How on earth do you think of something sensible to say every day on your blog?” It’s not easy, I can tell you. Some people post absolute claptrap. Pure hokum! Hooey! They seem to revel in wasting people’s time. Not so I. And so say all of us, and so say all of us, for he’s a jolly good fellow. Hip Hip Hooray!

It certainly feels surreal to get this Award. I keep pinching myself. It’s very hard to think straight when one is so excited.

To add to the excitement I’m expecting today (ordered online) some Yorkshire Tea bags (Yorkshire tea – a brand – being the only tea we drink – morning, noon, and night).

My life is filled with happiness and this Award is the icing on the cake. I’m as happy as a pig in muck.

2062. Twaddle

Now and again it’s fun to have a guest blogger, so I have invited Scholastica to post something on my blog today. Scholastica is a pseudonym for Vonnie Blotchard. Scholastica is a name which has overtones of scholar and elastic. In other words, Vonnie is a flexible student of life. She is open to new ideas and ways of doing things and expanding and contracting thoughts.

Only the other day she posted on her own blog – which has subsequently been removed – a method of killing quivering moths that might come fluttering into your living quarters at night when you’ve left the light on. It is a merciless method intended to teach the moth a jolly good lesson and involves a pair of tweezers and a broomstick. Brilliant!

Also on her blog Scholastica sometimes lets her twin brother Benedict, who goes under the name of Imintofootball, post a blog on her blog which I must admit is very kind considering the nonsense he comes up with.

Scholastica on the other hand is thoughtful yet wildly inventive. That is why I invited her to do a posting on my blog. She has spent a lot of time thinking about it. She is a master – or rather a mistress (perhaps even neither one nor the other) – of Obscurantism. If you don’t know what Obscurantism is then you will know once you’ve read Scholastica’s wonderful contribution. Take it away, Scholastica!

Blabbercation on the windy trail of life.

Well done, Scholasica! See! I told you! If anyone has any comments about her contribution please leave them on this blog and not email or text Scholastica personally.

I said at the start that it was fun now and again to have a guest blogger. But it’s more than fun. Possibly for some of you more dreary readers it can be a life-changing experience. To have said “Blabbercation” rather than “Blobbercation” or even “Bloggeration” or “Buggeration” is a feat in itself and shows the altitude to which Scholastica these days flies about in. Elastic scholar indeed!

You will no doubt be disappointed that these guest bloggers on my blog are very rare. It’s getting harder and harder to find a good blogger these days. Too often bloggers post nothing but twaddle.

2000. The nicest you’ll get

A celebration of the 2000th story, in which Pravin Pilkington-Hooghiemster reposts his favorite interview. It is with the famous author, Bruce Goodman (aka Brieuse Bernhard Piers-Gûðmönd), with a reprint of the magazine cover in which the interview first appeared.

The Self-Effacing National Treasure

“If you set out to take Vienna, take Vienna”

“The nicest you’ll get”

Monday, 16 November 2020

Seated at a wooden table on the veranda of a log cabin in the Appalachians somewhere, it’s hard to imagine that one is talking to New Zealand’s most performed playwright. And it’s most profound.

“Profound?” he smiles. “Who said that?”

“I read it somewhere,” I answer.

“Then you’re better read than I am,” he chuckles. It’s hard to believe. The walls of Bruce Goodman’s log cabin are lined with bookshelves of ancient Greek plays, the complete writings of Napoleon, the novels, short stories, plays, poetry, biographies, philosophical treatises, and histories of old and modern North America, Europe, the Indian Subcontinent, Central and South America, Africa, and Oceania.

“It’s too far from here to the library”, he mutters. “Besides, they won’t give me a library card.”

I ask which of his prolific outpourings is his favorite play. “The latest one”, he says without hesitation, as if he has been asked a thousand times before. “It’s always the latest one. In this case it’s Café Play, yet to be performed. And Qatar. There’s one of them getting done in Qatar at present. They put it into Arabic.”

Goodman has an impressive list of works and awards to his name. “The first full-length play I wrote was Cloud Mother. The reviewers declared during its successful run that Goodman was an experienced playwright. I tried to announce that in fact it was my first, but no one seemed to want to listen. So they keep on getting written and performed. I’ve been experienced since the start”.

How then does it feel to be compared at various times and by various critics to Shakespeare, Goethe, Chekhov, Ibsen, Miller, Brenton? Beckett even. And Ionesco. Pinter. Ian Baird.

“It’s all in the head,” he says. “I write one scene with King Neptune’s wife wearing a rope chignon and they think it’s reminiscent of the second part of Goethe’s Faust. The truth is – I reckon – that they find it hard to categorize the plays. The best observation probably was from the person who said my scripts were all upside down and backwards. I don’t mean them to be. It’s just that I don’t know any better”.

And why no agent?

“I used an agent once. For a whole year not a single script got performed. So I took them back and pushed them myself. The following year there were over 1200 productions.”

And what’s the secret?

“Well, as Napoleon said, if you set out to take Vienna, take Vienna.”

The interview has ended. I’m offered a cup of tea; a proper tea, not the apricot-scent-of-Alaska that can be gotten from specialty shops.

And may we take a photo for the magazine cover?

“I got one here you can use. It’s old, but it’s the nicest you’ll get”.

Poem 99: At last! A poem for academics!

See the new moon up-slip
and flare its vicious whips of light
across the back of night.
The moon bears no delight, but brings
dull rays of hurts and stings
made yesterday. It sings cold songs
old songs that don’t belong
if we are to move on and make
a fresh and novel take
in the lake while baking a cake.

To hear this poem being read click HERE!

Apologies for poor audio – broken mic.

1974. Fallen off the edge

That bull outside our window has mooed ceaselessly all night and now it is horse.

Hoarse, son, not horse.

Same thing.

No it’s not. It’s spelled differently.

I’m saying it, not spelling it.

Typical youth of today. You can’t read. You talk talk talk. Or failing that, you text everything and spelling doesn’t matter.

Aha! Aha! Aha! I’ve been proved right!

How so?

That bull just had a baby and it’s a foal. So there!

There’s only A difference between foAl and fool. And bulls can’t have babies.

I give up. You’re just an anti-transgender racist. Totally illogical. And you are homophobic and use plastic. Xenophobic ageist! Come back when you can think straight about gay people and the legalization of maruwanja marjuieguiba maruawana canabas pot.

At least I’m not hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobic.

1697. The unbald prima donna

(There is a tradition in folk tales, oft overlooked or frowned upon, of telling the occasional story that is complete nonsense, utter silliness, foolish to the nth degree. For the next three days, today included, the stories will attempt to be in that genre. I’ve always been rather partial to the style.)

Matilda had the most beautiful singing voice, but she was so shy that no one ever heard her sing. Every day she would sneak outside to behind the farm barn and sing arias from famous operas.

One freezing winter’s day it was so cold behind the barn that the music Matilda sang hung in the air. There were literally frozen notes unflinchingly dangling in the sky. Matilda scurried back inside to get warm next to the coal range.

A country yokel happened to be passing and he saw the hanging frozen notes and gathered them up into his haversack. He took them to the local opera house where the notes quickly defrosted.

“Is that you singing?” asked the maestro in charge.

“It is indeed,” said the yokel.

He was given the role of Friedrich in Wagner’s Das Liebesverbot. It was a disaster because the character of Friedrich was a bass and Matilda was a coloratura soprano.

In the meantime, Matilda continued to sing secretly behind the barn. Which just goes to show, doesn’t it?

1691. Hershel’s busy month

Hershel was an undertaker, and he thought it strange that of the fifty bodies he’d dealt with that month twenty-seven of them were called John. Usually there were only a couple of deaths per month in his area, although it went up a little in the depths of winter. One month he once got six bodies, two of whom were Michael. But now in one month fifty bodies! And twenty-seven called John? Goodness me!

To make matters even weirder, of the fifty deaths twenty-two of them were female and therefore would probably never be called John. That meant that twenty-seven out of twenty-eight males were called John. The sole non-John was called Hector.

Further pondering produced other startling results. Of the twenty-seven Johns, twenty-six of them had the surname of Smith. Twenty-six John Smiths in one month! The only John who didn’t have the surname of Smith was John Gillespie-Fotheringham. That must surely be some sort of record.

The experts mulled over how such a thing could happen. It was a mystery. And then the reason was pointed out. Sometimes some things in life are so obvious. It was staring everyone in the face. John Gillespie-Fotheringham was a clerical error. There were twenty-seven John Smiths after all. What a relief!

Poem 84: Stuck inside on yet another rainy day

It’s raining on my pomposity.
Now my pomposity’s all wet.
It’s a monstrosity.

Precipitation precipitates with considerable velocity.
There’s no stopping ‘locity
with or without an apostrophe.

Perhaps I should try reciprocity.
But rain falls with such ferocity
it makes reciprocity preposterously an impotossity.

If I’d been born a rhinoceros I’d have a lot more rhinosity.
I tell you, once my pomposity gets wet
I get filled with ridiculous verbosity.

It’s a philosophical atrocity,
especially when stuck inside
on yet another rainy day.

To hear the poem read aloud click HERE.

 

1256. Weather

Keitha never imagined that there’d be so much weather when she moved to her new country.

“I never imagined there’d be so much weather,” said Keitha to her newly discovered neighbour, Averil.

“Yes, we certainly get a lot of weather,” said Averil.

“You don’t know what it’s going to do next,” said Keitha. “It’s just weather weather weather.”

“You get used to having weather every day,” said Averil.

“Back home where I come from, we don’t have weather every day,” said Keitha.

Averil expressed surprise. “You don’t?” gasped Averil. “I would have thought where you came from that there’d be a lot more weather than here.”

“We don’t realize how lucky we are,” said Keitha. “Let us rejoice and be glad.”