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Not Wasted
18 March 2002

In this contribution to the Fantasy Archers topic of the Archers message board, "Lenny the Cat" transposes T S Eliot's The Wasteland to Ambridge:

April is the cruelest month, breeding
GM crops, old bedsprings and progeny of
adulterous liaisons out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Incorrigible village gossip with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
The 4x4 in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with half-made cheese.
Summer surprised us, coming over Lakey Hill
With a shower of asteroids; we stopped in the multi-storey car park
And went on in sunlight into Underwoods’ tea room
And drank decaffeinated espresso, and talked for an hour
About how Ruth’s waters had almost broken on
their most expensive mattress.
"I am not really Russian, I am Irish
and being a character in a soap opera I conform to a number of cliches including red hair,
Catholicism, and an interest in horse-racing"
And when we were children, staying at Lower Loxley
My cousins, they took me out on a sled
And I was frightened as I knew my Aunt Elizabeth wanted us out of the way so that she could inherit Brookfield.
They said, Pip, Josh, hold on tight. And down we went.
I watch Eddie’s videos much of the night, and go south in winter.
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?
Ed, I thought I had paid you to clear it all away, but you know only
Community Service in the park, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Let alone bootleg cider, E
or any other stimulant you might actually be after.
Frisch weht der Wind [fresh blows the wind]
Der heimat zu [from the Â鶹ԼÅÄ Farm Land]
Mein Irisch kind [my Irish girl]
Wo weilest du? [ where are you lingering]
"You gave me a leopard skin hat first a year ago;"
"They called me Jolene although my real name was something else."
--Yet when we came back, late, from the gym (or as you pretended to Kathy, the cash and carry)
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, as rather a lot of soap had got into them
During the infamous shower scene. I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Madame Lynda, famous clairvoyante,
Has a bad cold, not to mention worse hay fever,
Is known to be the wisest woman in Ambridge,
With a wicked pack of cards, aromatherapy and feng shui being "so last year". Here, said she,
Is your card, the almost-drowned goats from Ambridge Hall.
(Those are pearls that were their eyes. Look!)
Here is Kathy, the Lady of the Rocks,
Which she cannot get off, the lady of situations, all of which with decreasing credibility she describes as "fun".
And here is Mike the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something that he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see - ah, no, it’s the chip on his shoulder. I do not find
The Love Rat. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Lady Goodman,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;
One must be so careful these days.
Unreal City
Particularly as no-one from the village had ever been there much
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, "Grundy!
You who were with me in the flat at Meadow Rise!
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
And take first prize at the Flower and Produce Show?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
You! Stole my stories for Joe’s Jottings - hypocrite lecteur!--mon semblable!--mon frère

More T S Eliot parody