"Shackled in the golden handcuffs of Le Mélomane d'autrefois, the superannuated journal that has hosted his fatuous reviews for more than half a century, Pilkington-Sproat was wrenched from his ataractic state of conventionalist yana by the magnificent didgeridoo leitmotif of Caprimulgius' The Discombobulation of Cerberus and revealed in all his spluttering bovarism," wrote Gavin Ponsonby in his riposte to the reactionary music critic.
After the débâcle at the première of The Discombobulation of Cerberus, when Humphrey Pilkington-Sproat had come to blows with rival music critic Gavin Ponsonby in the theatre lounge bar, and after the publication of the former's choleric review, with its gratuitous spoilers and hysterical denunciations of an apocryphal plot against music, the hostilities provoked by Heinrich Caprimulgius' controversial ballet finally lapsed into something of a sitzkrieg, much to the greater weal.
Driven beyond endurance by the didgeridoo and sousaphone leitmotif denoting the star-crossed Orpheus and Euridice in Heinrich Caprimulgius' experimental ballet The Discombobulation of Cerberus, by the fourth act Humphrey Pilkington-Sproat had begun fantasising feverishly about strafing the orchestra pit full circle.
Jarring him from his wonted première-night torpor, the threnodic opening chords of Heinrich Caprimulgius’ radically dissonant new ballet, The Discombobulation of Cerberus, sent waves of indignant horripilation across the adipose jowls of music critic Humphrey Pilkington-Sproat.
The staff at Sproat Hall had long since decided that it was frustraneous even to attempt to remove the urinous reek remaining in the wake of the clowder of hallowed cats that seethed around Lady Agatha as she flitted peri-like from room to room of that vast and crumbling pile.
The staff at Sproat Hall had long since decided that it was frustraneous even to attempt to remove the urinous reek remaining in the wake of the clowder of cats that seethed around Lady Agatha as she flitted peri-like from room to room of that vast and crumbling pile.
During debates in the upper house, Lord Archibald Devereaux-Sproat, an ancient peer of the realm, garbed in the dusty wig and miniver of his office, cut rather an eccentric figure, since the lyric effusiveness of his notoriously interminable speeches, the product of a cloistered upbringing at the hands of his uncle, an aged pre-Raphaelite aesthete, would combine with furious displays of grotesque girning, a facial tic caused by his centuries-long consanguineous heredity.
For all his pavonine posturing and pretensions to connoisseurship, Hubert Blenkinsopp was a tyro rather than a true turophile, and so when he brought a camembert that was, quite frankly, brummagem to Gwendoline Sproat’s soirée, she had the butler subduct it discreetly lest it offend the other guests.
Mr Smithers soon shed his youthful pedagogic idealism once plunged into the desperate dog-eat-dog sprattle of the inner-city classroom, a rude awakening that required all his resources of disciplinary realpolitik: how, for example, was one to deal with the insolent and unrurly young Sproat in Form Three, a veritable Cacus redux, who, rather than breathing fire like his mythical prototype, was in the vile habit of continuously gleeking?
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