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Beidh ceol, caint agus craic againn: part 1 - Wemyss's Appalling Hobby:
From the Party Guilty of Committing 'Gate of Ivory, Gate of Horn'
wemyss
wemyss
Beidh ceol, caint agus craic againn: part 1

Beidh ceol, caint agus craic againn

Cabinet Office –Ministry Records Office – Archive – DoM – Series UI/948/66301/F/542 – PMI – TOP HERMETIC – UKMoM EYES ONLY – NATSEN

(Marked unclassified and released under Rule as of the 19th ultimate – as redacted ONLY)

Pensieved material, Finnigan S, as ‘M’ (Chief Unspeakable), for successors in office, use of, instructional, memoir

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GMW Wemyss

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Come here to me now, culchie, and I’ll tell y’ something.  It’s not my next successor I’m after giving the knowledge to, amn’t I not?  For that’s my one, my Dean-een, lovely lad he is, and not a secret – nor yet devil a sheet or a shift or a breath, any night – between the two of us.  Dhera, sure it’s my after-successor of many a year you are, and here I’m dead and gone at that, so. 

 

And it’s a grand morning, a bright morning after many a soft day, and mild.  The Christmas was mild, just, and mild the months since.  Dean and I have our breakfast had, and he’s away to his affairs of State, now.  And here we are, so, me and my Pensieve and you with your own, and me buried with a grand thumping wheeker monument above my cauld bones no doubt.  But that’s not the day nor yet the marra, not for a lock’a years – and wojus it would be, sure, I to drop dead the marra after I say this, and I to look a finished fool, so I would.  Arra, arra, no need to give me out there is not, amn’t I telling you what you want knowing, in my own way?  And ever y’ sit in this chair, you’ll want to be after being or making yourself a patient creature, Jaysus, so you will.  You do not reach that seat, as ‘M’, without you learn patience, and to hear what is not said and read what is not written, so.  That is the way and the manner of it, now.

 

There’s me.  Sat here with sweet-cake of a morn and a tilly of whiskey – is it potheen?  It is, and you no reason to pretend surprise having – a tilly of the kindly creature to my tay.  Was it by impatience and not seeing the great picture for the details I lived to retire and to be sat here in peace, telling over tradecraft to some gombeen Ministry amadán birthed after I will be dust?  Ach, it was not, sure.  Stop you then acting the maggot, and whisht now, take it handy or you’ll banjax it all, you will.

 

Well, but.  It’s the sca you are wanting, with your lug standing out like the Guards are at you.  Will you be leaving me give you the craic in my own way?  You will not.  Arra, then.

 

Oh, no, old boy, you’ll take tuition from me only if I give it in the plummiest of accents, suitable to English ears, no doubt, as befits my position as a very senior man and an Old Hogwartsian, with all the public school virtues instinct in me, what?  And if you’re such a fool as that, God save Ireland, and all of Magical Britain, for the dear knows you’ll not do the saving of it – which is your job.

 

And yet, I do rather think, don’t you know, I may perhaps be capable of putting a bit of prefect-like stick about, and compelling you to listen as you’d listen to a well-fed, smooth Englishman from the more proper sections of the Ministry – if you’re such a fool as that.

 

’Cos, look, mate, being treble-tongued or better rules okay?

 

I don’t know – I cannot know – how it is you’ve reached your present eminence, my future successor of generations yet to come.  You damned well want to have got – or, in good Irish (and Scots), gotten – to the top sodding table by having put in your time at the sharp end, however: if you’re another well-polished Ministry bottom sitting fatly in a well-polished Ministry seat, God save Ireland and all of Magical Britain, because you’ll not be capable of doing that. 

 

Yet even those of us who laboured in the field before becoming Chief forget all too bloody soon.  Let me therefore remind you not to be a fecking eejit.  I’ve played the stage Irishman in my time – ay, to wheres I am not altogether able to leave off playing him whatever.  I’ve also been the old boy with his old school tie, the owner of a racing stud, the playboy of – yes, the Western world, don’t bother – and the director of Ogden’s, a member of the Moot and more times Chief Secretary for Ireland than I like to think.  I’ve been all things to all men, and it is not because I am the Apostle Paul to any way of thinking.  I’ve been the shoneen, the Castle Catholic, the West Brit, and when it’s suited me I’ve been the Fenian, the Provo, the Northsider at war with all the fat, smug certainties of Dublin 4, one of the self-proclaimed and self-deluding ‘plain people of Ireland’ – and both ways it’s been a Plastic Paddy sell, because I’ve been more folk with more names at ’em, under more glamours and swilling more Polyjuice, than I hot dinners have had since I made Chief and left the field – of glory, if you like.  My family ’s a foot either side the Muggle Border, I’m half-Muggle and half-Wizard-born, I’ve run with the hare and the hounds the both in the politics of Wizarding Ireland – the dear knows if we’ll have had partition by your time, but seeing what the Muggles have made of it, I am hoping for your sake there is not, at all.  I’ve had more names at me, and faces, and forms, than the Host of the Fair Folk together, and if you’re worthy at all any way to be my successor, so will you have had.  I’ve been myself more than the onst to the Muggle Curragh and the Muggle Aintree in my own name and face, and then to our own Duletree where the winged horses race from real steeple to real steeple, and me passing as everything there from bookmaker to jockey to steward in my time, with a face and a voice for each.  I’ve spoken Ulster Irish in Connacht, Connacht Irish in the Gaeltacht of Munster, and Munster Irish in Ulster, I can claik the Scots claik that Minerva used to her intimates – the broad Doric yon sleek Macmillan’s over-grand to hear but a shudder, let alone to speak – and there is not an Englishman of any class or county I cannot mimic.  Only whiles I cannot always mind who I am myself: which will come to you also, you being ‘M’.

 

And I am telling you here that in the hour you first sit in the chair of the Chief Unspeakable two things will befall, and wild cat they are both, pure wojus – dhera, then, ‘odious’ if y’ like, then.  You will forget everything you learnt, so.  And you will not know you have forgot, and you will try, like any gomey bucklepper full with the gargle and on the lash, to do everything yourself and as if you had not all your craft forgot.

 

Go ’way out of it, man, it’s desperate: the eejitcy of a fair gobshite.

 

If you will the Chiefship of the Unspeakables have gotten through the hard grafting, you will be a wee maneen, or a bold wan, who’s used to working alone, I’m thinking.  And if you try to work alone as ‘M’, sure you will banjax it whatever.  Or it may be – fair play to you if it is – it may be that by your time, there are enough of us that the agent in the field and the case officer and the analyst are three different people altogether, and no Wizard or Witch wants to do the work of twelve.  Ah, that would be savage altogether, it would.  But.  The principle’s the same.  Sure the Chief works alone in his way: he’s ‘M’: yet the Department’s a meitheal.  A community, a working party, for mutual aid – ach, and now it sounds like a wedding, so.  It’s important anyway, now.  What for do we work to keep Wizardom safe at all, if it is not because we are all one grand meitheal, a mutual association for doing good one to another?  What else for is the Crown, and the Ministry, and the Empire we kept when the Muggles gave over? 

 

Oh, it matters.  Because I tell you this.  The threats you will deal with, as much as the way in which you will deal with them, are one way or another of this.  From when I was a wee sham I have Death Eaters faced, and those ludars, those geebags who called themselves ‘the Dispossessed’, and all sorts, and every lad and lass of them was, when you came to it, no more than a scanger, a spide with ambition.  Purebloods and all, spides and no more: Lucius Malfoy was a spide with airs.  Tom Riddle was a gomey scanger with delusions of grandeur.  Bellatrix Lestrange – I used to call her name with an ‘F’ for the ‘B’ – only but a millie with a wand, a howiya, a malicious muppet with magic and a case of the psychoses.

 

No, ’tis the young fella with the bright smile and the large office and the too-rapid rise, who got the grinds and came out top of his form, ’tis the ould feen at the best club and who’s all the money, it’s the Great and the Good who have gotten ideas, who want watching.  And with them, the external threats, Frogs and Huns and Russians and all sorts.  There’s a dozen Wizards in Ireland, no more, who want Partition or independence, but; there will be perhaps two dozen over the water who wish to overthrow the Ministry – I mean, who it want seriously: if we gave out or put the Guards to everyone who has ever gotten fed with the bureaucrats and wished the Ministry away, we’d every one of us be banged up, and me in the deepest dungeon.  No, ’tis the ones who want to turn the Ministry to their own ends – however noble – you want to watch.

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Comments
femmequixotic From: femmequixotic Date: May 23rd, 2010 07:08 pm (UTC) (Link)
Bellatrix Lestrange – I used to call her name with an ‘F’ for the ‘B’

I really cannot stop laughing here. I do adore you. I really, really, really do, dear.
wemyss From: wemyss Date: May 23rd, 2010 07:35 pm (UTC) (Link)

Oh, that's all Seamus' doing.

Not mine at all.
femmequixotic From: femmequixotic Date: May 23rd, 2010 07:45 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: Oh, that's all Seamus' doing.

*snort*

Cheeky thing, you. I mean, Seamus. :D
wemyss From: wemyss Date: May 23rd, 2010 08:01 pm (UTC) (Link)

And so he is, sure.

I like that in a lad.
femmequixotic From: femmequixotic Date: May 23rd, 2010 08:09 pm (UTC) (Link)

Re: And so he is, sure.

I am entirely unsurprised by that revelation. *g*

Cheeky--in all its variations--is quite lovely, I find.
noeon From: noeon Date: May 27th, 2010 11:01 pm (UTC) (Link)
Love Seamus as M. Love. The language is glorious and rich and just thick as a thick thing and thicker besides (by which I mean wonderful). Very Peter Sellers of him not to know who he is when he is himself. Or Smiley perhaps.

"You do not reach that seat, as ‘M’, without you learn patience, and to hear what is not said and read what is not written, so. That is the way and the manner of it, now."

And a meitheal. Yes. As we used to say commonweal.
wemyss From: wemyss Date: June 5th, 2010 06:41 pm (UTC) (Link)

Bless.

Smiley, yes. Spot on and well spotted. As ever, m'dear, you're too kind, and I thank you.
noeon From: noeon Date: June 6th, 2010 09:45 pm (UTC) (Link)

Running away to join the Circus

Smiley is possibly one of my favourite fictional characters. Just. Possibly. (He certainly was when I was 14 and I do think Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy explained things I was just beginning to figure out at that age.)

As for the rest, it is well deserved.
tigersilver From: tigersilver Date: June 5th, 2010 12:33 pm (UTC) (Link)
Now I've been in seven kingdoms and twenty fiefs, and all in a few paragraphs. Head spins; hooked; will keep up this dialectical decoding. (Not versed; ugly American, me.)
wemyss From: wemyss Date: June 5th, 2010 06:43 pm (UTC) (Link)

And 331 Irish baronies.

I'm greatly obliged. Happy decrypting.
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