Wednesday 28 December 2016

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 

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)


Anonymous said...

Brilliant satire again from Cadno.The majority of councillors must surely feel even a modicum of shame if they read this and all the comments from various sources.If they don't then they should. be accused of being unethical. That is of course unless they can admit they were strictly controlled by someone who makes all the rules to fit their own agenda.

Anonymous said...

Neil Burman's petition for Mark James to be investigated is on Facebook - everyone please sign and share!

Anonymous said...

A link would help...