Tuesday, 20 December 2011

The Conquest of The Conquest

Channelling the spirit of Sir William Topaz MacGonagall, after yet another blue-light trip to the Big Boxy Waiting House for the Not Yet Dead, I found myself furiously scribbling these lines, seemingly from the pen of the Master himself:

The Conquest of The Conquest

‘Twas in the year 2011, not 2011 BC, but rather 2011 AD,
That His Honour Christopher McGonigal was found reclining on
   his bed by his wife, who, some might say, was a lady;
That’s not Lady as in the wife of someone who has been knighted,
But rather, Lady: somebody whose company makes you feel delighted.
“Pray tell me,” quoth she, for she was a lady of Good Christian 
   Virtue, “what arts’t thou doing reclining on a bed when it’s not 
   even noon of a Saturday?
Normally, at such an hour as this, you’d be consulting 
   with genealogical websites like the one of the Church of the Saints, 
   the one they call Latterday.
“Why, My Good Lady Wife, I do believe that at this particular 
   juncture, it might be deemed appropriate to call me an ambulance.”
“As you wish,” said she, “you’re an ambulance.”
“No, call for the services of the ambulance vis-à-vis a Me Going to 
   Hospital Situation, for that would be properly prudent.”
And his wife complied, for she was the sort of wife who would accede 
   to a spousal request, rather than one who wuden’t.
Following on from this, they journeyed to The Conquest, the hospital 
   once frequented by Spike Milligan,
Although he doesn’t need the services of a hospital anymore as his 
   condition is one in which he unlikely to get ill-again.
The doctor then spake in words which might have been thought by 
   some to be difficult to comprehend,
But which roughly translated as “You’ll need to stay in The Conquest 
   Hospital if you’d like to be helped get on the mend.”
So his wife and his daughter and his son and his grandson did give him 
   their heartfelt exhortations,
Namely, to remain steadfastly well overnight and not indulge in such 
   things as might be beyond his current physical limitations.

And it was at this point that the connection established by my Spirit Guide to Sir William Topaz MacGonagall was broken and thus the poem remained incomplete.

NB I’ve warned him that anymore bloody heart attacks and I’ll sodding well finish the poem myself (and yes, that was a threat).


  1. Truly dreadful Fergus. well done

  2. Thank you Will; it took me literally minutes to write. The banality of "Following on from this..." really captures MacGonagall at his mind-numbing worst (I think).