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Thelma

 


Up the garden path and down the pallang

My Dear Ma-hinder,

There's only one word to describe it darling.spell check. no.. bounder.. no.. that's not it. Oh yes, I remember now, spell binding. That's what you were darling - spell binding, as your captive audience watched you walking the talk with that Gupta fellow.

A nice-ish sort of chap I thought. Taking you up the bally garden path only to bring you back down the pallang in that gentle way of his. Good thing you made one thing clear about not being an Oxonian. Look what good it did to that O'Flahertie Finigel Oscar O Wilde. Died at the tender age of 42 and had to be buried in gay Paree. Well come to think of it maybe that was appropriate in a way. But you get my drift. And as you keep saying you are from the village, you have to only ask Hillary Clinton who will no doubt tell you that it often takes a village.

It takes a village for instance to produce a village idiot. It takes a village also to produce a buffoon. And If I may say so it sometimes even takes a rather courageous village to produce the likes of you.      

It was one thing to have you promise the Jawan's of the late 1980s a sort of shrine in bricks and mortar. A monument did you call it? But it was quite another for you to go about picking the location dearie. I mean to say, the last thing you want to have lying about amongst the debris of posters, cardboard cut outs, bill boards, hoardings and wathcumacallits of our latest pin up boy (you) is a great big monument to a bunch of Jawans.

I don't know if like the late Anton Bala you will later call it a monumental blunder a decade down the line, but there it is. I've said it. My advice to you is don't make monuments for or erect cut out posters of any mortal soul.

I don't know if you visited the Liberty Cinema two decades or so ago. Perhaps you were busy paying pooja to the Jawans, I don't know. But if you did go for an evening to the picture hall, you would have been able to catch a glimpse of The Ten Commandments. The picture would have given you a pretty good idea of what happened the last time the Israelites built for themselves a golden calf.

That bearded bounder, Charlton Heston broke the bally Ten Commandments on the small of its glistening yellow back. The gun-loving fellow should have attended anger management classes ere he attempted to lead a gaggle of hungry Jews to a land flowing with milk and honey. And the upshot? The fellow had to climb all the way up Mt. Sinai back again to the top of the tip and wait for God to etch another sketch. Serves him right. Good thing in those days God was more in the habit of speaking from burning bushes and so on and so forth.

And talking of burning bushes Thellie is a little concerned about the fauna and flora of the north. This is as good a time as any to tell you darling that I was none too pleased on a visit to the east recently to find all the foliage looking terribly dismal. Somewhat like the burnt butter cookies my aged aunt sometimes offers up to her guests. Thellie has girded up her loins so to speak to inspect in that inquiring way of hers the northern extremities of Paradise soon, so let's hope no scorching blades of grass meets my jaundiced eye.

Speaking of the north dearie I was surprised to find that you wanted to pack off the old cyanide capsule to England or Germany. First I thought you may have conspired again in some hotel room in Europe. You know with that aged gargoyle from Point Pedro. The chap with a chip on his wrinkled shoulders, sporting a mean outlook on life who sometimes masquerades as an editor to the equally bogus website or blog (or maybe that's an 'l' too many) called Asian something or the other - a tribune or shall we say a tribute to buffoonery, ignorance, indignity and geriatric frustration. Perhaps having conferred with the bally ferret in human shape you decided like you did with Karuna, to pack the head cyanide off to ole Blighty as well.

I mean one can hardly say the British have been adequately compensated for their 150 years of colonial rule. What better way to show your gratitude than to send them neatly and diplomatically packaged cyanide chaps as gifts. 

Though one is entitled to think I suppose that 18 years of hosting the southern cyanide Soma Amara-lion would have been ample punishment for the stiff lipped chaps.

Anyway wanting to send Cyanide off to Europe is all well and good dearie. I mean to say the scorching sun of the north is enough to make anyone crabby. And the French Riviera or the Lake District will do the Head Cyanide a world of good, not to mention what it would do for the skin of the Mrs.

My suggestion is this darling. Even as you put into operation the scheme outlined by you to gift the Head Cyanide to Europe why don't you and your three brothers apply for visas to Toronto? And with that village idiot sometimes masquerading as a human and worse still as a journo - Bandu somebody or other now placed in there as consul general by you, Thellie assures you, you will not need, like your other pal of the same ilk - Mervyn, to brandish a gun to obtain under threat your travel documents.

Bandu, the other buffoon, will do it all for you from the Toronto end. 

Often I wonder as I sit sipping my Moet & Chandon what posterity holds for you m'dear and now greatness is within your reach. Leave Paradise I say, leave it. Be happy in Toronto or California. Achieve your dreams in Vladivostock or Timbuctoo, Manchester or the French Riviera. Already you have done Paradise a great service by removing certain blots from the sunshine of Paradisian life. All it takes is a visit to the Canadian you know what. Take them a maple leaf bouquet. That should do it.

All I can say dearie is like Cyanide to Europe, you too should go in peace. 


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