Saturday, November 11, 2006

The Extremely Cultured Yoghurt

(A further further fable about arts funding)

Once there was an Extremely Cultured tub of Yoghurt. If it had been any more cultured, it would have become expert in a highly unlikely musical style, like Tuvan Throat Singing. So one morning it decided to do just that.
"Me me me me me me me!" sang the Cultured Yoghurt for an hour.
"Doh re mi sol fa ...", it continued.
"Don Giovanni, Leporello, Don Giovanni, Leporello, Don!" it carolled.
"Shut up!"shouted the Shishkebab.
"Call in the guards! Call in the army!"yelled the Salami.
"It's driving me barmy!"added the Pastrami.
"I'd put my fingers in my ears but I don't have any," said the Margarine.
"Put them in mine!" said the Pigs Ears from the freezer.
"I don't have any fingers either," said the Margarine, mournfully.
"I'll help!" shouted the Fish Fingers in a helpful tone.
When it heard this chorus of discontentment, the Cultured Yoghurt said, "I'm sorry! Is there something you'd like me to perform?"
"Cole Porter!" squealed the Coleslaw.
"Tom Lehrer!" put in the Tomato.
Everyone in the fridge had something to suggest. The Lasagna was fond of Wagner, the Chives liked Charles Ives, the Sachet of Chutney liked Satchmo, and the Bocconcini wanted a little Boccherini (or perhaps some Puccini).
"Well, sorry, but no," said the Cultured Yoghurt. "I don't do any of those. My heart has been set on Tuvan Throat Singing. Allow me to demonstrate ..."
And with that, the Cultured Yoghurt proceeded to give a rousing demonstration of all the greatest Tuvan Throat Singing hits, including, "My love! My love is coming down the mountainside!", "The King arrives, bring out the Ghee!" and "Alas, for my Goat has died."
"That's terrible!" said the Salami. "You don't have a heart!"
"You can't do that!" added the Pastrami. "You need a Tuvan Throat to perform it properly!"
"And you need to be able to sing!" grumbled the Alfalfa.
And so the fridge rattled and rumbled and shook with Tuvan Throat Singing and the sound of various protesting food stuffs, late into the night.


Once there was an Extremely Cultured tub of Yoghurt. It was so cultured it could perform Tuvan Throat Singing. If it had been any more cultured, it would start performing obscure dance styles, like the 18th century French Pavanne. So one morning, it decided to do just that. It began flexing its non-existent limbs, leaping from shelf to shelf, setting the whole fridge a-rattle.
"Stop! Stop! You're making me so nervous!" quivered the Jelly.
"You're making me incredibly bitter," grumbled the Butter.
"And you're making me even more sour!" howled the Sour Cream.
"Stand STILL!" shouted the entire fridge, as one.
"Well!" snapped the Cultured Yoghurt. "Perhaps you would care to suggest a dance style for me to try?"
"Russian Ballet!" sighed the Mustard de la Calais.
"Ginger Rogers!" gasped the Ginger Pieces.
Everyone had something different to suggest. The Mango wanted a tango, the Tagliatelle preferred the Tarantella, the Custard Roll voted for some Rock, and its friend the Rocky Road agreed, but wanted some Roll as well.
"Those are all good dances," agreed the Cultured Yoghurt. "But it has always been my eternal passion to dance a 19th century French Pavanne, especially since this morning!"
"That's an oxymoron!"cried the Pastrami.
"As well as a tautology!" added the Salami.
"Not to mention a lie!" put in the Noodles.
"Please STOP!" chorused the entire fridge.
But nothing could stop the Cultured Yoghurt. It pirouetted here and paraded there, and everyone else roared out their general oppobrium and disdain; and the fridge rattled and shook late into the night.


Once there was an Extremely Cultured tub of Yoghurt that could perform Tuvan Throat Singing and dance a 19th-century French Pavanne, and sometimes both at once.
One day, the Cultured Yoghurt decided to give it all up.
"I will devote my life to Zen Buddhism and Higher Things," announced the Cultured Yoghurt to no-one in general and everyone in particular. "I will tell meaningless Zen parables, like the time when the Zen master picked his nose and achieved sartori. And now, in order to attain Nirvana, I will sit here and be silent for the next year."
The entire fridge breathed a sigh of relief.

The owners of the fridge were so surprised at the fridge's silence that they thought there was something wrong with it, and they threw it out straight away. They even left the food in it. They were rich, after all, and like most rich people, worried much more about their money than they did about their food.

MORAL: Culture - those who can't afford it still pay for it. Those who can afford for it couldn't be bothered paying for it. But it's still worth making a song and dance about.


Caz said...

Oh, so you were serious when you said you were going to write something about cultured yogurt.

I see.


I still remember, after all these years, a young lass at uni explaining to me, in all deadly seriousness that people were either born cultured, or they weren't.

I wanted to deny her any award of any degree, ever, right then and there, but I had no such power, and I imagine she got a degree, in media studies and communications or such. To think that standards at universities have only fallen since those glory days. *sigh*

TimT said...

The jokes been made before, of course. Was it Kathryn Hepburn who said that Australia had less culture than a tub of yoghurt?

When I play the piano or keyboard in front of somebody, they often talk regretfully about never doing music before saying that some people are born musical and other people aren't. It's meant as a compliment to me, though I can never understand it, since the thing I remember most about my musical education was doing endless bloody scales.

Email: timhtrain - at -

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