Cadno sets the Scene - The Carmarthenshire Herald

As a festive treat, here's another splendid offering from Herald columnist Cadno;

Cadno Sets the Scene

What is Christmas, if not a time of tradition? You know, readers: the rising of the sun. the running of the deer, holly, mistletoe, the warm glow of festive cheer. All of those things and Boxing Day: Revenge of the sprouts.
And panto,
Ah, panto, readers! 

When Cadno was a wee young cub, panto was very much part of the period around the Christmas festival. It always struck Cadno as very peculiar that Mr Hopkin, the village's lonely Anglican, who spent most of the year looking like he sucked lemons for a living, threw himself into womens' clothing with such abandon as soon as the stage was dressed in the village hall. Odder still that Cadno's grandmother, a woman of strict rectitude and devoutness, chortled mightily to all those double-entendres about farting, which Cadno was sure she should not get. 

There was something about pantomime that was both hearteningly old-fashioned and compellingly modern. The best pantos mocked the events and personalities which were in the news or - as we used to say  - 'on the telly', while remaining old-fashioned. And they haven't changed much, readers: at least, the best of them. 

But Cadno's favourite bit was the oldest remnant of staging a performance: the prologue that set the scene. These are, of course, fossils from very old comedies indeed - the concept would have been familiar to those who sat in the rickety temporary theatres of Rome in the centuries before what is now regarded as the first Christmas. Playgoers watching the Roman equivalent af a Carry On film penned by Plautus would understand the stock characters and elaborate smutty jokes. And so we come to Cadno's own effort to add to the ouevre.

The houselights are dimmed. And before the curtain goes up on Gaol Hill's stage on comes, well, readers, see if you can guess who it is...

I am neither fool nor knave

In fact, I think I am quite brave

Are you surprised I'm quite cranky?

Working with Trimsaran's Widow 

Twankey

Believe me, I'm not the vengeful sort

Brandishing contempt of court

Around my head like a shroud

To keep you local heroes cowed.

Two thousand and seventeen, in May

That;s when there will be hell to pay

At ballot box, in public vote

And on this you can me quote

The Indies patiently their chance bide

All the blame they'll put on Plaid

While Labour hope you have forgot

That they achieved precisely squat

In fact they're pulling a confidence trick

Because they believe you're all quite thick

And will not begin to wonder how

Their policies they've abandoned now

High principles they now proclaim

In truth they should share the blame

With Meryl and her Indie gang

For bankrolling me without a pang

Too late, too late, now to repent

Once the public money's spent

With Meryl telling me I'm great

Labour gave me on a plate

The keys of Carmarthenshire

And now put all the blame on her

For not restraining my ambition

And leading the Council to perdition

With Labour's help Meryl indulged

My sense of self-worth 'til it bulged

And bursting out from every pore

Led me to the High Court's door

There the judge ruled in his decree

That there are no strings on me

A vile calumny, His Honour said

And poured opprobrium on the head..

On her who]swore upon the Bible

That she had not poor me libelled

Yes, her criticism I'll now douse

By sending bailiffs to her house

At this festive time of year

I'll see her out upon her ear

To fund my action I have spent

Council cash on a learned gent

To make sure I shall have my way

And Councillors shall have no say

Upon my scheme to make her homeless

With the aid of those quite boneless

And I will bend their will to mine

In lieu of them possessing spines

From criticism I shall be exempt

By threatening all with contempt

Of court for it is plain

That for all I have disdain

So long have I been their king

I've got them all for me to sing

From the hymn sheet of my choosing

While oleaginously oozing

Wise words of guidance as I sit near

The Council Chairman's very ear

Words which are told to me

By those who advise legally

Upon what it is I want to do

To make sure nothing can get through

Displeasing me to raise my hackles

By those from the tin tabernacles

Which sit upon the hillside green

Who want me to control my spleen

And show that surprising rarity

Acting with Christian charity

I'll take no lessons from their sort

With derision I shall snort

To add to my position sheen

I'll get advice from the team

Described as hopelessly 'cavalier'

For their arguments most queer

Of legal issues small and great

To make sure discussion shall abate

A biddable counsellor I'll seek

To give the council's rules a tweak

Bereft of independent thought

They'll do for me just as they ought

A panto horse, each end a sphincter,

My faithful steed, the Erylinda

And now, electors, on with our show

But do not worry, feel not low

Whatever happens at the next election

The council shall not change direction

Your new reps will all play along

As I plan to go on and on

For truly friends, is it not written

It is better to reign in hell...

than serve in heaven?

(The Carmarthenshire Herald 23rd December, reproduced with permission)