With my customary apologies to Geoffrey Willans and Ronald Searle

Welcome back gentle reeder. The last time we spoke you may recall st. custards was on the virge of a SINISTER hostel takeover by Americans becos of a deel struck with HM gvt. by an orange fule with ridikulus hair who had been elected presidant of the United Staits. Our old Head had been carted off to the funy farm after attacking fotherington tomas with flowerpots and the masters were aprehensiv about the prospect of being rooled by some sort of Yanky Poodle Dandy expereminting with new ways of making we noble lads miserible. This resulted in larger than ushual consumpshun of beer and cigs, except for the Relig. Ed. Master who coudn’t wait to burn all the books about evolution and who now stride about the place like a mad beerded old testament profit saying “i told you so!” to anyone who will listen. Even the skool dog avoid him.

Well, as they sa, the plot thickens. Much hav happen since then. Now reed on…

Our new Head (or ‘principle’ as he insists we sa) is Ralph N. Geigerhammer the 3rd. Noone kno what the N stand for but it is a fare bet it isn’t “Normal” becos trust me he is from another plannet. He hav a massiv head like the mitey Mekon and he speak like someone who hav had a spaner thrown in his voicebox to slow it down: “how arrrrrrrrrrr y’alllllllllll doin todaaaaaay, baaaaahhhhhh?” Mi mate Peason reckon he is from alabbama, tho how he woud kno is open to debait. Peason hav never been abroad unless you count the Isle of White, which noone does.

There hav been many changes since the principle took charge. For a start he do not understand crickit. We found him digging up the skool playing field to make what he call “a mound” rite on a legnth down middle and leg at the oak tree end. When gillibrand saw it he nearly cry. “How can i make it turn like a boomerengue out of that?” he wale, weeping and nashing his teeth “this is sackrilige! sackrilige!”

Also every morning at asembley we hav to pledge aliegence to the flag. Noone kno which flag exactly. We hav the union jack and the stars and stripes and the st custards standard all draiped from the principles lectern like we are atending some sort of leage of nations. The masters all stand miseribly behind the principle, a motly bunch of asorted drips and weeds if ever i saw one.

SCENE: ASEMBLEY
[The Relig. Ed Master thump the piano keys with vim and vigger and a tune that mite or mite not be ‘glory, glory, aliluya’ revertebrate around the halowed skool hall. Ralph N. Geigerhammer the 3rd stride up the isle, his mitey nogin gleeming britely in the suns erly golden rays (POETRY). He reech the lectern and waves airily at the masters who gurn back at him gaimly like a shole of trout suprised by a suden pirana. He tern to face we brave lads and i sware you can see his eyes glow red like the very coles of hell.

PRINCIPLE: Welllllllllllll baaaaahhhhhhhhhs. the tarmmmm fer penitaaaaaance is naaaaaaaaaah! you baaaaaaahhhhhhhhhs muss repent yahhhhhhhhhhh sins! Fer who amaarrrnnnnggggg uzzzz izzzz witharrrrrrrt sin?

[FOTHERINGTON-TOMAS puts his hand up. The principle stare at him as he mite inspeckt a hare he found in his skool soup. He hav fallen for this before and he kno he must ignore fotherington-tomas or be lost in ernest debate about new born baby lambs and such. He roll his demon eyes and cary on]

PRINCIPLE: It ezzzzzzzzz taaaarrrmmmmm to swaaaaarrrrrrrrre aleeeeeeeeeeganzzzzzzzzz. Hannnnnzzz on chezzzzts baaaahhhhhhhhhhs! HAAAAANNNZZZZ ARNNNNN CHEZZZZZTS!

[Cut to exterior shot of the skool dog chasing a newborn baby lamb across the skool playground while our asembley mutter the pledge uninteligably (METAPHOR)]

The word on the skool grapevine (mi mate peason as ushual) is that the orange ignoramouse and head honcho in the staits has now decided that certain masters should be given guns just in case someone like mi bro, molesworth 2, run amuck (if anyone mite it would be mi bro. He is quiet beyond the pail as i have noted before in these missivs). Now i don’t want to pore cold water on the presidants brilliant skeeme but you have to wonder if he thort it through properly. Masters and guns are not naturel bedfellows:

Me [to the Philososphy Master]: i see you have a gun, sir!

Philososphy Master [dreamily]: Ah, molesworth! But is it a gun? How do you kno it is a gun? What if ceci n’est pas une gun? Can a consealed gun actaully be said to exist if there is no observer to note its existents?

Physysics Master: Now, lionel, stop filling molesworths head with your nonsence. If i were to shoot him now with my shiny new Remington repeater wood you claim the gun did not exist? i hav only to point it LIKE SO and he is but a haresbreath from certain death.

Philososphy Master: i see yore point, victor. But would that be the end for molesworth? He mite leave the corporale plane but whence is he bound? Wither mite he be?

Biolergy Master: He’d be dead, lionel. His lifeblud seeping from him in a crimson pool, his hart stopped, his bodilly functions seased.

Philososphy Master: But wood he be missed? i, for one, cannot stand the litel blister!

Me: i sa! i AM here you kno!

Physysics Master: It wood only take a moment. A sqeueze of the trigger, like THIS.

[a shot ring out. The English Master fall to the ground in a crumpled heep across the other side of the playground]

Eng. Master: But soft! What bullet hath my fragile body burst? i goe! i goe! Alack! Alas! i GOE! [he goes]

Philososphy Master: Poor Benedick! Still, it’s the way he wood want to hav gone…

[The Eng. Master shake abruptly] Chiz chiz. i goe agane! [He goes agane]

You see what i meen? It wood never work in a gazillion yeres. st custards wood be a waistland in no time at all. so back to the drawing bored mister trump. Back to the drawing bored.

Thats all for now. Nigel Molesworth singing off until the next thriling instorlment.