Hello, hello, ladles and jellyspoons! You are now reading my first written internet article for commentary, otherwise known as a ‘web log’ (or—pushing the limits of diminishment and abridgement even further—‘blog’). At the time of posting, or soon after, only an exceptionally small number of people will be reading this (one, in fact). But I shall not let this discourage me; I shall imagine that at least three people will be reading this.
So—where to start? I only decided to start this in order to post a splendid poem by Peter Cook for a friend to read (the one person mentioned previously), for it cannot be found anywhere (as far as I am aware) on the good old interweb. Any other comments or observations seemed unnecessary then, but now that I’m here I find myself rather swept up in it all. What tales shall I endeavour to share with you, dear Reader? What humorous (or otherwise) annotations or remarks should I disclose for your enjoyment? At the moment, I can think of none, unfortunately. But do not despair: as soon as one comes to mind, I’m almost sure that I will remember to tell you.
So, for now, please try to be delighted with this wonderful gem from the late, great, Peter Cook (of Cook and Moore, and many other things besides)—
The Glidd of Glood
The Glidd of Glood would wander nude
Throughout his spacious castle,
So everyone could plainly see
His huge brown paper parcel.
In this the Glidd kept carefully hid
His jewels, gold and crown,
Tied to his wrists with bits of string—
He never put it down.
There’s never been a man so mean—
He didn’t mind the cold.
When clothes grow old, their value goes,
Unlike a piece of gold.
And when the Glidd got into bed
He’d cuddle with his treasure,
And kiss his parcel constantly—
This was his only pleasure.
His servants all were quite appalled
At everything he did;
But no-one dared to say a word—
They feared the cruèl Glidd.
For he could kill a man at will—
His power was absolute.
And every night at half past eight
They’d smile and kiss his foot.
“Oh, Glidd of Glood, you are so good,
As any Gloodite knows.”
They whispered this each time they kissed
His gnarled and grimy toes.
And when they ate, it was their fate
To sit with him at table,
And look as grateful as they could,
But very few were able.
To save on food, he fed them wood,
Mixed up with grains of rice—
On Sundays, as a special treat,
He served them boiled mice.
When in the mood, the Glidd of Glood
Would have a bit of fun,
With Sparquin, the court jester—
A man of eighty-one,
Who’d say, “I say, I say, I say!
Who does not love our Glidd?
I beg you, stand and raise your hand!”
But no-one ever did.
“We love him so, because we know
That nowhere could we find
A man so generous and true,
So gentle and so kind.
“Oh, lovely Glidd, we love you so,
I kiss your knee, I suck your toe.
Oh lovely Glidd, don’t ever go.”
And then the Glidd would sternly bid
Them drink the loyal toast,
With water from a plastic cup,
One quarter full, at most.
The Glidd of Glood thought he saw God,
One dark and stormy night.
A figure with a green moustache,
And clad in shrouds of white.
“You ghastly Glidd,” the vision said,
“Get on your knees and pray.
If you want to enter paradise,
You’ll give all your wealth away.”
“What, all of it?” the Glidd replied.
“My crown and jewels as well?”
“Yes, all of it, you greedy twit,
Or else you’ll burn in hell.”
In wild despair, with many a tear,
The Glidd undid the strings,
And handed over jewels and crown,
And all his precious things.
The sobbing Glidd returned to bed
To moan and weep and fret;
And when the sun came up at dawn,
His sheets were soaking wet.
His morning tea arrived, and he
Shrieked as he seized the cup.
“Fetch me Sparquin here at once—
I need some cheering up!”
“I fear he’s gone,” replied the man.
“He caught the morning flight. He
Left behind this green moustache
And long white cotton nightie.
“And here’s a note that Sparquin wrote;
It seems a little odd.
It says, ‘Goodbye, you greedy Glidd—
Signed Sparquin, alias God.’”
The Glidd fell ill—a sudden chill,
And very soon he died.
The funeral was a gay affair,
And not a Gloodite cried.
They drank and sang, the church bells rang,
And then there was a dance.
No flowers decked his grave, save one,
Signed 'Sparquin, South of France'.
And here’s the moral of this tale
Of greed and gross deceit—
If God asks you for all your cash,
Do ask for a receipt.