Thelma
A family of shawl bearers and a side order of cabraal
My Darling Ma-hinder
Heavens to Betsy my dear fellow, if it hasn’t been an exhilarating ride on a dizzying gradient for you chaps from Humbug-tots despite losing out to Gold Coast in the Games bid.
Take last Friday. Not only did the courts present you with a carefully gift wrapped Birthday bouquet and bung the Fonnie into the cooler yet again, but the celebratory kiribath and pol sambol I’m told was not so bad either.
There I was pacing the meadows with a heavy tread trying to calm my rattled nerves after a particularly harrowing day at the Mottled Lobster – the local pub across the street, when Begorra and Begob as father Patrick once said turning to his alter boy Fergusson; I heard the most frightful cock a doodling that could have only emanated from an ancient rooster with one of the more serious cases of the adenoids. It was not before I had rotated my turnip 360 degrees looking for this afflicted bird that I realized it was my bally mobile phone ringing.
‘Hallooo,’ the voice screeched at the other end sounding overheated and feverish. ‘Your friend Ma-hinder has got Fonnie convicted.’
My first impulse was to say, ‘so what’ but I repressed the urge admirably and tut tutted with the sufficient dollop of commiseration dripping from my lips.
Lest you think my ‘so what’ was somewhat blasé and unsympathetic under the circs darling, it’s just that Thellie recognizes Paradise for the hellhole we have all come to know and love and what’s a false imprisonment or two among friends eh what?
Be that as it may darling, you must pat yourself on the back or the rump whichever you and Shiro prefer, dear. Why, you ask puzzled? I will tell you why. For your unmatched talents in that little area of stage props and costume design old sock, that’s why.
Your backdrop to the Verdict Drama was simply exquisite, right down to the way kele pathara a.k.a death threats (wink, wink) were so cleverly scratched on scented parchment by Fonnie as he sat not only wistfully looking upon that Wildesian little tent of blue that prisoners call the sky, but also apparently composing nasty little scandal sheets to be dispatched by express mail to the sober ones and a witness.
It is entirely plausible even to the meanest intelligence among your kept press that during a hard fought game of elle on the Welikada lawn either one eyed Ranjith in cell number 2 or scarface Simon Singho in the isolation chamber ventured to advice old Fonnie that the best way to charm the sober ones on the hill would be to send them billets doux filled with fond sentences about naughty bits in the human anatomy.
I mean to say with rags even publishing the full monty, what if my children had seen it? They didn’t I may as well tell you, only by the purest good fortune that they haven’t been born yet.
Anyway I quite understand your irritation dear. This Fonnie has been putting his foot in it hasn’t he, calling you a nepotist and a racist? Ichabod, He’ll be calling Hitler a racist next, what!
So there you have it. Fonnie safely out of the way and the common or garden Paradisian clutching at his/her purse and heaving a sigh of relief that Gold Coast won the Commonwealth games.
If ever I had felt happy dearie that your Loku Putha and little Lord Fauntleroy hadn’t got his way, then this time was that time. There I was watching your off spring’s little presentation to the Games committee while lying back on my arm chair sucking on a straw the other end of which was liberally dunked in a nippy little Chardonnay, when out of the shadows pops that poop Cabraal determined to enliven proceedings by standing at my elbow like a wet weekend. Well not my elbow per se but at the bally podium at least, spouting this and that about infrastructure and what not like a ludicrous popinjay.
While the Gold Coast showcased their beaches, infrastructure capabilities and sport personalities you set up a thatched roof, poured out the moonshine and raised the curtain on Cabraal and Loku Putha both of whom had the charm of a Pharisee at a Jewish kindergarten picnic.
The most that humbug tots could boast about despite having spend $2.6 million on administering the bid and millions more on baila parties including taking a mammoth delegation of 160 to St Kitts when only 20 came from down under – were a family of shawl bearers and a side order of Cabraal.
This desire to keep Helping Humbugs has got to stop dear. It can’t end well. Remember the last time? I refer to when you were caught by yours truly shoveling tsunami funds into your back pocket like a bally stevedore loading a grange ship. A lot of heartache and you hastily returning the loot when you realized the jig was up, and the devil of a time with the media. If not for your pal the retired Sober Silva you would not have escaped with the skin of your teeth in tact.
While you may seem glued to your chair for now dearie, these things don’t last forever. The glitch in your case my old former amateur dictator, is that you are burning the candle at both ends.
Toodle pip for the nonce
Thellie Bellie