‘Twas brillig…’
The Jabberwock is set to put in a rare appearance and there address the assembled company on matters Panamanian
The writer is editorial consultant at The Express Tribune, news junkie, bibliophile, cat lover and occasional cyclist
‘And the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.’ Indeed they did Dear Reader and there is much gyreing and gimbleing to be done, some of it perhaps on the morrow, Friday, in the Parliament of Dunces when the Jabberwock is set to put in a rare appearance doubtless clad in spotless but stylish khaki raiment and there address the assembled company on matters Panamanian.
The mimsy borogoves have been thick with jubjub birds and prowling frumious Bandersnatches that are bent on the slaying of the Jabberwock and their collective vorpal swords in hand they now wait, panting quietly in the crepuscular gloom that might be before dawn or night, light or darkness. To their hindermost legions of the mildly interested rest in the shade of groves of tumtum trees, idly knitting or doodling sketches of guillotines and tumbrils, rolling heads and barricades gloriously stormed.
For the Jabberwock, he with the jaws that bite and the claws that catch, the manxome foe is a chattering stuttering beast with pens in its many fingers that dodges and weaves as it jabs those vulnerable soft bits. The knibs scratching at its hide making the writing that in other places and times would be on the wall but is today scribed on the coattails and shirtsleeves, a rolling commentary, a muttered indictment. And a downright bloody nuisance if you are a busy Jabberwock with all sorts of stuff to sort out in the kitchen where the cabinets are waiting to be reshuffled the better to perform the acrobatics that will save his head.
So the Jabberwock paused in uffish thought — which may or may not be a good idea considering that a static target is a damn sight harder to hit than one that is bobbing about a bit. And further considering that the script does not end well for the Jabberwock as he came whiffling through the tulgey wood, burbling as he came there to meet his nemesis. Or whatever the plural of nemesis is… nemeses? I defer to your judgment Dear Reader.
But back to the action! The drop scene! The bit where Darth Vader hisses his last until the next reincarnation! Because here it is… or might be ‘cos we are in the realms of precognition here… the one, two! One, two! And through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack! Quite possibly making a considerable mess of parliamentary carpets as it does.
It all goes to worms for the Jabberwock. All that ducking and diving and banging about with the pots to sound so much busier than was actually the case. All to no avail. The script hereafter is unclear. Beyond the Jabberwock losing his head to be carried back to an unnamed somewhere by an equally nameless beamish boy it is all a bit murky. There is mention of celebrations and a frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! And a serious outbreak of exclamation marks. But in the end we are left hanging, metaphorically speaking.
The circle is unbroken. ‘And has’t thou slain the Jabberwock?’ Well possibly but in the wider scheme of things the buggers tend towards reincarnation, and what may appear to be a headless item littering up the floor of that most august of houses, slain by the vorpal sword that has ‘Made in Panama’ inscribed on the blade, will next be seen waiting in line for chai and chapattis in the parliamentary canteen and remarking how warm the weather is for the time of year and maybe it’s all that global warming stuff and has anybody got Rs50 as I seem to have left my purse at home?
Unbroken the circle is and we return to the cautionary beginnings, where it is indeed brillig and the slithy toves, never forget the toves that slith, are up there having a gyre and gimble in the wabe. Or empyrean. Take your pick. The borogoves are likely to remain mimsy for some time to come on account of nobody having paid the gardener so he didn’t show up and the mome raths have have outgrabed again and ruined the roses this year as well. So there we have it. Thanks and apologies to Lewis Carroll. And watch out for Jabberwocks. Tootle-pip!
Published in The Express Tribune, May 12th, 2016.
The mimsy borogoves have been thick with jubjub birds and prowling frumious Bandersnatches that are bent on the slaying of the Jabberwock and their collective vorpal swords in hand they now wait, panting quietly in the crepuscular gloom that might be before dawn or night, light or darkness. To their hindermost legions of the mildly interested rest in the shade of groves of tumtum trees, idly knitting or doodling sketches of guillotines and tumbrils, rolling heads and barricades gloriously stormed.
For the Jabberwock, he with the jaws that bite and the claws that catch, the manxome foe is a chattering stuttering beast with pens in its many fingers that dodges and weaves as it jabs those vulnerable soft bits. The knibs scratching at its hide making the writing that in other places and times would be on the wall but is today scribed on the coattails and shirtsleeves, a rolling commentary, a muttered indictment. And a downright bloody nuisance if you are a busy Jabberwock with all sorts of stuff to sort out in the kitchen where the cabinets are waiting to be reshuffled the better to perform the acrobatics that will save his head.
So the Jabberwock paused in uffish thought — which may or may not be a good idea considering that a static target is a damn sight harder to hit than one that is bobbing about a bit. And further considering that the script does not end well for the Jabberwock as he came whiffling through the tulgey wood, burbling as he came there to meet his nemesis. Or whatever the plural of nemesis is… nemeses? I defer to your judgment Dear Reader.
But back to the action! The drop scene! The bit where Darth Vader hisses his last until the next reincarnation! Because here it is… or might be ‘cos we are in the realms of precognition here… the one, two! One, two! And through and through the vorpal blade went snicker-snack! Quite possibly making a considerable mess of parliamentary carpets as it does.
It all goes to worms for the Jabberwock. All that ducking and diving and banging about with the pots to sound so much busier than was actually the case. All to no avail. The script hereafter is unclear. Beyond the Jabberwock losing his head to be carried back to an unnamed somewhere by an equally nameless beamish boy it is all a bit murky. There is mention of celebrations and a frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! And a serious outbreak of exclamation marks. But in the end we are left hanging, metaphorically speaking.
The circle is unbroken. ‘And has’t thou slain the Jabberwock?’ Well possibly but in the wider scheme of things the buggers tend towards reincarnation, and what may appear to be a headless item littering up the floor of that most august of houses, slain by the vorpal sword that has ‘Made in Panama’ inscribed on the blade, will next be seen waiting in line for chai and chapattis in the parliamentary canteen and remarking how warm the weather is for the time of year and maybe it’s all that global warming stuff and has anybody got Rs50 as I seem to have left my purse at home?
Unbroken the circle is and we return to the cautionary beginnings, where it is indeed brillig and the slithy toves, never forget the toves that slith, are up there having a gyre and gimble in the wabe. Or empyrean. Take your pick. The borogoves are likely to remain mimsy for some time to come on account of nobody having paid the gardener so he didn’t show up and the mome raths have have outgrabed again and ruined the roses this year as well. So there we have it. Thanks and apologies to Lewis Carroll. And watch out for Jabberwocks. Tootle-pip!
Published in The Express Tribune, May 12th, 2016.