CURRENT COMMENT

Taranaki Daily News, 31 March 1934, Page 13 (Supplement)

CURRENT COMMENT

OTHER POINTS OF VIEW

(By M. 0.5.) Paris is said to be “buzzing. They should take a little water with their Stavisky. *•* * . . A lady walked into an Eltham solicitor’s office recently. “Do you extract teeth?” she asked the astonished man.— We believe he bit. * * • * Would it be incorrect to say that it was not necessarily lack of literary merit that prevented publication of some of the limericks in the Eltham Plunket competition? ♦ * •. * . The businessmen who object to the recent “concessions” in telegraph charges have my sympathy. (Not at all, ah; don’t bother to thank me). The concessions remind me of my aunt, Mrs. Weevil, who by taking Dr. Yammers Purple Pellets for Podgy People reduced her weight from 16st 21b to list 41b m less than six weeks my dear. ’

Germaine Huot, who was accused of having murdered M. Jean Causeret, was found guilty of “homicide by imprudence,” and was sentenced to two years imprisonment. Taking the above as a precedent we shall perhaps see a report like this in the Daily News some day: “Hermione Blottle, who was accused of slaying her husband, her aunt,' her mother-in-law and the small girl with the sniffle from next door, was found guilty of naughtiness by the Suoreme Court at New Plymouth on Wednesday. “You must promise not to be a bad girl again, said His Honour, imposing a fine of 10s.

Rugged Rugby.

Now does that hulking brute, the footballer, begin to think about his collar, and about time too. » . , Out into the mud you brawny bruisers! Sharpen your teeth, put spikes in your boots, bang your heads against a brick wall in preparation for the lock that tries to butt in. Leave your better half for a better half. Put out that cigarette and leave that beer unsunk. O may the mud this season be the muddiest mud that ever was geen. May you bite great bucketfuls of it every Saturday. May you wallow in it! Pink me gentlemen, may you tear each Other to pieces for my delectation! For I shall be watching you from the sideline. I do not play now. Years ago, before Mr. McLeod, Porter, or President Roosevelt were heard of, I played a game of football. As I grew in wisdom and spiritual understanding, I came to th« conclusion that football was a shin. • '• « * ' : Poem. {Composed on first glimpsing Mount Egmont again after a fortnight’s absence). Ah Mount Egmont I see thee again. Faugh! How do you, by the way, pronounce “faugh?” . Personally, I say foff, but it ■may be faw, faff, fuff or even fouff. And is “ugh” pronounced ug? What do ugh think? Write and tell Aunt Sophie all about it. It reminds me of the novels where the hero, obviously an expert linguist, says "phew.” You know. „ “I am going out to bite the postman,” said Angela, the lovelight flooding her eyes, her ears and the tip of her long curved, nose. ’ “Phew!” ; exclaimed Geoffrey, bending ©ver to pick up his eyes, which had popped out of his head. •,# * • Mr. Bumpiesnitch 1 and Krishnamurti. Stap my vitals, beetroots, they have banned Krishnamurti! A murki thing to do. Dear old Mother New Zealand gathering her skirts about her and fleeing in pious horror lest the man should contaminate her with a word. And Krishnamurti the gentlest gentleman of our age. I repeat, stap my vitals! I might mention (in fact l am going to mention) that I am at variance with my friend Mr. Bumpiesnitch on this matter. When discussing it with me yesterday over a cup of cocoa and a pound of seed cake, he roundly condemned what he called Krishnamurti’s “pernicious doctrines.” I asked him if he had read any of the philosopher’s work. “Certainly not!” he replied with just indignation. “As for the banning of the Bernard Shaw broadcast,” he continued, “in my opinion tite old billygoat ought to be pole-axed.” A cousin of mine, Weevil by name (a connection on the distaff side with the well-known Golfing Biscuits) considers that there is something to be said on both sides. I may mention (and indeed I am mentioning) as a further illustration of the profundity of Mr. Bumpiesnitch’s intellect, an observation he made to me on my return from the horrible bogs, bugs, puddles and pubs’ I have been frequenting for the last fortnight. I was talking to him about the splendour of the waves as they break on the coastline by Tongaporutu. “There- is something about the sea,” I said. “It stirs mj soul and even makes me forget the Stratford farmers who want to be persecuted for their heavy traffic fees.” "Ah me, the sea is. very large and wet,” remarked Mr. Bumpiesnitch pithily. « » * * While I was camping, by the way, I came to the conclusion that there is only one trouble about going camping, and that is going camping. I reached this decision ,on the day when the rats ate half a cake of soap. It was a widelyadvertised brand, but how the rats knew it was desirable passes my comprehension. Even their best friends would not tell them. • • • • Shavian Shavings. The newspapers of the world next week will be featuring the amazing encounters two of my friends had with Mr. Bernard Shaw in Auckland. One, a pale young man wearing a bright green shirt, met . the great man in the street. “Good morning Mr. Shaw,” he said. Mr. Shaw did not reply. The other, whose name is not Algernon, saw Mr. Shaw in the distance and cheerily waved to him. The great man, however, did not wave back. Pending a request from the Te Roti Chamber of Commerce to address them on “My friendship with Bernard Shaw” I have commemorated the second encounter in the following exquisite lines: O Mary call the cattle home And tell them all about it; And call the pigs and peacocks, too And tell them not to doubt it, For yesterday I met a man With a strong and silent jaw Who’d met a man who’d met a man Who’d waved to Bernard Shaw.