Scotland, specifically Edinburgh during the Fringe, is an inspiring place full of ideas and concepts, and not a few conceits. We saw things to make us wince, to stop the breath, to trigger tears and lots and lots of laughter. We also saw things that struggle to reach average and the occasional total bomb. But I don’t much care for the dross I caught because the upside more than outweighs the down.
Thus I found myself inspired once again to utterly and completely ruin one of the Nation’s favourite poems. The Jabberwock.
‘Twas brillig and the slithy toves
Did what Toves do, on wet Tuesdays
When men in spats were all ‘By Joves’
And lost their hats in various ways.
The rabbit tapped his watch and spat
‘Oh come on Charles, she’ll have a fit.’
‘She hates nonsense.’ He caught a hat
And ate the brim. ‘Now just you sit’
‘And write a verse about this cat’
‘Something deep that’ll stir her soul.’
‘Not talking shellfish and other crap’
‘Unless you’re happy in this rabbit hole.’
The pensmith sighed: ‘I’ve tried my best’
‘But with her there always is a catch.’
‘She wants her tea, with lemon zest’
‘And deep fried loin of bandersnatch.’
He tweedled his Dum and diddled his Dee
‘How can I cook with no utensils.’
‘I’ve no skills in the kitchen, you see.’
‘The only tools I use are pencils.’
The rabbit chopped a homburg in three
‘Just add this with a pinch of stock
‘Then make a fire from the Tumtum tree’
‘And cook the lot in your jabber-wok.’
And rabbit said as they left for home
Passing back through the looking glass
‘If you ever write me back there again
This vorpal blade’ll go right up your…’
I’ll end with a great mind – David Hume.
Now, I’m a man who thinks a fair bit about absurdities so, anyone, why are his toes so polished? Is this a Scottish thing? Or a philosophical thing? Or just a thing?