MOMENTS IN HISTORY: WINSTON CHURCHILL: AFRAID OF MICE? (CHAPTERS ONE THROUGH FOUR)
CHAPTER ONE
WINSTON CHURCHILL IS RUNNING AROUND THE KITCHEN IN A ELEGANT, WINE-DARK SILK BATHROBE with a champagne bottle in one hand and nothing in the other. The mice are scampering beneath his feet, hither and thither. For a man who writes books about English history, he truly is a plump man!
Ordinarily, a man who drinks champagne is not afraid of mice.
Is Winston Churchill afraid of mice?
It’s hard to say. As we see Winston Churchill now, he appears quite agitated, and, frankly, not very nimble.
One could say that mice are as afraid of Winston Churchill as he is of them, but actually, mice are afraid of men in general – Winston Churchill appears like any other man to mice only, with their keen mouse eyesight, decidedly more wine-dark.
And so, their fear of Winston Churchill is no great than that of any other man, dressed differently.
Winston Churchill. W.C. Fields.
Winston Churchill Fields.
CHAPTER TWO
Suddenly there is a terrible crashing sound and there are glass fragments and tiny pin-point champagne colored bubbles everywhere.
“My Pol!” Winston Churchill exclaims, en lamente, as he sees his beloved POL ROGER BRUT scattered in tiny bits here and there, near the toaster and a coarse straw broom and dustpan.
“What is it, Luv?”
Why, it’s Paul McCartney, the mop-top rock ‘n roller–making a cameo appearance in a Sir Winston Churchill poem, mistakenly confusing Winston Churchill’s grief for lost champagne (“Pol Roger”) for the giddy squealing that is normally reserved for the Fab Four (e.g. “Paul McCartney.”)
Needless to say, it was an error of no unsmall magnitude. And as such, Sir Winston Churchill did not dignify Sir Paul McCartney’s presumptuous endearment with a response or clever repartee, or, for that matter, any repartee at all. He could have, had he chosen to, believe you me. And if you don’t believe me, read one of his books on English history–they are replete with clever repartee. And so each of them just minded their own business in a ghostly silence.
CHAPTER THREE
It just occurred to me that if you were writing about Winston Churchill when he was still alive and using a manual typewriter and typing “Churchill” when someone came in through the back and shot you in the back and you slumped over the keys that it would just read “Churchill.” But if you were writing about Winston Churchill now and using a computer with touch type and someone came in and shot you in the back while you were typing the word “Churchill” and you slumped over the keys it would read:
Churchilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
and so on.
CHAPTER FOUR
Winston Churchill and Paul McCartney. There is nothing finer than having two knights in some kitchen somewhere. I always enjoy watching Winston Churchill, and I always enjoy listening to Paul McCartney. Although, truthfully, I have to say that I don’t enjoy watching Paul McCartney playing his ukulele to scampering mice who upset Winston Churchill like they did. And what he Winston Churchill is saying is neigh on unintelligible. Understandably so. And there is nothing sadder than watching a Knight in a bathrobe, cleaning up a mess in the kitchen with a broom and a dustpan, all by himself, in the twilight of a great career.
WINSTON CHURCHILL IS RUNNING AROUND THE KITCHEN IN A ELEGANT, WINE-DARK SILK BATHROBE with a champagne bottle in one hand and nothing in the other. The mice are scampering beneath his feet, hither and thither. For a man who writes books about English history, he truly is a plump man!
Ordinarily, a man who drinks champagne is not afraid of mice.
Is Winston Churchill afraid of mice?
It’s hard to say. As we see Winston Churchill now, he appears quite agitated, and, frankly, not very nimble.
One could say that mice are as afraid of Winston Churchill as he is of them, but actually, mice are afraid of men in general – Winston Churchill appears like any other man to mice only, with their keen mouse eyesight, decidedly more wine-dark.
And so, their fear of Winston Churchill is no great than that of any other man, dressed differently.
Winston Churchill. W.C. Fields.
Winston Churchill Fields.
CHAPTER TWO
Suddenly there is a terrible crashing sound and there are glass fragments and tiny pin-point champagne colored bubbles everywhere.
“My Pol!” Winston Churchill exclaims, en lamente, as he sees his beloved POL ROGER BRUT scattered in tiny bits here and there, near the toaster and a coarse straw broom and dustpan.
“What is it, Luv?”
Why, it’s Paul McCartney, the mop-top rock ‘n roller–making a cameo appearance in a Sir Winston Churchill poem, mistakenly confusing Winston Churchill’s grief for lost champagne (“Pol Roger”) for the giddy squealing that is normally reserved for the Fab Four (e.g. “Paul McCartney.”)
Needless to say, it was an error of no unsmall magnitude. And as such, Sir Winston Churchill did not dignify Sir Paul McCartney’s presumptuous endearment with a response or clever repartee, or, for that matter, any repartee at all. He could have, had he chosen to, believe you me. And if you don’t believe me, read one of his books on English history–they are replete with clever repartee. And so each of them just minded their own business in a ghostly silence.
CHAPTER THREE
It just occurred to me that if you were writing about Winston Churchill when he was still alive and using a manual typewriter and typing “Churchill” when someone came in through the back and shot you in the back and you slumped over the keys that it would just read “Churchill.” But if you were writing about Winston Churchill now and using a computer with touch type and someone came in and shot you in the back while you were typing the word “Churchill” and you slumped over the keys it would read:
Churchilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll
and so on.
CHAPTER FOUR
Winston Churchill and Paul McCartney. There is nothing finer than having two knights in some kitchen somewhere. I always enjoy watching Winston Churchill, and I always enjoy listening to Paul McCartney. Although, truthfully, I have to say that I don’t enjoy watching Paul McCartney playing his ukulele to scampering mice who upset Winston Churchill like they did. And what he Winston Churchill is saying is neigh on unintelligible. Understandably so. And there is nothing sadder than watching a Knight in a bathrobe, cleaning up a mess in the kitchen with a broom and a dustpan, all by himself, in the twilight of a great career.
Comments
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I, of course, like your name.
Signed,
Crispy