|
A
banquet for the media chappies
By
Henry Holden Bottle |
My
Dear Madam,
I
need scarcely enlarge upon the agony of spirit which the discovery
last week, that you actually read this rag, caused a vast number
of honest Paradisians. You see darling, I had been sneaking
valuable tit bits meant for those blue flies in your soup, safe in
the knowledge spread about freely by your PR Manager, that only
your nether regions, your south side, your ample posterior, had
the privilege of my humble gibberings.
While
admittedly, your preferred use for this rag has always been rather
less self elevating though necessary, (I am only too aware that no
job is finished till the paper work is done)
judge of my surprise, when last week I realised that you do
indeed peruse this rag.with your eyes. |
No
doubt, now that you have temporarily discontinued this rag from your
toilet paper range long enough to settle your eyes, like two blobs of
vitriol on the contents thereof, you will agree that the paper is
everything it was 'crack'd' up to be.
But
now to eating disorders. Surrounded though you were with your media
advisors and pink dollar economist Mangala, organising a banquet for the
media chappies could not have been an easy task. What with having to
keep thoroughbred canines from being fed by over zealous media types,
your pet vet must have been kept on her paws.
Cohabitation,
Ranil, Anura and of course, yourself seem to have been the subjects that
most excited your imagination. Cohabitation is out you say. I take it
then that the decree nisi has been made absolute. The divorce is final.
Your sentiments on Ranil I read with sympathy. I mean to say, a man, as
you so allude, who listens to a conversation in cabinet, while draping
one long upper limb over the rim of a chair back, and does this foul act
while all the time shaking his leg like an unset jelly, cannot be a
suitable cohabitee.
A
chap who once long ago toddled after you in blue diapers shouting akki,
akki, but chooses to ignore you at a dinner hosted by his uncle Ranjith,
is a chap with a low and frivolous outlook temperamentally unfit for his
high office. No matter that the fellow has been stuck up there by some
mindless Paradisian voters. What matters is you.
I
cannot say I am not surprised at this sudden fall out. All this time I
felt you too were secretly holding hands unbeknownst to the general
public and relatives. Your childhood connection has been a byword or
buzz word if you like, in political circles.
I
mean to say, you two were almost like thingammajig and what's it.
Indeed
when I wanted to convey my cordiality in private and my animosity in
public towards somebody I would analogise with reference to you and
Ranil.
Anyway
darling, when on the occasion to which I allude, namely the dinner you
hosted for the media chaps, you stood pink and genial on the
presidential hearth rug, bulging with pol sambol and chicken curry and
wreathed in smiles that only come with having batted all around the
wicket, you will readily understand, why the ears of the fly planted on
your wall were flapping uncontrollably.
Judge
of my surprise to hear you call the Morogada chappie a sweet idiot. I am
not sure that he liked this flip-sided compliment. Me thinks the bald
headed poop might have preferred if you credited him with a tad more
intelligence.
Conspicuous
by his absence was of course Mallo. Correct me if I am wrong dear, but
it would seem you went out of your way to discipline the young buck in
front of many a pen pusher. But then, you know him best dear. A man with
a deep dark side which I, with my pure and innocent Portuguese mind can
scarcely credit.
A
particularly loquacious grape from my vine tells me that the deeply
Lankan ed ambled up like a courtly mustang eager to bring about a
settlement between you and the timely lion. But then, cohabitation is
not your cup of tea, is it?
I
assure you dear, some of these media chaps as you may well know, having
had some in your cabinet, are birds, who, when the conditions are right,
can be the life and soul of a party. Shoot a few stiffish cocktails into
them and they will not hesitate to unship an ingratiating smile, lean
cordially over the table, grab a piece of sugary dessert from the
half-eaten bowl of a colleague, and chomp down. As I always say, the
life and soul darling, the life and soul.
But
ripe as your language usually is from stem to stern, my ears began to
work loose at the roots when I heard about you wanting to cut your neck
and send your severed nut to mister pee if he ever agreed to federalism.
Really darling, how distasteful! Besides, the way you were seen to gulp
down the chicken curry at this banquet dear, I am compelled to echo
(with apologies to him of course), Churchill's words uttered in a
somewhat nastier dilemma during the great war, and say to you 'some
chicken, some bloody neck.'
By
the way, you are absolutely right about the broken English in this
newspaper dear. We must tell the girls not to quote you so much. Surely,
reporting a President verbatim is quite out of fashion these days. But
then, what do these Kotahena Benedictine chaps know about the Queen's
language. Having lived with Vijaya for many years, you would be a
champion on the subject.
Ahh!
Those were the days dear. I knew a girl once who had this habit of
shouting 'Soap piece on almairah top,' whenever her buxom mother asked
her a question. Painted Kotahena a vivid shade of red that girl and
eventually shoved off to Melbourne due to some Banda chappie doing
something unspeakable with the legislation. Come to think of it darling,
the state of English in Paradise seems to be all your pater's fault. But
thanks to Sorbonne, at least the French is good. You agree with me,
n'est-ce pas?
More
Stories
|
