World Film and Television Progress (1937-1938)

Oh! Doctor ! Thoughts inspired by the Hollywood idea of a Medical Practitioner. I'm disappointed in my doc, I rather feel he's failed me ; I don't infer He'd ever err In naming just what ailed me — He does not seem so picturesque As him we see behind a desk, In Hollywooden dramas — The type for whom One sweeps one's room And dons one's best pyjamas. The Moving Picture Medico, 'Tis he the babies bawl for; No need to tell 'Tis he as well Some nifty nurse will fall for. Yet on reflection I can see I'd rather have my own M.D. Who is no nurse's lover; And would not err (For love of her) While stitching up my cover. . . . And if there's one Thing I like done Ten miles beyond The nearest blonde — It's stitching up my cover. WIT FROM THE COURTS At Tottenham Police Court recently, a policeman told a man called as a witness to go into the box. As the man moved forward he started to take off his coat. The following scintillating exchange of wit ensued : The P.C. : Keep your coat on. The Man : I'm sorry ; I thought you said I was to box. Jolly comical, what? Though not more so than a bon mot perpetrated by my aunt, a Mrs. Dinwiddy, when she was brought up at Vine Street on a charge of maliciously tickling a car-park attendant in St. James's Square, after a reunion of old Girton Girls. When told by the magistrate to take the oath, she replied, quicker than you could say E. G. Robinson: "Oath thertainly, Mr. Judge." This earned her a round of applause, two offers of jobs as scenario-writer and a sharp crack, subrosa, from a policeman's truncheon. CUT THIS OUT AND PEEP THROUGH THE HOLE AT YOUR FRIENDS WHAT A CELL! A craze for writing has swept over the Swieto Krzyz prison, which houses some of Poland's most notorious criminals. Novels, short stories and fairy tales are being poured out by nearly 100 enthusiastic authors. The prison authorities, who are obliged to provide pencils and paper free, are snowed under with manuscripts. Prison rules demand that all the stories shall be censored by the authorities, and the censors are now kept working far into the night. One or two of the convicts' literary efforts, it is stated, show considerable talent. — News Item. Short scena inspired by the above, showing that the pen is mightier than the penitentiary. The scene is a prison cell. The time is ten years hard. Lefty: No, I'm not going to help you file through those bars. I'm writing my fairy story. Butch: You and your silly old fairy story! Come on and lend a hand with this hacksaw. Lefty: It's not a silly old fairy story. I showed it to the warder and he liked it. So there! Butch: Pooh! You ought to be like old Strangler in the next cell and get a little meat into your stuff. The Governor had to cut his last story to hell. (Enter a warder carrying paper and pencils and Roger's Thesaurus.) Warder: Here you are, Lefty. I got the RazorSlasher across the way to sharpen your pencil. Lefty: Thanks ever so. And one other thing, warder. Do you think you could ask the boys to stop typing a little earlier in the evenings? I couldn't get a wink of sleep last night. Warder: I'll try, but just now I've got to go down to the condemned cells and help the boys correct some proofs. I told them they should never have started on a serial. Butch, will you please stop digging that hole in the floor while I'm talking! Lefty: Ooh, warder, you remember my telling you that I was stuck with my story and couldn't think how to get the Fairy Peaseblossom out of the Wicked Ogre's clutches? Warder: Yeah, I remember. Lefty: Well, I figured it out this way: this Peaseblossom doll has got a gat stuffed down her stocking and when the Ogre starts making passes at her, she gives him de woiks, see? Then she scrams down the Magic Bean(Continued in next column) COCKA Edited Come into the Kitchen In a month loud with the clamour of war, the shrill pipings of dictators and the monotonous thud-thud of falling leaves, it was refreshing to read of the magnificent response accorded to an urgent appeal for a kitchenmaid, issued on behalf of Mr. Robert Taylor. In fact, the issue was so heavily over-subscribed that hosts of women had to be turned away from the agency whence the appeal was sent forth. They were then able to return to their secretarial work and clerking, explaining to their bosses that there was fog on the line and you know how it holds up the trains, don't you? There is more in this than mere mass hysteria. It demonstrates very forcibly, we think, that the spirit of service still burns with a hard bright flame in the British bosom. It reminds us, too, of those dear dead days when we were working as parlourmaid's mate in the employ of Miss Garbo. Miss Garbo took the place in our lives that had formerly been occupied by our gamesmistress. We worshipped her. Nothing was too much trouble. We would work like slaves to get a good polish on her goloshes on the rare occasions when she went out to dinner; and on more than one occasion we sat up far into the night re-stringing her hair net in readiness for the morrow. And sometimes, when she came in from a walk in the rain, we would take her dripping oilskins from her and finger the soft fabric lovingly, perhaps pressing it to our cheeks, hot and greasy though they were from slaving over a hot stove. And there we would sit with our dreams, until an explosion in the oven reminded that there was work to do, and we would hurry away, chiding ourselves for the big, sentimental fluffs we were. Naturally, Miss Garbo had few secrets from us, and I do not think we are betraying any confidences when we divulge that quite her most frequent visitor was a Mr. Harpo Marx. You could be quite sure that it was Mr. Marx's droshky that would be waiting at the door every night to take her to her scatsinging classes. WHAT A CELL!— continued stalk and hides out until the heat's off. Butch: You gotta make her take the rap for it in the end. Lefty. Your public expects it. Harder: Well, so long, boys. Don't forget our Literals Luncheon to-day. There'll be the usual punk speeches. (He goes out, tripping over a ropeladder which Butch is busy making.) 28