Let's start, dear reader, with a bit of derivation. A feghoot is simply a poetic jest, a humorous short story ending with a pun. I thought a few blogs of an amusing nature would be go down well in the week of World Mental Health Day - laughter being a priceless medicine. The feghoot was originated (and named) by the American science-fiction writer Reg Bretnor who wrote a series of shaggy-dog sci-fi tales known collectively as 'Through Time And Space With Ferdinand Feghoot.' Young Mr Feghoot apparently travelled through all dimensions as a trouble-shooter on behalf of the Society For The Aesthetic Re-Arrangement Of History. Now there's a job! His bizarre adventure stories, often only a few paragraphs long, always ended with a deliberately terrible pun based on a well-known phrase. Do you begin to see where this might be going?
Actually, I've never read any of Bretnor's Ferdinand Feghoot japes, but I did as a child enjoy listening to the radio panel show My Word! which always ended with an extemporaneous feghoot from team captains Frank Muir and Denis Norden. Each would be given a well-known phrase at the beginning of the show and at the end would have to tell a tall tale culminating appropriately in a punning rewrite of the given phrase. The fact that I still remember some of them fifty years on must be testament to the pair's ingenuity and mastery of story-telling.
By way of illustration, I'll recast as best I can one example here. The given phrase was "Where there's a will, there's a way." The resulting feghoot might have unfolded somewhat as follows:
An over-wrought cinema proprietor was standing outside the Sydenham Scala on a sunny Friday afternoon, prodding his odd-job man accusingly and gesticulating up to the light-box than ran above the width of the foyer. It read in letters two feet high: SHOWING TONIGHT - MOB DICK
"I can't have that up there like that," said the proprietor. "What on earth will people think?"
The affronted odd-job man shrugged hopelessly and replied "I'm sorry Mr Blinkhorn. When I opened up the crate they sent with the film and the posters and titles and all, well there was one letter missing. I checked twice. Not there. What else could I do sir?"
"You could have come and found me for a start Bodger, before proceeding."
"I'm sorry sir. You were showing the new usherette the ropes and it looked like you didn't want to be interrupted."
"Yes very well, but we can't leave it up there like that. You'll have to fettle a temporary stand-in for tonight. I'll get onto the distributor to send a replacement in the morning. You'd better get that dick down first and then go to the art shop for materials. Strong red card or something."
"It's closed, sir. Shuts at noon on a Friday sir."
"Damn and blast the inconvenience of it, Bodger. What do you suggest then? You're the odd-job man. By the way, no need to mention the usherette business to Mrs Blinkhorn."
Bodger shifted uneasily from one foot to the other before replying.
"Couldn't we just leave it as it is for one night sir and trust to people's intelligence to sort of fill in the gap? Surely sir, everybody knows that where there's a whale there's a Y."
I found the conceit both clever and entertaining as a thirteen year-old. Some might say I've not travelled very far since! Or course I've liberally re-written Frank's (or was it Denis') script, but what the heck? We're all in cahoots when it comes to feghoots.
Right then. To round out today's blog I'm going to attempt the feghoot as "poetic jest" in its simplest form; actually a double-hoot - don't ever say I don't give value for money :-) None of the customary preamble then, just the poem as pun in tribute to one of my favourite visual artists, the creative conduit and "wild beast" that was Andre Derain (1880-1954). Here's a selfie of M. Derain in his studio circa 1905 as he contemplated launching the Fauvist movement upon an unsuspecting world - vibrant post-impressionist canvasses in bold, vivid, unnatural combinations of colours. He was just doing what he had to do. Of course the critics thought he'd gone mad.
Piece Of Mind
The brain, inflamed,
flails madly to explain...
Derain 'insane'
feels mainly others' pain.
That's all folks. Thanks for reading. Stay grounded and have a good week, S ;-)
14 comments:
Splendid! Made me laugh.
Yep, another good 'un Steve. Thanks for brightening a crap Saturday.
I enjoyed the tall tale and your little poem is a fine thing. Well done.
Your blogs are always entertaining Steve. I'd never heard of feghoots before.
I hooted.
Very droll. I remember My Word as a tv programme in the 1980s. I never knew what a feghoot was until reading your blog.
Hello Anonymous. You must be thinking of Call My Bluff, which was a tv panel game from the mid-sixties onwards and featured Frank Muir as one of the team captains (though never Denis Norden as far as I can remember). My Word! was only ever on radio (Home Service and then Radio 4) from 1956 through to 1988.
This was thoroughly enjoyable Mr R, even the little throwaway lines like the Elecutioner's Song. I never listened to My Word and I had no idea what a feghoot was until I read this but the story was very amusing and I thought your poem was clever. Thank you.
Mob Dick in Sydenham Shocker! Hilarious.
Brilliant. Made me LOL.
This was fun. Well done and thanks for sharing.
Thank you Steve. The shaggy dog story made me smile and I like your little feghoot poem.
My favorite Feghoot is about a jazz quartet blowing their horns in a nightclub - can't remember the whole damned tale but the pay-off line is about the mad end-of-the-world cacophony being blown by the four hoarse men of the puckered lips.
Sorry I'm slow in getting round to my emails these days. This was just brilliant Steve, right down to your clever Feghoot poem(s). Thank you, keep them coming.
Post a Comment