The Pembroke Bullfrog, Hilary 1965 by Pembroke College, Oxford

The Pembroke Bullfrog

Hilary 1965

THE PEMBROKE BULLFROG being the periodical of The J.C.R., Pembroke College, Oxford Hilary Term 1965

Editor: Gautam Chakravarty Sub-Editor: ditto. Societies Editor: ditto. Business Editor: ditto.

EDITORIAL "Is there so small a range In the present strength of manhood, that the high Imagination cannot freely fly As she was wont of old ? Prepare her steeds, Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds, Upon the clouds ?" I find these lines of Keats peculiarly apt to the predicament of our college magazine. If the 'strength of manhood' is to be measured by the flight of imagination then Pembroke students, on the average, are woefully bankrupt. My predecessor in the thankless task of getting the students to write for their own magazine had come to such a pass that he had gone all philosophic ! It is a temptation rather difficult to resist. It is the most attractive solution to the problem. However, I think that there might be a different approach, viz, the said students of Pembroke don't give a damn about the magazine which is supposed to be of their own chosing and making. Ideally speaking, a college magazine should be a mirror of the the sort of life that is led by the undergraduates of that college. It is supposed to epitomize their various activities and interestsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; both the physical and mental worlds. The physical aspect of the existence is quite well representedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;to wit, all those reports about the progress or otherwise of the various clubs. But if the meagre handful of 'literary' compositions that are in here represents the the extent of mental activity of the students, the situation would be definitely alarming. But, fortunately, there is evidence to the contraryâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;anyone who has glanced in the "Suggestions Book" would know that Pembroke students are not averse to writing, or to putting their thoughts to paper. And, therefore, the only remaining solution is the one I have ventured to offer. I can see little hope of breaking the vicious circle which holds fast in its grasp this magazine. If it is not interesting to the students of the college or worth their while they will not spend time writing for it. If they do not spend time writing for it, it will never become interesting ! For what it is worth, I would suggest that the Bullfrog be preserved in formaldehyde till people are found enthusiastic enough to revivify it ! However, I wish to thank those members of the college who have helped to prolong its spasmodic and precarious life for the time being. 1

THE AVERAGE STUDENT An Exclusive Interview for the Sunday Onlooker Black and White Supplement PECULATING about today's students has become something of a national hobby—especially for the Sunday Onlooker. But what are they really like ? To find out, we sent questionnaires to 137 students of all sexes at Oxbrick University, selected at random from lecture halls, libraries, laboratories and meetings of the Oxbrick Inter-Collegiate Christian Union. 119 of the sample made proper use of their questionnaires; the rest filled them in and sent them back to us. When the results had been processed, we discovered that one student had given absolutely average answers throughout. He was Ernest N. Devor, aged 19, reading bio-physics at Sadham College. He is here interviewed by Katharine Alpenhorn (who is on holiday). Alpenhorn: Mr. Devor, you said in your questionnaire that you felt Oxbrick had been a "beneficial experience". In what way beneficial ? Devor: Yes, well—I think the University has definitely helped me to sort of expand my horizons, as it were—both intellectually and, well, morally . . . . For example, it's enabled me to meet—and get to know—an awful lot of people with different backgrounds and outlooks from my own—I mean, people from different parts of the country, and even from other countries, and of course different educations, too. A: You were at a grammar-school yourself, weren't you ? D: Yes, Liverchester Grammar School—and of course I'm very proud of it. But I do feel that we can learn a lot from people who've been to other kinds of schools—public-schools for example. I don't see why we should look down on public-school boys just because they haven't had our advantages. No, I think one must admire them, in fact, for the way they've overcome their handicaps—I mean, it's not a thing anyone could do. Not that I'm opposed to the class structure as such . . . There's always got to be some sort of differentiation, after all some people are more intelligent, so naturally we're going to earn more money . . . . I think one just has to accept these things and make the best of them. A: Are you a Christian ? D: Well, no, not exactly—I suppose you could call me a sort of humanist agnostic . . . although of course I do think there's a lot of truth in some part of the Christian message—but I do really respect other people's beliefs. I mean, I don't think one should laugh at religion, after all it does do a lot of good—look at men like Albert Schweitzer and St. Francis, and Christ of course, and Buddha—and Mahomet . . . . And of course I thing the Pope's a

very fine man, and so was the one before, although I wouldn't agree with a lot of the Catholics' dogma. I'm always ready to hear other people's points of view though. I've been to St. Oblate's once or twice, and I have tea with the Chaplain now and again and we talk about religion and, er, sex and . . . thinks like that . . . I mean, that's the great thing about Oxbrick, one can always talk to people, and I do think that's terribly important, I mean tolerance and that kind of thing. A: I see you left a blank against "Political beliefs" on your questionnaire. Why ? D: Oh, well, of course, I didn't mean that, er—er, that I haven't got any political beliefs, no I think everybody ought to find out about these things and make up his own mind—I read the papers when I have time, and sometimes the Spectator and—things like that, but I don't think I really agree with any of the parties. I suppose I might vote Liberal . . . . Although I do think Labour is doing a good job getting all these experts into the Government— after all, we are living in a scientific age, and you can't expect politicians who haven't had any scientific training to understand these things like we can. But I don't think we scientists should get narrow minded, I mean everyone should have outside interests —I do quite a lot of reading myself, I like Somerset Maugham very much and, Ian Fleming . . . although I don't seem to get so much time for it now, but— A: What are your views on sex ? D: Oh, er—oh, on sex, yes of course, well I—I suppose I'd say —well, I think, er—well, er, in what way exactly .. . ? A: I mean the relationship between the sexes. D: Oh, I see—well, of course, I think it's a very good thing, in moderation of course . . . that is, it's a natural function like any other—but of course it is more than that as well . . . . After all, it's not something to be taken lightly, I mean if two people are really in love I don't think it matters if . . . but of course if they aren't, then, well, it's rather different, isn't it ? But I do feel—don't think I'm prudish or anything—but I do feel that perhaps, after all, marriage does offer the best framework for a really meaningful relationship. Of course it does depend . . . but I think a lot of people treat these things too lightly. A: Mr. Devor, one last question: do you think your views are representative for today's students ? D: Well, of course I can't speak for everybody—but I do think that there's a new spirit growing up in Oxbrick—and elsewhere— and that the old Oxbrick is disappearing. I mean, in many ways the old Oxbrick was very attractive, but it didn't serve much useful purpose, and people just wasted their time talking, or fooling around, without really achieving anything. After all, these people 3

—one still finds them around—never really take anything seriously, they're frivolous and sceptical, and they don't seem to have much sense of purpose, or any real aim in life. But I think the majority of students today—and I think I can say I'm one of them—have got a certain feeling of responsibility, a certain seriousness towards life—a sense of mission, even—and I think they're the people who are making this new Oxbrick what it is. P. KEMP. TWO POEMS

HOLIDAYS I wandered through the hostels of the blind Shone in the youth of castle searching sun Clutching with childhood faith the card of light. They endless drifted on the sands of salt Thirsting a postered isle of cloud skimmed blue. Where are the smiles and friendly guide book mirth; Smug promise of a hundred sunblown films ? Only a carton lapped upon the pitted shore Hollow as moss encrusted fortress shells Which lonely house pale canvass rigid ghosts Sleeping in dust for catalogue-cliched blind. So let them silent fade through coach crammed season Till when the shrine of sun jewelled sea Wakens adeep each crown of shuttered fire.

WORD-GAME II Sadly caught the lions rampant Forced by linolated squares Heard the matrix of desire Etched with vigour on the stairs Calling down to ageless valleys Stone hard symphonies of rain Under emblatonic crises Through the teeth of childhoods bane Hurl, ye Lear-held breast of rapture Catechize, you limbless laws Spew me forth through crumbling pages Spiral architrave of gore. ROGER WOOLGER.

SEX AND VIOLENCE IN THE WORK OF ENID BLYTON

E must assume that we are all going to enjoy a private joke. However, it is just possible that if I went on long enough about "Colour Prejudice in The Three Golliwogs," "Sadism in 'Dame Slap and her School' or "Ovid's Metamorphoses and `The Talking Teapot' " (all of which amusing titles were suggested to me). This essay might become, like "Cherwell," a joke in very bad taste. And I must say also that the official title of this talk i.e. "Sex and Violence in the work of Enid Blyton" has gulled several of you: I have no intention of confining myself to such topics, largely because there is scant mention of either in the Blyton books I have read. In an attempt to be clearer I will make two points. The first is that I can still recall the almost religious delight I felt whenever as a boy of seven or eight I saw a book in the library with Enid Blyton's name on the spine. Once, when there were no others of her books there, I gladly endured the laughter of the girls in my class in order to secure "Claudine of St. Clare's"; and on another occasion when I sweated through school on a sultry afternoon in the knowledge that I had left a library copy of Enid Blyton's "Yellow Story Book" near a bombed site for anyone to steal, my concern was not for the library's possible loss but at the misery I should feel at having left the book half-read. At that time I looked on Enid Blyton as a sort of benign White Queen who sat all day in a sunny and boundless Sussex garden, surrounded by a privileged hierarchy of adoring juveniles and animals with clothes on, producing yet another novel in an oracular manner, while a gnomish scribe took it down from her lips. The second point I want to make is this. Some of the time-bound and personal nature of the above remark disappears when we realise that 15 years later children hold Enid Blyton in the same venerationâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; under BLY in the Children's Section of the Oxford City Library there is almost always a hole which is not repeated with any other children's author of any repute; only in the Bodleian, where Blyton's works are in safe captivity, could the material for this paper be found. Further, in the column "This Week" of the "Sunday Observer" November 8th, 1964, appeared a short list of the authors of 1961 who had the largest numbers of works translated in that year. Enid Blyton lay 17th with 64 works translated, but into the greatest number of languages in terms of British authors was third only to Agatha Christie and Shakespeare. Clearly then, we are dealing with an authoress who gives intense pleasure to a vast number, and it is perhaps time to attempt to explain this. First of all, if unusually, the style of Enid Blyton. Here is a fairly typical passage from "The Six Bad Boys": 5

"He walked alone to school that morning, thinking hard. Was he annoying to his mother ? Didn't she like him to look after her as he had tried to do ? Was he really "too big for his boots"? His heart sank again when he remembered her hard voice. He must do his best to show her that he loved her and wanted his home. It was quite unthinkable that his mother wanted to be rid of him. That would mean she didn't love him" (Ch. V p. 46). To understand this passage, only the most basic vocabulary is required: The reader forges through unimpeded even by "unthinkable" because it is contained in a semi-cliché which he most likely recognises. Where long words appear in the rest of the book, as "escapade," "ejaculate," "exploit," "miraculous," "resentment„" "exasperate," they are grasped easily because they are frequent polysyllables in all children's stories. Contrast this with Enid Nesbit in her Bastable novels—she uses one of the Bastable children, Oswald as the narrator of each novel and as he is the eldest he can use and abuse a great many complex words: for example, from "The New Treasure Seekers" "Matters were in this cryptical state when the door opened and Father came in"—(p.67) or again in "The Treasure Seekers" when the Bastable children find a small princess in a garden, the description runs thus: "She told us that she was the fifth cousin of Queen Victoria. We asked who the other cousins were, but she did not seem to understand. She went on and said she was seven times removed. She couldn't tell us what that meant either, but Oswald thinks it means that the Queen's cousins are so fond of her that they will keep coming bothering, so the Queen's servants have orders to remove them. This little girl must have been very fond of the Queen to try so often to see her, and to have been seven times removed. We could see that it is considered something to be proud of, but we thought it was hard on the Queen that her cousins wouldn't let her alone." (p. 69) It will often cost the young reader a little effort to understand the meaning of "removed" here, and only then will he see the comedy. The output of amusement is entirely dependent on an input of understanding. For this reason we may state that stylistically Enid Blyton is a very "low-yield" writer—she makes few demands on the reader because she has nothing to give. This can be seen in others of the stylistic factors of Enid Blyton's work. Clichés are frequent. In the short passage from "The Six Bad Boys" quoted above at least three are evident—"too big for his boots"; "his heart sank", "rid of him" ("quite unthinkable" is almost a cliché). A random survey of the text reveals myriads of of hackneyed phrases, for instance—Mrs. Mackenzie thinks Bob is "a merry boy with plenty of go in him", (p. 21); Tom "would exasperate the others by flaring up unexpectedly" (36); at school Bob "gave a loud whoop and began to act the clown . . . . Soon he 6

had a little group round him, egging him on" (53); "The footsteps paused, and Bob didn't dare to move even an eyelash" (56); Tom and Bob "found the cinema flooded with light" (74); and of the offended Mrs. Berkeley "Out she sailed, her head in the air" (91); Bob's hair was "thick and unruly" (20); and so on. Here again E. Nesbit affords welcome contrast—in "The New Treasure Seekers" Oswald declares with pleasure ". . . we had% bazaar, and raffled the most beautiful goat you ever saw, and we gave the money to the poor and needy"(64). Just that too-ready last phrase turns our attitude from simple amused admiration into a more complex awareness of the mingled devotion and condescension that can lie behind philanthrophy. Nesbit can shoot down clichés by letting Oswald corrupt them— thus a stock phrase of romantic fiction becomes "The missing maiden bounced into the room bearing upon her brow the marks of ravaging agitatedness". (New Treasure Seekers p.p. 90-1) Besides clichés, Blyton's style shows constant use of weak phrases. We have all heard the phrase "The builded quality of Milton's verse" and perhaps know how sensitive Milton was to slight semantic differences amongst synonyms—Abdiel's courage in the Satanic council in "Paradise Lost" (v. 898) is rendered thus: "Among innumerable false, unmov'd Unshak'n, unseduc't, unterrifi'd, His Loyaltie he kept, his love, his Zeale;" Each word is somehow vital— "unmov'd" and "Unshak'n" suggest physical as well as mental attitude—Abdiel stood like a rock in the midst of the assembly; the other two "unseduc't" and "unterrifi'd" refer to wholly mental resistance—but "unseduc't" defines the resistance of Abdiel's mind or wit as well as of his will— "unterrifi'd" refers wholly to his will—the one indicates his attitude to temptation and the other his mastery of fear. The whole method of the style is additive. Enid Blyton's use of synonymic phrases produces exactly the reverse effect. We are told that Frisky the dog liked Bob because he stroked him "firmly and confidently" (22). That to Pat Bob "listened gravely and seriously" (36). That on capture in the shed by the canal Bob "was furious and resentful" (58). That having hidden himself in a cupboard to avoid his headmaster, Bob did not feel "nearly so bold and brave" (55). These examples are symptomatic of a basic feature of Blyton's style— here not building, but demolition is the keynote, and a process of dilution by repetition works throughout. Her style is never surprising, her collocations of words are uninspired, her attention to metaphors and figures of speech beyond the level of cliché is nonexistent. The zenith of stylistic ornament is reached in a phrase like this—"The machinery of the Law was now working in this case of the Six Boys" (150). Contrast this with a not unusual level of style of Edith Nesbit.—The passage is from "The New Treasure Seekers" p. 97 and describes a river scene7

"There were wharves and engines, and great rusty cranes swinging giant's handfuls of iron rails about in the air, and once we passed a ship that was being broken up. All the wood was gone, and they were taking away her plates, and the red rust was running from her and colouring the water all around; it looked as though she was bleeding to death." There are two points arising from this passage..The first is that events described appear to happen in a particular place at a particular time, to use a heavisite phrase: they have an identity. This is in complete contrast to the standard river-views of children's books—it is not just a place where "amid the bustle and babble of many tongues and the loading and unloading of sacks and bales old salts sit about on capstans watching ships ply to and fro while they draw on their worn cobs and talk of foreign parts",—we have all heard this kind of description ad nauseam. Nesbit's account fixes on a particular kind of goods: she talks not of boxes, bales and crates, but of iron rails, and not of the hammering and banging on ships in the breaker's yard but of one ship at a definite stage of demolition. The point has been laboured because it is worth comparing Nesbit with Blyton in this respect: here is a passage from "The Six Bad Boys" in which Bob is surveying the Christmas decorations which the gang of boys have hung in their secret cellar— "Bob looked with pleasure at the 'decorations on the walls. He and the others had put them there the night before. They really did look gay. Holly gleamed there with red berries, and paperchains and loops and garlands of red and green hung around the walls. Paper bells hung down from the roof, and silver balls glittered here and there. Bob was very pleased indeed with everything" (130). Nothing is out of place in what might he called a child's standard picture of a room hung with Christmas decorations—The passage is almost a parody of one of Maud Bodkin's archetypes. It describes part of what everyone associates with a domestic Christmas scene. It would have been Quite different if it had said, for example. that because the ceiling of the cellar had a large twisting crack running diagonally across it. Bob had tried to tack up a paperchain so that it covered the crack by following its path: The whole orientation of the passage would at once become more particular and specific. Why does Enid Blyton avoid such a method ? It is possible she is not capable of it. It is probable that she has no sense of place—her books are notably bare of description. But more than likely it is because the whole leaning of Blvton is towards broad and simple effects. C. S. Lewis has talked of Milton "drawing out the Paradisal Stop in us" (Preface to `P.L.' p. 49)—Blyton is here drawing out the Christmas Stop. The comparison is odious: Milton's description of Paradise is kept general because he wants us to find not Milton's but our Paradise at the depth of our being, 8

while Blyton's Christmas is an emotional shorthand which will be apprehended effortlessly by the largest number of readers. Both writers, however, are producing Stock Responses. But in Blyton no effort is required on the part of the reader—whereas in "Paradise Lost" Milton forces us to find Eden before he himself gets there. Blyton gives the reader a direct and simple stimulus and he reacts like Pavlov's dog under conditioned reflex—The Christmas bells rings, the reader associates it with a mass of colour, bustle and bounty and his imagination slavers. A great deal of Blyton's prose produces this crude effect which, coupled with a constant underlying vagueness, numbs all subtlety of response: for instance in the last passage quoted we are told "Holly gleamed there with red berries" and we cannot be certain whether "there" is on the walls or hanging from the ceiling; or again that "silver balls glittered here and there"—after this we feel we might as well be here or there or elsewhere. Or again in an earlier passage from "The Six Bad Boys"— "He . . . discovered a little shed full of odds and ends of things . . . he began to look through the things in the shed. There were pots of paint and brushes, and bottles of various kinds, rope, tins full and empty, a barrel or two, and wooden boxes." (58) "Odds and ends of things"; "pots of paint"—what colour of paint, and were they new or stained with use ?; "bottles of various kinds"—does this refer to the differences among the various bottles or amongst the various liquids they held, and if the former, what shapes and sizes were there, or if the latter what kinds of liquids were they—turps, creosote, meths perhaps ?; "rope"—worn and old or new and silky, and was it coiled or tangled ? "a barrel or two"—tell us the exact number; "tins full and empty"—tins of what, and weren't any of them half-full ?; "wooden boxes"— orange boxes, soap boxes or tea boxes ? I ask these questions because I am supposed to be a literary critic—I am certain I did not ask them 12 years ago. None the less they seem to reveal that Blyton has no sense for words or for vitality of style—and this, while offensive to an English graduate is more than welcome to the indolent and untutored part of a child's mind. The second point arising from the now rather distant Nesbit passage on the river scene is the transforming power of metaphor. The strange paradox about metaphor is that the more you show how one object or experience is like another, that a ship spreading rust into the sea or being broken up is like a creature bleeding to death, the more you are affirming the individuality of each term of the metaphor— the pathetic fallacy of a ship bleeding to death gives the ship a four-dimensional as opposed to a simple three-dimensional reality. Johnson's definition of metaphor validates this "It makes the new familiar and the familiar new". Or, to use a current phrase of literary jargon it extends our sensibilities. Now Enid Blyton never does this because she never uses metaphors—at every turn we meet 9

timeworn collocations set in prose bare of ornament. Her style, then, changes us not at all—it merely uses hackneyed stimuli to activate six-lane neural arcs. As a last look at the texture of her prose consider her syntax—"The day before Christmas came at last. There was great excitement at Barlings Cottage. The Christmas-tree had come and was being decorated by the three children. Parcels were arriving by every post. Cards stood all along the mantlepiece and on the bookcases." (126) This childish sentence construction continues throughout and is mirrored by the distribution of paragraphs—there are about seven to every 35 line page. When sentences are longer the crudest conjunctions are in use—"The twins felt sorry about Bob's father. They loved their own father very much—he was cheerful and loving and also strict, but they didn't mind that so long as he loved them ! They thought it must be dreadful not to have a father to say 'Yes you may' or 'No, certainly not !' or to take them to the zoo or on a picnic with mother". (21) Reading this is rather like gabbling. Edith Nesbit's technique of using the young Oswald as a narrator can very often alert the reader to limp syntax—and this includes the juvenile reader who is in all the Bastable novels amusedly detached from Oswald. Thus: "When the others put the chair back, and Oswald let down the rope-ladder that we made out of bamboo and clothes-line after uncle told us the story of the missionary lady who was shut up in a Rajah's palace, and someone shot an arrow to her with a string tied to it, and in might have killed her I should have thought but it didn't, and she hauled in the string and there was a rope and a bamboo ladder, and so she escaped, and we made one like it on purpose for the loft." (p.p. 74-5 of "The New Treasure Seekers") The reader is thrown into critical awareness both by his distance from Oswald and by the exaggerated discontinuity of the sentence. Nesbit combines the dulce and the utile: she amuses and instructs. Blyton does neither. Her sentences are broken and naive because she is writing down to an audience in what she considers to be its normal idiom. This has been rather a lengthy indictment of Blyton's style, but an attempt has been made to distinguish between valuation of her by those of over 20 and the attitude towards her as adopted by her real audience—children of eight to thirteen, in the case of "The Six Bad Boys". The former react away from her—one hopes—but the latter take her like a drug. For her style, with its childish vocabulary, its clichés, its lack of compassion, its lack of surprise, of vitality, of particularity, with its vagueness and its rudimentary syntax—this style is food only for uncritical guzzling. It is a style which appeals to the laziest and most fatuous elements in its audience. But style alone cannot account for the vast following that Blyton possesses: it is simply an abstraction of a tendency 10

running through all features of her work, and it is time to have a look at some of these. We have already seen in passing how Nesbit uses Oswald to tell the story so that our critical awareness of his personality and failings prevent us from accepting his judgements as final: this technique is used by Nesbit for comic effects—when in "The New Treasure Seekers" the Bastable children unwittingly help a young man poorly-off to carry off a possessive and wealthy baronet's daughter to marry her, Oswald declares that he ". . . does not approve of marriages and would never, if he knew it, be the means of assisting one to occur". (288) In Enid Blyton's work there is no creation of a fictional microcosm. By itself this is not objectionable—many great novels have been writtten without the presence of a Jamesian central consciousness. But they have been great because the vantage point and the sympathies of the reader have not been able to fix on any one normative character. In Blyton however, squatting at the centre of "The Six Bad Boys" are the Mackenzies, the ideal women's magazine-cum-Reader's Digest family. They give the young reader an easy position from which to evaluate the two failures in family life who come to live on either side of the Mackenzies—the Berkeleys on one side and Mrs. Kent and her son on the other. Some attempt is made to give the Mackenzies reality—for instance, Mrs. Mackenzie's habit of darning stockings fiercely to contain her irritation at the Berkeleys (27); and a feint is made at bringing the quality of the Mackenzies' virtue into question. Thus Mrs. Berkeley begins: "As for those Mackenzies, don't let me hear about them again ! Paragons ! Always doing the right thing and never complaining and never gossiping—just like cabbages, sitting there contented no matter what happens !" "Oh Mother ! Mrs. Mackenzie isn't a cabbage !" said Hilda, with a laugh that made Mrs. Berkeley angry. "Why, she's always on the go. She's running the Sale of Work, and she's helping to make the dresses for our school play, and Mr. Mackenzie is making some of the properties. He wants Dad to help him." "Oh yes, they're full of Good Works," said Mrs. Berkeley in a shaking voice that told the girls she was about to burst into tears. "I hate people who are full of Good Works, especially when they are pushed down my throat !" "But Mother !" said Eleanor, puzzled. "Somebody has got to do these things surely—and it means a lot of work and giving up time."(65). But the objections to the Mackenzies here are those of the lost and the damned. The morally watertight doors slam to —"Somebody has got to do these things surely"—and the Mackenzie hulk wallows onward, unsinkable. Now this might not be too objectionable if the story were an allegory, but unfortunately "The Six Bad Boys" goes out of its way to give the illusion of being a 11

slice of real life: the unanalysed Mackenzies thus become to the juvenile reader a moral and sentimental consolationâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a refuge from the somewhat untidy and harsh realism of the rest of the book. This is epitomised in two portraits: In one Bob looks in on the Mackenzies, filled with despair and frustration at his own family life. " . . . he crept round to the front of the house and peeped through a crack of the curtains into the lighted sitting-room there. He saw what he expected to see. The whole family was there. Mr. Mackenzie was sitting in his chair smoking his pipe, with Pat on his knee telling him something. Mrs. Mackenzie was darning, listening to something that Jeanie was telling her. Jeanie was drawing at the same time, and near her was Donald doing his homework. The fire burnt cheerfully. The cat sat in front of it, its tail curled neatly round. Frisky suddenly bounded in and made a great fuss of everyone. Bob drank it all in as if his mind was thirsty for what he saw. Then he turned away, envy in his heart." (86) At the end, when Bob has been taken into this Great Good Place he purposely looks in through the window once more before going in. ". . . in ran Pat and her mother rustled her hair and kissed her. Frisky leapt about, barking as usual, telling the family he was pleased to be back. Mr. Mackenzie wasn't yet home, but Bob saw his pipe-rack, his slippers and his arm-chair ready for him. "I used to envy them because I hadn't a family too," he thought. "But now it's my family. I don't need to peep. I belong ! Here I go walking in, to join my family !" (176) It is not that Bob comes all right in the end that principally exasperates us here: it is that his happiness is so ethereal and unreal precisely because it is fixed on a family of such unmixed excellence. We just cannot believe in the Mackenziesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;neither their motivations nor their psychology are really analysed in the way that takes place with, say, Mrs. Kent. At least the latter comes partly to life in an almost tragic portrait of a widow whose pride in and love for her son are gradually eroded by Bob's arrogance and by her own selfish superficiality as she goes away more and more to enjoy herself in a hairdressing job amongst flashy society: but the links between motive and act in the Mackenzies remain untold, and we are left with a wall of impenetrable virtue from which Mrs. Mackenzie hurls Home Truths at the evildoers while her husband turns out such maxims as "we must all pull together". So that when we end with Bob's reception into the Mackenzie family, we end up the spout in the Isles of the Blessedâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;we have fluttered away from the texture of the book into a chintzy paradise. And this is surely one reason why Enid Blyton is like hashish, at once a delightful habit to and a hidden corrupting inflence on children12

the more she re-assures them that there is always a romantic escape from reality, the more she saps them of the moral and spiritual energy required to face life. And in fact this sentimental streak is behind all her writing. It is perhaps best seen in her treatment of animals. She has a frequent habit of imputing human characteristics to them in the idiom of elderly mauve-satined spinsters to their buderigars—we are told that when Bob stroked Frisky firmly and confidently, Frisky "liked Bob. He thought he was the right kind of boy for a dog !" The dog's evaluation of Bob is given the same status as a human being's: the animal has moral insight. The same thing happens in the "Famous Five" stories— the Five, whom we might think to be beings of the same species comprise four children and one dog. In one story, "Five Go Adventuring Again", this dog makes a judgement which alters the whole course of the tale and unearths a troop of villians: the four children are staying with their uncle for the holidays and a tutor, Mr. Roland, who is really a villian, has just arrived to teach them and is being introduced to Tim the dog— "Tim ! Shake hands with Mr. Roland !" said Julian to Timothy. This was one of Tim's really good tricks. He could hold out his right paw in a very polite manner. Mr. Roland looked down at the big dog, and Tim looked back at him. Then, very slowly and deliberately, Timothy turned his back on Mr. Roland and climbed up into the pony-trap ! Usually he put out his paw at once when told to, and the children stared at him in amazement."(30) This romanticising of animals surely carries its own penalty— human beings become indistinguishable from brutes and vice-versa. It would be a bit too dramatic to refer to the effects of this on the reader as abdication from his or her humanity, but the tendency is there—it certainly would not be surprising to hear that Enid Blyton was one of the factors in the present dominance of the R.S.P.C.A. over the R.S.P.C.C. The method of Enid Blyton is to do all the work for the reader. She rarely leaves any statement implicit. This happens at the most ordinary levels: for instance we are told that when the Mackenzies were watching the Berkeleys arrive next door. "Frisky was at the front gate. his paws up, his nose through the bars of the gate. He was watching too. "He's hoping there will be a dog to play with !" said Donald. (13) It is quite unnecessary to say "He was watching too". If the dog was standing at the gate and if he was hoping there would be a dog to play with, then logically the beast was not looking in at the Mackenzies from the other side of the gate, but out at the Berkeleys from this side. It is just that tiny spark of nowse, of activity on the part of the reader that Blyton will not allow him. Again, while the Mackenzies are watching for the new family at Hawthorn Cottage, Mrs. Mackenzie asks Jeanie to help clear away the breakfast—"Jeanie ran to help, trying to be as quick as 13

possible because she wanted to go back and watch to see what family was coming to Hawthorn Cottage." (14) Two lines of print are wasted in telling us what it is easy to infer—and how much more attractive and vivid the writing would be if we had to do some work of our own ! It is hard to be certain whether Blyton writes down so excessively to the mentality of her audience because she wants to obliterate all effort on the part of the reader or because she wants to pad—but either motive is rather sordid. A further characteristic of Blyton's, related to the last, is her habit of making explicit the emotions the reader is to feel at certain stages in the narrative. For instance there is the head-wagging remark after we have been introduced to the three families— "Three families, all living so close together, and all so very different !" (34) or again, when Bob has been told by the magistrates that he must go to live with approved foster-parents we feel that, emotionally the hat is being passed round in the remark. "Poor Bob ! No mother, no home, no friends. He went out of the Court, feeling utterly miserable." (162) It is all done for us—the reader weeps on the word of command. Finally, of course, there are the constant moral directives. In the first place all moral attitudes are rendered obvious by our simply having to agree with the statements of such perfect and unanalysed beings as the Mackenzies, the schoolteachers and headmasters, the cinema magager who catches Tom and Bob, the policeman, the magistrates, the probation officers—and to disagree with the positions occupied by the Berkeleys or by Mrs. Kent. Secondly, full assistance is given to us by Blyton herself. When Bob is sent out of the classroom and hides from his approaching headmaster in a cupboard, we are told "He needed the admiration and laughter and encouragement of the others to keep his boldness going !" (56) The exclamation mark which ends this statement gives it a snide governessy backlash forcing us into a kind of moral nod of the head. We see it again when we are told that the members of the Four Terrors gang were afraid of the police and of their fathers —"But they liked pretending they were quite fearless. For a little while they felt grand and on top of the world !" (100) The last oblique sentence ends with an exclamation mark again as a moral nail. But Enid has no need of such blundering irony— she can instead be perfectly blatant, as she is when she describes the attitude of the gang to cinemas—"To sit in a comfortable seat in a warm place and see people being chased and shot, to see horses galloping at top speed, cars tearing along at 80 miles an hour, aeroplanes being revved up . . . . This was all glorious to them. They didn't have to think or use their brains at all—they only needed to sit back and look."(101) 14

As a matter of fact, the last sentence here is a fair comment by the writer on the effect of her own art. The reader has no need to discover for himself the ambiguous moral nature of Bob— he is told, both by the exemplum that is the story and by the oracular personages and commentaries which litter the book that Bob was doing wrong to steal but that his family life was largely responsible for this and that besides he was noble to use his stolen money to buy Christmas presents for the Mackenzies and nothing for himself. With this method even the half-witted child cannot fail to make the required responses. Blyton's treatment of and attitude to the reader is like that of the Big Bad and rather Backward Wolf in the cartoon version of "Little Red Riding Hood". The Wolf kept turning to the camera to cackle over his destination —"Hur ! hur ! I'm headed for the house of . . ." and because he had a very poor memory he always stuck at this point. While he would be mumbling " . . .er . . .er" a large signpost would appear out of the blue and beat him over the skull. This signpost, which by the time of the wolf's recovery pointed on down the path, had written on it "To Little Red Riding Hood's Place". Upon reading which the Wolf would blink in mindless contentment and say "Oh Yur ! . . . to little Red Riding Hood's Place" before padding onward. In just such a manner does Blyton refuse to throw the reader on his own resources, precisely because she thinks he has none. We talk of Henry James' method of moral creation—he presents us with a character like the narrator of "The Sacred Fount" and allows him to expose his nature to the full without any comment—the reader then is forced back on a moral evaluation of his own. Blyton's characters however, are not morally created but morally embalmed—we feel in "The Six Bad Boys" that they are, as it were, increasingly riddled with syringes of ethical formalin throughout, until by the end they are crudely classified specimens. There is much more that can be said on the method of Blyton, but enough has perhaps been done to show how both in her style and moral approach she condescends to her audience. Subjects such as the quality of characterisation, the degree of realism or the technique of narrative in her work have received only passing mention—latent Freudian images, if any, in her work have remained untreated. But perhaps discussion can at least start, on the evidence shown, from the assumption that Enid Blyton is a regrettable influence. W. MANLOWE.

THE LAY OF THE WORM Now herkneth Lordynges, I wil tell a tale Thogh yette I am as dronke as any whale; If it displeseth, dooth nat on mee loure, But may the devill take the editoure ! First wol I pronounce whennes that I come: From Poole of Liveres all couvert in scumme; I bere grete tresors for al yonge hoste, Lokkes of Betels which aren the moste; Also rollinge stoones han I to selle Which that when you hem touche, as I fortelle, Maken youre heere to wexe such a lengthe, You wil be loved of everich yonge wenche ! In al this worulde nis other charme so swete To see and eke to smelle as this ded bete. But now, Lordynges, I shal you seye a thynge That shal by resoun beene at youre likynge, For thogh myself be a foule Pembrooke man, A moral tale yet I yow telle kan ! Bifel that in the terme of Michaelmas, When everich clerke sittes upon his asse, A young worme, somdel fresche and grene Upon a hethe sported him. Ful kene He was to skippe and ronne and flippe. By Christ ! Wel koude he rocke, shake, clutch and twist ! The daunce of Charles toun hoppe he koude: Around the hethe he flonge as hee were woode. Songes of Love hee tho gan to endite: "0 Emily, mine owene ragge dolle swete, To yonge thei seye I bene thee for to kisse, Or yet to flikkeren into loves blisse, But wel knowe I al time that we pleye, Mine baby trewe yow bene, Yeah ! Yeah ! Yeah !" This hende worme thus piped in ecstacie, "What cheer, prymerole, tyl wee married bee ?" The answere blowene was in the winde For sodeynlyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;O Fortune all unkinde ! O werde Sisteres three ! With foule intente This glade creatures blisse all yow to-shent !â&#x20AC;&#x201D; Ful sodeynly a blinde Jersee Cowe Him swalwed has into her wombe belowe. Certes, Lordynges, that was a foule fate; Five stomackes such bestes han, as bokes tel, Ful of the sourest ale in heaven or hel ! 16

This sely Tristan (so was hee ycleped) Whan hee into that derke dungeoun sweped Sone gan he bawlen and loude maken mone, "Alias is mee, of hevenes light fordone ! What wold mine sheene Emilye now thenche If mee shee spyed swimmand in thys stenche ?" But Sirs, ye knowth ful wel what Boece saith, "A man dooth al hys best to forfende dethe". Thys Triston thenne sone gan hys corage mende; To save hys lyf and take revenge he wende. Hee crepit to a highe drye place where peristalsis hym ne koude displace; To myghty Mars then fersly gan hee crye, "Helpe mee, myn Lorde, to do thys beste to dye ! Solomon with hys wyves thousand I liken, Myne dutee wel I knowe,â&#x20AC;&#x201D;but wher first striken ?" Anon hys mynde with murdrous thoghtes gan fille How best hee koud the cowes blod to-spille. "Wrathe and grimme beeth now myn swartish soule, Away love thoghtes, must I werke gret dole !" Yet fyrste it semed wyse to ferse Tristam A litel slepe to take ere hee began Swich drede thynges, for he was alle sweynt: Fro swemmynge in the flod almoost hee dreynt. "When fresch I uprise wil, mee more shal leste To byte thys cowe herde under the breste !" The cowes guttes rumbled lyke a dromme, And Tristam sone in swevenynge is come. But Lordynges, who can Natures werkynges knowe ? When Tristam wooke, gone was the Jersee cowe. JOHN UNRAU.

INSOMNIA Rain falls The essence of its hiss on grass the coolness blown against her face if she were out there in the dark (spatter against window) in the silence of infinity, static, a continuity the endless drip of water from gutter into drain. DAVID SOMEKH.

THE RETURN OF MOLESWORTH Gosh chiz here i am in the throes of litterary composition agane ie. writing for bulfrog. Criticks will arsk wot are you doing here clot you have done four years hard and taken the dreded SKOOLS. the answer is easy i kno too much about the place they must keep me quiet so here i am for anuther three years. Ah me. Tis sadening to refflect that all i knew are gone. grabber hay gone to his directorship peason to his park bench. fotherington-tomas worthy weed that he is hav seen the lite (not v. dificult i should have thort theres a lot of it around) left cnd and gone into the church. Thus do the ex-studdents of ye olde colege gane distinction in their difering spheres a credit to the ideles instiled by GRIMES the dreded dene. Such musing turn my thorts into a philopsophical strane i.e. wot will become of the inocent lads now ariving at ye olde colege. Will they kepe a strate bat put the subj. in the nom. always speak well of a lady ? When i consider som of my acquantences hem hem i fele a certain pesimissm. There were times when this colege was more like a west at its wildest than the sete of culture, lerning, good maners, ect, ect. that it should be (that should get me a few quid from the dons eh ?). For instance: SCENE. We famed BEER CELAR. Many wild and wooly lads are seted quafing BEER and yeling at each other above the roar of the tv comercials. Ocasionaly one throws his glass at the tv screen but miss chiz having drunk too much. In the corner the day-and-night poker skool is in sesion. Enter GRIMES the dreded dene with his hired guns. GRIMES: Tis past the hour for such revelry. Break it up now break it up. (He duck to avoid a hale of beerbotles.) In the corner a gamble spring to his fete with grate cry having lost all. Imediately he draw his GAT and start shooting all seke cover under the tables. When the smoke clere GRIMES is on the floor (more fritened than hurt, oficial comunique). FOTHERINGTON-TOMAS: 0 woe such violence befits not this august foundashun. WAM ! A mitey blow knok him through the tv screen peace at last cheers. I ruder to recal this episode and lets face it twas only one of many. In those darwk das the dean and mancipple went in hourly fere of a lynching in fakt the place seethed with rebelious spirits (no clot not the BEER). i myself went armed continualy and was forced to toough up some unworthy louts who made adverse coment on my apperence chiz. Now perhaps there will be a change; and then agane perhaps not. It is up to the younger genneration let them be warned by my story. Do we want this famed colege to be a haunt of drunks gamblers vilians ect. or do we not ? 0.T.P.K.D. 18

A MERE INTERLUDE?

HE clouds that had been darkening the sky-line all day finally gave way â&#x20AC;&#x201D; and the rain came down that night on a tired city about to seek the oblivion of night. The faint corner street-light glimmered through the downpour, adding a touch of vitality to the oncoming gloom. The water splattered off the roofs and ran down the gutters, disappearing with a constant gurgle into the grilled sewer-mouth. Malti put the last few maggots of wood into the basket, covered it with old sacks and pushed it back as far as possible into the corner of the leaking shed, hoping that it would not get too wet. From the adjoining room she could hear snatches of her sister-inlaw's voice, " . . . abroad about at night. Whose attention does she wish to draw now? Nice daughter-in-law you have! Do you know what that woman across the road has been saying . . . " The voice sank into a conspirational whisper, making Malti flush with anger. Shanti took a malicious pleasure in disparaging her, and was ever causing further trouble for her. And there was nothing she could do about it. Her mother-in-law would eagerly lap up all that she was told and report it to her son, and then, of course ... A child's cry tore through the monotonous sound of the rain, jolting Malti back to the present from her apathetic reverie. Wrapping the end of her sari tightly over her bare shoulders she hurried across the narrow lane to her room in the derelict building facing her mother-in-law's shanty. The wind and rain stung her â&#x20AC;&#x201D; the invidious cold bit through her feet and then seemed to travel up her spine and she shivered. She entered the darkened room and saw her five-year old son trying to soothe his baby-sister. "Soothe"! Could love and sweet words appease a child's hunger? Could mere hope assuage the gnawing pain deep down inside? She picked up the child and cuddled it; . . . she looked into the cup; even the flour that she used to mix with water to serve as a substitute for milk had finished. She took some water and fed it to the baby . . . yet after a few minutes the child began to whimper again. She let her suckle her breast, even if there was no nourishment. At least the child quietened down. Her son huddled against her to extract as much warmth as possible, in a vain attempt to keep warm. And as Malti sat there in the dark with her two children an unutterable weariness possessed her whole body, giving her the queer feeling of being bodiless. . . . I dreamt of him last night again. He stood there; very dim it was. He beckoned to me . . . or didn't he? Even then, they say it bodes ill to dream of the dead. But that was so long ago. I was so young then; well there was her son. Very like his father. And this little thing? The daughter by her present husband. Wonder if she will live? Misery! To bring them into this world: for what? Yes, for what? That afternoon's scene came vividly back to her 19

mind, and with it she felt the bruises again. Her mother-in-law and Shanti shaking their fists before her face; her son crying bitterly, clutching her sari. It had started like all the other quarrels — with her husband. He was being berated for being a useless, unscrupulous creature; not caring for his family, not working, but caging on his old parents. What did he take them for? Gold mines? From this day he could do what he pleased. He was not getting anything out of them anymore. And then they had turned upon her. "You could sell your silver bracelets instead of hiding them; what are you saving them for?" The bangles! The only present she had ever got in her life, from her first husband. Anyway, they had been sold long ago; by her present husband to provide for a few days' drinks. "Or you can go and steal some more food . . . Steal or beg — go on — become a beggar, or even worse. God help me! Such a daughter-in-law! No wonder her people wanted to get rid of her . . . " And the usual lamentation went on. Chandan, Shanti's son, was standing in the yard, eating a banana. Her son was running around in circles, dodging in and out amongst the various things that littered the yard. Suddenly, he bumped against Chandan, and the banana went spinning down in the dirt. Chandan screamed and lashed out at her son. Shanti had seen what happened, but she grabbed him and started thrashing him cruelly. Malti had gone forward to ward off the blows but her mother-in-law pushed her away. "Like mother, like son. Both thieves. Imagine stealing from his own brother. You wait . . I'll teach you . . . ". Malti protested for the first time. "But it was an accident. He lost his balance; he did not mean to bump against Chandan". "What! dare you call me a liar? Didn't all these people see it? Didn't I see it with my own eyes? You contradict your own mother-in-law . . . I have never heard of such behaviour". . . . The baby started crying again, and Malti began to rock her in her arms, holding her close. What followed had left its mark. Her husband had been told of how she had dared to talk back to her mother-in-law, and he, in righteous anger, enhanced by his afternoon boozing, had started hitting her — till even Shanti and her mother had come in to intervene; to ease their conscience? Yet, this was nothing new. As long as she could remember it had been like this. Widowed at a young age, she had been sent back to her parents . . . from where she had considered herself lucky to escape when they had finally managed to give her in marriage for the second time. And now? How could she escape from here? They had tried to send her back to her parents. Complaining that she had cast a spell on their son, turning him into a useless bum. Some of the people from her village had come to try to settle the dispute, but who would spend money to pay her fare; so, they had quarrelled some more, and here she was. 20

Tears rolled down her cheeks at these thoughts. Her heart filled with dismay. She clutched the baby tightly to her. She could see no glimmer of hope at all in the future. She could feel herself being inexorably choked to death by the dark, heavy future. She could do nothing to ease or stop it. Perhaps this is what they mean by destiny . . . The quiet of the night was again broken by the noise of somebody stumbling and cursing outside, and then the tattered and stained cloth that served as a door and curtain was roughly swept aside to reveal the coarse, drunken face of her husband. He stalked in, and then stood swaying, trying to peer into the darkness. She quickly placed the exhausted children on the decrepit bed and got up, withdrawing into the shelter of a dark corner. He staggered forward and stretched out his hand. "Give them to me. Hurry up", he growled. "Give what?" she whispered, apprehensively. "What? You still won't come out with them?" he roared, stepping forward and raising his hand. She instinctively put up her hands and retreated along the wall till she was brought up against the other corner. "Ha", he laughed derisively. "Who will save you now? Where will you run now?" He reached out and clutched her sari and gave it a furious tug. The flimsy and tattered cloth was torn still more and it came off. He let out a short, choking laugh and then trying to get nearer he tripped over her sari and fell heavily against the wall, making the whole room shake. He cursed and got up painstakingly and lunged at her, "Give me the bracelets immediately. I want them". "But you have already sold them. Surely you remember?" "You liar, you have hidden them"; he hit out at her and continued to hit and kick till she lost consciousness and did not feel the blows any more . . . Malti raised herself from the damp floor. She was cold and stiff and her body burst into pain at a thousand different places. She found clotted blood on her face and shoulder. She picked up what was left of her sari and wrapped it round her. The faint, ghostly light of early dawn filtered in through the curtain and she could see the children cuddled up together. The night had passed, but nothing else had. Malti's throat constricted; she wanted to scream. She wanted to protest vehemently. But to whom? Who would hear her? God? Where was he? What had she been born for? To suffer like this, and suffer more and more? She gazed dully and stood swaying slightly, feeling herself break down. She knew she would lose control over herself. Suddenly, her gaze intensified. There he was again. There, in that corner. He was beckoning; very gently calling her to come to him. No one had called to her before. No one had wanted her before. She had always been pushed around 21

as if she was dirt. Was it not better to answer the call â&#x20AC;&#x201D; even if it proved to be an illusion? Would it not be far better than sticking to this 'reality'? Malti stood still for a moment. Then she moved convulsively and started acting with great haste, as if there was no time to lose. She quickly picked up the two children and put them in the passage; then she ran to the shed and brought back the bottle of paraffin oil and drew the curtain . . . Shanti heard the child cry. Let it. The mother doesn't even bother to look after them. Then she heard his voice â&#x20AC;&#x201D; "Aunty open". She opened the door and pushed him away roughly, telling him not to bother her so early in the morning. But the child stood there, mutely pointing towards the adjoining shack. She saw the smoke and the tongues of flame. 'he ran forward and started shouting, calling to her mother to come and see what her daughter-in-law had done this time . . . After the body had been taken away, they started talking. "Why did she go and do a thing like that She was healthy and it wasn't that her lot was worse than ours? "Yes! There was no reason for her to have acted this way. She was so quiet and silent, and we treated her quite normally. No one can blame us for her end . . . " Already they had started forgetting her. Her life was no more than an interlude, and who remembers a mere interlude? G.C.

THE WATER CRISIS I.

HE present international water crisis could never have been anticipated by the British financiers who mooted the idea of the Water Standard back in 1970. Here, they had said, was an opportunity for Britain to regain the economic supremacy they enjoyed in the days of the Gold Standard. The prospect appeared attractive, and April 5th, 1973, was the day of the Bank of England's momentous decision that from then on the pound would be backed by water instead of gold. Pound notes promised to pay the bearer "one pint of water", and water exchanges were set up throughout the country. In August France declared the franc to be on the water standard, and the cross-channel pipeline was constructed for easy flow of currency, with the sealed apparatus on neutral territory at Dover that converts the Franch kilograms of water into British pints. Between 1974 and 1976 the rest of Western Europe joined the water area, and so great was its expansion of international trade that in 1977 the U.S were forced to declare the dollar a wet currency, followed by the rest of the Western Hemisphere. Initially Russia denounced water as a capitalist plot to undermine international socialism, but so rapidly did their trade with the water area dwindle that in 1980 even the 22

rouble was wet. By 1984 the whole of world finance was dependent on water. Initially huge water-tankers plied the oceans of the world, but in another ten years the intercontinental pipeline network was completed, and all payments were made by the turn of a tap in one of the world's capitals. Britain, having had the first wet currency, regained her supremacy in world trade. In the early days she obtained extensive concessions for rich water deposits in the Middle East and South America, and the "Water Barons" who ran the newly floated water companies became men of fabulous wealth. Vast reservoirs were constructed in the vaults of the Bank of England, and at one time so great were Britain's currency reserves that there was talk of draining the Wash in order to reclaim enough land to construct a reservoir that would hold all our reserves. The later discovery that we had home deposits of water in the Scottish Highlands both clinched Britain's financial independence and brought much needed prosperity to Britain's non-urban area. The first threat to the stability of the water standard came when in 1994 Japan started to flood the market from hitherto unknown stocks of water. The pint slumped, investors lost confidence, trade was brought almost to a standstill, and there was talk of devaluing the pint and the kilogram. That the situation was saved at all we owe to the presence of mind of the Hong Kong fire bridage. Called upon to extinguish a fire in a Hong Kong warehouse, they resorted in emergency to a freshly delivered water consignment from Japan. When it was found that the fire burnt only the more brightly, samples of the water were sent for chemical analysis, and found to consist mainly of gin with only a 10% water content. The Japanese government pointed out that there was no legal standard of purity, and that they were within their rights to dilute it with alchohol. Within a week Britain founded the I.W.B., to which all countries voluntarily subscribe, to lay down purity standards for currency. The supply of cheap Japanese imitation water has now completely dried up. Von Schmitzendorf, the American organic chemist, has made a discovery which represents a more serious threat to the water standard in the long term. After fifteen years research he has produced a complex organic substance, in milligram quantities, undistinguishable in physical properties from water. However, he says that production lines will require another twenty years development, after which time some sort of solution may have been discovered. The present crisis, however, is a largely political one, originating from the dispute over the rich water deposits recently found in the Saudi Arabian desert. A British company claimed that an oil concession it already owned in the area extended to water, the Russians countered with a claim that a treaty with the Czar in 23

1885 entitled them to all the water in the desert; while the Saudi Arabian government answered both parties by nationalizing the mines. Ghana then accused all three parties of neo-colonialism, and Indonesia landed troops in Tierra del Fuego. Iceland threatened to leave the water area and harden her currency again, and China denounced the Americans as imperialists. There seems no way out of the resulting chaos, and there have been discussions of new currency standards, such as paper and sand. There has even been talk of hot air. D. R. HOPKIN. F. M. ROADS. DECLENSIONS (Any resemblance to, etc., is purely intentional) Ted grew a beard, to look more arty, Had poetic aspirations. Now he's in the Tory Party, Nursing left-wing inclinations. Charles arrived up here a virgin (Though he never would admit it.) Felt his manhood in him surging, Got stuck in and wouldn't quit it, He at last, the never-rated. Met one who held out for marriage: Lives, quiet and domesticated, In a council house in Harwich. Do you remember Henry, that shining socialite ? No one else at Oxford then seemed set on rising faster. Something odd came over him, almost overnight, And now, you know, he'sâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;ssh, look out !â&#x20AC;&#x201D;well, well, good morning, Master ! John had read all there was to read, Could quote in German, Greek and Gad; Now writes, from sheer financial need, A gossip column in the Mail. Arthur may have been, perhaps, something of a fool, But his triumphs on the rugger field no one could deny, P.T. Instructor at a minor public school, He watches little boys with a wistful eye. Peter was an atheist, old-fashionedly sincere, Inveigled against theology 14 hours a day. One day he had a change of heart, saw his duty clear; Weeping tears of penitence, he joined the MRA. PHILIP KEMP.

BALLAD OF THE EPIC CINEMA Last night I was Frederick of Prussia At the battle of Lake Trasimere, And an armour-clad cinema usher Was pushing me down a ravine. Then a voice thundered: "You have just seen —In Disaperpanoppicovision— "Son of Spartacus meets Graham Greene;" There will now be a short Intermission. Although carpets are deeper, seats plusher, And they're giving away free ice-cream, The public comes home from the rush-hour And waches the cops at Dock Green. The Government won't intervene; So in order to beat television They give us four hours at full steam— After which, there's a short Intermission. There's a new one called "Catherine of Russia" With Sophia Loren as the Queen; It's expensiver, longer and lusher, (Adapted from "Medre" by Racine) One sleigh-race, four duels, sixteen Pitched battles, two wars of attrition; Seats booking from El 15— As free bonus, a short Intermission.

ENVOI Great Prince of the 80-foot screen, I think—with your gracious permission— I shall leave your next epic unseen; There will now be a short Intermission.

TO PITT-RIVERS: ODE (No offence to J.B.) In muses stands a skeleton labelled "pig". Also there are bones, Dinosaurs' perhaps. Schoolgirls come in giggling inky handed droves, to draw the bones, summoning an angry hum of echoes from the girdered rib-cage high above, clothed with its dusty sunlights. Among the marble columns, some laced about with metal filigree, the pale flayed body of a squib (for instance) floats imprisoned in a bottle. The red and white brick floor it rutted by the prehistoric footprints of a ghostly schoolgirl horde. Oh, Victorian convenience of a building thou, whose cloisters shelter corals, leviathans' and monkeys' skulls, and an old attendant or two, sleep in peace beneath thy dust and dream the musty smell of fossils, oblivion where time and schoolgirls cease to be.

ART COMMITTEE REPORT There was a ripping of paper. Michaelmas term 1963 was with us and the Art Committee burst to life after years in limbo. The constitution was being changed in line with Dalrydeen democracy. Since then success has followed success and Pemmy Art Committee, heralded frequently by reports in the National as well as the local press, has burst back in on the Art scene and is currently riding high in the charts. Hilary Term zipped in with Art Week. This canalized the main art streams in England bringing the delta right into our Senior J.C.R. Talks, discussions, films, confrontations, question sessions, and a concurrent exhition were the main attractions. Frink was frank, Cohen was cogent, Tilson brought along some of his tints in timber and Frost was friendly. Other participants included on the flip side were Elizabeth Deighton, Pauline Vogelpoel, Mark Glazebrook, Alan Barness and Robert Frazer. Laurence Bradbury lectured on Art for whose sake? Certainly not for yours, Pembroke men, since none in the College deigned to attend this and few came to any of the other meetings. Had those who are so ready to criticize the contemporary scene come along, maybe then they would at least be able to back their arguments with a modicum of understanding of what they are talking about. In fact, however, attendance at the Art Week was good by Oxford standards. Publicity was well managed and we had good write-ups in national and local press. The College's Frink was nicked but was later returned after police intervention and more reports in the press. Hilary term was Porter's term. Tom Porter, a local painter who should soon make the charts, was given an exhibition in the College. Purchases over the last year have been provocative but time will prove the fine taste and foresight of the Committee. Works of Art which we have bought include sculpture by Elizabeth Frink and Bryan Kneale, and paintings by Alfred Cohen, Harold Cohen, and Tom Porter. Our chart-topping Bacon has been lent for a travelling exhibition to Hamburg, Berlin, Karlsrake and Copenhagen. Long suffering members of the Art Committee are: Charles Cardiffâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;President, Andrew Lanson. Piers Simpson, Robert Rhodes, Dennis Cashman, Julian Lax.

PEMBROKE PLAYERS (Sir Thomas Browne Society â&#x20AC;&#x201D; renamed) In the sixth week of the summer term the society combined with St. Peter's and St. Anne's to present Jean Anouilh's "Ring Round The Moon" in the gardens of the Victoria Arms on the Cherwell. The production was very well received and it was unfortunate that on some nights bad weather harmed the attendances. This term we have concentrated mainly on play readings, and have read Shaw's "The Apple Cart", Sheridan's "The School For Scandal", "A Penny For A Song" by John Whiting, Giraudoux's "Tiger At The Gates", and "A Resouding Tinkle" by N. F. Simpson. The standard achieved in these enables us to plan this year's production with confidence. This term the Cuppers' entry was Cervantes' "The Vigilant Sentinel", an all freshman production, which as a result of much hard work improved considerably on the standards of previous entries.

MIDDLE COMMON ROOM SOCIETY President: Ken Barclay. Secretary: Nigel T. James. Treasurer: Trevor Howard-Hill. The activities of the Middle Common Room Society have continued with success during the year. In the past, the energies of the Society were mainly directed toward the holding of several dinners each term thus enabling members to meet and talk. Since October, however, due to the generosity of the Master and Fellows, the Society has gained a permanent room above the J.C.R. Since the inaugural sherry party, the Society now admits female guests within college visiting hours and they are also welcome to the last dinner of term. During the summer vacation the M.C.R. Society provided a punt for use by its members for a period of six weeks. It has been decided to provide another punt this summer. At least one business meeting a term is now held and is usually well attended by members. The extension of M.C.R. Society facilities is to be expected in the near future and a meeting of the committee with the M.C.R. committees of other colleges will take place in January to further this aim. THE BLACKSTONE SOCIETY President: S. M. Hwang. Secretary: J. Walker-Haworth. Treasurer: J. E. M. Mayne. This term the Society entertained two eminent visiting speakers. The first was Sir Leslie Peppiatt, ex-President of the Law Society, who gave us a vivid account of the life of "The Modern Lawyer". Our other guest speaker for term was Mr. Geoffery Crispin, Q.C., who spoke with great ability on the fascinating subject of "Divorce Law". Michaelmas 1964 will, however, be remembered by the Society as the last term of our Senior Treasurer, Mr. R. F. V. Heuston, who now goes to a Chair at Southampton University. He will always be remembered with affection at Pembroke for the help and kindness he gave to members of the Society, both individually and collectively. I am sure that all members of the Society, past and present, wish him and his wife all the best as they leave for Southampton. HOCKEY CLUB Captain: J. Swan, Esq. Secretary: H. E. Polehampton, Esq. Although the Freshman intake has not been very large, the few that have joined the club are capable players, but such is our tradition that we failed to install anyone in the prospectant Occasionals team at the beginning of last term. Our record does not sound encouraging â&#x20AC;&#x201D; played 10, won 3, ost 7 with 5 matches cancelled. But the potential of the team has been high, and unfortunately was never realised to its full extent except perhaps in the Cuppers match against Trinity. After a bye in the first round, we lost a very hard fought match 4-1, and in the first half we held the opponents off with 1-1, and went close to scoring many times. It is to be hoped that the team can settle down as a team in the Hilary term and actually score the goals which it is capable of, producing thereby incentive for more Pembroke men to play hockey, the small size of the club contributing a great deal to the embarassment of cancelled matches and the necessity of 'hiring' outsiders. The Dynamos have had no match this term â&#x20AC;&#x201D; the weather conspired to spoil the possible enjoyment of many who dare to dabble in mixed hockey (God help them!) on sunny but wintry afternoons. Let us hope they will not be baulked in the coming term.

CRICKET CLUB Captain: N. R. Phelps. Hon. Secretary: G. Millar. Enjoyable season with moderate success. Main run-getters G. Bissenden, R. Essam, N. Phelps, J. Forster. R. Hunt, R. Essam, G. Bissenden, G. Millar most successful bowlers. Officials for 1965: Captain: G. Bissenden. Hon. Secretary: R. J. Essam. R.J.E.

O.U. YACHT CLUB Vice Commodore: K. J. Merron (Trinity). Rear Commodore: N. F. Hodson (Trinity). Senior Members: Hon. Secretary: D. G. C. Mamabo (Pembroke). Hon. Treasurer: D. C. Witt (Merton). Junior Treasurer: S. Farrow (Worcester). Hon. Bosun: S. J. N. Barker (Queens). Membership Secretary: C. J. Huggins (Exeter). Captain of Cygnets: J. M. Wilson (Balliol). Ladies' Team Captain: Miss J. Tobhill (Linacre House). Ladies' Dep.: Miss E. Bowden (L.M.H.). TABLE-TENNIS CLUB Captain: G. Chakravartty. Last yeas the second and third team continued to demonstrate their enthusiasm and talent. Accordingly they were promoted to the next division. The first team was unlucky to come out third in the list after heading the table for most of the season. It is most gratifying to find an abundance of interest in the game this year. We have had no difficulty in putting up three teams again. The prospects appear rather good for Pembroke, with the addition of some freshmen who can well take care of the first team.

CHESS CLUB Last season the Chess Club was extremely successful in the league. The first team won the first division, half a point ahead of Exeter; the second team was second equal with two other colleges in the second division, and just missed promotion by points average, and the third team came first equal with Hertford second team and Magdalen first team in the third division, winning promotion to the second. The fourth team was not so successful, winning only two of its five matches. In Cuppers we had a bye in the first round and lost the second to Keble. What is particularly remarkable about last year is the keenness of players, as a result of which no games were lost by default â&#x20AC;&#x201D; a record which unfortunately we cannot match this season, since there have already been several defaulters. There seem to be several good players among the Freshmen, more than enough to compensate for those who went down last year, but the number of freshmen playing in the I.C.R. is lamentably small. We may hope that the first and third teams will win the first and second divisions, and that the second team will start winning after its two defeats. We are still unbeaten in Cuppers, and it is possible that we may win, if fixtures can be arranged to suit most of our team.

SQUASH CLUB Captain: G. Millar. Secretary: J. E. M. Mayne. Matches played 13, Won 8, lost 5. Players incuded: P. S. Prendergast, W. J. S. Lewis, W. J. R. Field, D. Taylor, D. R. Hopkin. This term the Squash team has had varied success. In the league we have remained in the third division although with luck we could have been promoted. As always we have been short of players on those days when the Rowing and Rugby clubs claim their players and as a result more matches have been cancelled than should have been had more players of standing been present in the College. The team was unlucky in its Captain breaking an ankle before the last three league matches. D. Taylor is the only freshman to make the team. Next term, so long as the team is reasonably fit, we should do quite well in Cuppers. 2nd V: matches played 9, won 5, lost 4. Players included: N. J. R. Field, D. R. Hopkin, M. N. Kemp-Gee, T. J. G. Dyas, R. Cox, J. M. Donald. Freshman interested in playing Squash were slow in coming forward this term and so the teams put out at the beginning of the term were made up of third year men pressed into Service. Interest in the game increased as the term progressed and at the end there were more than enough competent players with which to match other Second V teams. Prospects for those matches to be played next term are therefore good. J. E. M. Mayne. AMALGAMATED CLUBS Treasurer: G. Miller. Secretaryy: J. E. M. Mayne. The Committee, not in fact being a club in the true sense of the word, played no matches. So has no record to submit. It met twice, at the beginning and at the end of term, and discussed, in the main, the refund of subscriptions, division of funds among the various sports clubs, and the claims for equipment made predominantly by the boat club. All secretaries and Captains, or as many as could be reminded, attended the meeting. BOAT CLUB Captain: N. J. S. Lewis. Vice-Captain: N. K. Maybury. Secretary: A. J. Read. Treasurer: J. M. Talbot. Ex-Officio: M. M. Baker. This term will be remembered for many things â&#x20AC;&#x201D; the abdication of the barge at a time when the event could be called nothing less than insulting must be prominent in the minds of many Pembroke men â&#x20AC;&#x201D; but most remarkable was the spirit which led so many to gain almost notoriety by actually rowing. Our novices including many other than Freshmen, progressed well either with the O.U.B.C. or on our own training programme, while our men entered for Trials, and K. Maybury has been invited to row for a University crew next term, after gaining his second Junior Trial cap. About 20 oarsmen have been racing as novices in the Godstow longdistance race and the Christ Church Regatta. Dicjie Coombes (Worcs.) coached us extremely well, having earlier during the term rowed with K. Maybury in the Senior Pairs.

Near the end of the term we were pleased to be able to invite Sir Donald Zinnemore to christen our new shell eight which now bears his name, and with parting â&#x20AC;&#x201D; "Now the barge has gone down, the eight must go up!" â&#x20AC;&#x201D; we are looking forward to a hard rewarding season. BADMINTON CLUB Captain: S. M. Hwang. For the first time in several years the club is without the stalwart presence of Chris Lewis; a compensation for his departure was, however, the arrival of two promising Freshmen players. It has been a little difficult to field our strongest team for most matches this term, and in view of this fact, our record is creditable. We lie in the middle of our Division, with no fear of relegaton, nor of promotion! (Whence fixtures have to be played at Abingdon). With the aid of a favourable draw, we should do better in Cuppers than last year.

THE ABBEY PRESS, ABINGDON, BERKS.