Jim Hopkins: Paeans of praise for the inhabitants of the Thesaurus

COMMENT

There was a merry air in the crowded room above the bar at The Pontificators' Arms. Small groups of words (some foreign) chatted and laughed as they nibbled on punctuation marks and other snacks thoughtfully provided by their host, the well-known columnist.

Who was at the top table, of course, surrounded by some of his favourite phrases, including ... but I digress, and then again, not to mention not to mention.

On the wall behind them was a large banner, bearing the familiar injunction "Merry Christmas" above the equally familiar Latin phrase, "Quod non qualitium hoc, procter umquae sic linius mort", or "Never mind the quality, just meet the deadline". (But you already knew that.)

Meanwhile, back at the function, the formal bit was getting under way. The columnist tapped an empty glass and called the words to order. "Order," he called. "Order. Bit of hush, please."

And there was - apart from fractious sentences at the back raising their eyebrows and pulling mocking faces.

"Ladies and gentleman, nouns and verbs," said the oblivious columnist. "Welcome to this little get-together which is my way of saying thank you for all you've done in 2003. It's been a hard year, I know, but a good year ... "

"Except for August," sneered an adjective.

"What happened in August?" whispered a recent adage.

"Only two rewrites and an official warning from the top floor," quipped the adjective. "It was touch and go there for a while. We nearly got replaced ... "

"Like the cartoonist," sniffed a pronoun.

"Shhhh. We're trying to listen," rasped a lengthy medical term that had featured in several serious columns.

"You looking for promotion?" chortled a mutinous verb. "Want to move up to headlines or an editorial, do we ... ?"

"We can all be proud of our achievements," burbled the columnist.

"Easy for him to say," snorted a mutinous participle. "We're the ones doing all the work. Spending hours on the page, and not a bonus in sight ... "

"Speaking of which," said the original quarrelsome adjective, "if we're here at the Christmas do, what he's got for this week? Something in Portuguese?"

"Nah, he's got a skeleton crew back at HQ," said a split infinitive, unfolding an inky piece of paper. "Check this out ... "

Kiwi Connection in Conqueror's Capture

(by Robert Wisk, Our Good Egg at the Front)

At 0600 hours, we were scrambled to Tikrit to hear the happy news. Sad old Saddam had suddenly been seized.

In the welter of words that has followed the dawn snatch raid heist, one fact has yet to emerge. You see, it's not widely known but an unsung Kiwi hero played a vital role in the capture of the Beastly Boastful Bearded Bully of Baghdad (for whom I have so often been a craven apologist).

One of the reasons it's not widely known that an unsung Kiwi hero played a vital role in this momentous moment is that it isn't actually true, but that's never been an obstacle for the veteran journalist and I don't see why it should become one now.

Especially since the unhung Kiwi zero who played such a vital role in plucking the terrible tyrant from his cesspit in the sand was none other than our own extinguished poet laureate, Mr Jam Hipkins, an man whom the New Zealand Army once described as "so puny he's actually got stealth muscles".

Maybe so, but that hasn't stopped US Special Forces praising the laureate's heroical roll in ripping the rat from his rancid refuge.

That Hipkins dude is the ma-a-a-an, said Major Al Grenade Breath Pryzbynishkawitz, of the 8th Winged Death Light Armoured Catering Corps. His role in the mission was invaluable. Mainly cos he wasn't there. Ahhm convinced we couldn't've done it with him ...

The group at the do weren't impressed. "Huh, mildly amusing, I guess," snorted an epithet. "But they won't keep it up for 800 words. What else has he got?"

"Some doggerel about Mrs Terrier," said a simile.

"Don't you mean Turia," asked an adverb. "She just behaves like a terrier, biting the hand that feeds her."

"Yeah, that's what the poem's about. It's called ... "

(There's nothing) Ode to Mrs T

If you take the Queen's shilling

You sing the Queen's song

It's as simple as that, babe

So just sing along

You can't take the perks

And the minister's pay

And still stamp your feet

To get your own way

There's no wait and see here,

No ambiguous leanings

And no sneaky speeches

With multiple meanings

When you're banking the cheques

Then you're toeing the line

And if you damn well won't do that

Then you must resign

If it's principles first

Then you can't pick a nit

Just give up the perks, babe

And bloody well quit.


Back at the Pontificators' Arms, the words nodded approvingly and the columnist droned on.

"In conclusion, I hope you all have a lovely Christmas and I look forward to seeing everyone back in the paragraphs next year, refreshed and replenished and raring to go."

Which is precisely what the words did.