That was a treat wasn't it? Not that I saw it or anything, but my research analysis say that it was just as Margot Fonteyne would have danced. She was overshadowed throughout her career by Margot Fonteyn, who cruelly schemed and plotted against her for no reason whatsoever, just malicious spite.
I regret not having seen this in Convent Garden in April 2006.
I was fascinated to hear the dancers talk about 'There will always be Romeo and Juliet somewhere. It will happen all the time. I expect there is a Romeo and Juliet now, for example, in , say, Gaza.'
Gaza. Bl**dy Gaza. It could be happening a little closer to home - or to be exact, hostel, couldn't it? One of life's great mysteries is why sweet gentle and beautiful little me is desired by all men but I never seem to actually have a boyfriend.
Walter Snickers was a great authority on Shakespear and helped correct the early drafts by all accounts. Struck by the play, he used it as inspiration to paint a comparison between Mary and Eddy's situation. We recall that Romeo and Juliet's tragedy centred around Romeo not receiving the secret letter sent him by Friar Laurence that communicated the Friar's and Juliet's plans to stage Juliet's death.
Just like the tragedy of not getting my wrongfully taken hard drives returned to me.
I've included the portraits in my research thesis. It's key evidence. My superior research skills tell me that if Snickers painted a portrait featuring a man and a woman then it MUST be of Eddy and Mary. Furthermore, and concomitantly it can only be a secret clue. By painting them as Romeo and Juliet dear sweet Snickers is telling us of the tragedy in their lives and that their son, dearest Jo, or Joe to his friends, Joey to people who didn't know him to well. Hang on. Joey is a name for a kangaroo. Clearly this is a new research discovery of mine. By me. All on my own.
It's now obvious to even the most bald headed of coots that the Ripper was transported to Australia and Little Jo was hidden away. I have the portraits in my thesis, once I get copies of them. They will prove everything. Everything will be on the table like a pack of cards and I will be vindicated and all my research will be returned to me and I will be published.
The Metropolitan Police and their Special Branch handlers are growing ever more desperate and in their desperation are performing desperate acts of desperate men. They scheme and scheme, plot and plot and commit wrong after wrong.
That's a sign of their sheer desperate desperation.
They continue to collude, connive to lay their booby traps that will blow up in their faces but they never stop with their malicious machnations, their flimflam of falsiticy, the cabal in choots with the vendetta mob are fiendishly fixing their crafty and corrupt motives.
But who is pulling their strings and blinding them to justice? Who is perverting the perverts? Who corrupts the corrupters? Who is blinding the obvious?
These are all questions that they will have to answer in a court of law. The real question is why me.
Why me. Sweet gentle me. A quiet and humble researcher who is only happy when up to her neck in case files. I think it's because of sexual jealousy. These desk bound corrupt coppers of celibacy just invented excuses to be near me, to sniff my hair, to savour my womanly aroma. To sense my gorgeousness near them. To look deep into my eyes and to penetrate me with their aggressive questioning.
That's why they have hounded someone as gentle and modest as I.
I suppose that I have my part to play even though this mad vendetta campaign has taken over my life, my sweet life, my gentle life.
Why me. Why little me. Teensy weensy me. Ickle wickle moi.
I once gave my life to the Lord and he handed it back to me. Since these naughty waughty justice pervert marauding coppers of corruption have started hounding me for no reason atall I have been praying to the Baby Jesus that he would smite them with his huge rod, that he would make them sit on the naughty step for all eternity, that he would provide me with relief at hand and take my (unjust) suffering away and lead me into the garden of his majesty.
I am VERY disappointed that none of this has happened. That's the problem with Jesus. He just doesn't listen to me properly. Entre nous, he's a bit wishy washy really. I've warned his dad about these tendancies and offered myself as a replacement.
That's another helpful prayer that got no response. Typical. If they carry on like this I'm off to Allah. It's their fault if they drive me away by not smiting and spanking those that would benefit from a good smite, like a certain copper or two, a certain graphic designer we all know or a publicity crazed woman in London who claims to be an author. Just because she's had books and articles printed all over the shop. Really. *Sigh*. How little they know about publishing or research or indeed anything but vindictive malice.
Why me. Why little me. Why little sweet insignificant me.
Hang on a second. I'm not insignificant. Scrub that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's some beautiful words that seem to capture my spirit and situation.
Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains.
|