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The Procession

On May 9th once again the Procession eclipsed its mediocrity. When, oh when, will our annual participants realise that what they are imitating is not the revelry of Glasgow, Oxford, London, or Heidelburgh, but merely the Tyl Eulenspiegel pranks of a boys' secondary school let loose on a public that mistakes low comedy for student wit? Cannot we "up here on the hill" produce a procession whose stunts are the outcome of keen-witted intellect instead of being the acted-out dominance of the "gut" responding to primitive urges? The time has come for previous and adequate preparation. Cannot the procession be so organised that each stunt is part of a central theme—a processional Extravaganza. "Spike" surely would welcome to its pages any discussion which would help to add a semblance of worthwhile-ness to an otherwise tiresome display that at the present time is accepted by the public with a half-tolerant and half-amused feeling of disappointment.

We (the Beneficiaries of the Procession) were presented with the spectacle of Kay Donne in his Silver Pullet—a most scandalous motorcar, whose age should have prevented it from proclaiming its unashamed indecency to Fay Taylour, who was forced blushingly to flee the Pullet's advances on a motor bike, the eccentricities of which were eclipsed only by those of its rider. Dear me (us), talking about riding, why did Mr. Goodson's horse aim straight for Doherty's, the Tailor? Did the horse-sense of Pegasus lead him to believe that the rider was not wearing Doherty's Seamless Knee-grip Riding Breeches, London Patented?

The Gold Diggers of Broadway was parodied in such a way as to realise the utmost potentialities and the steady ambition of those who rode behind Nightmarch. We marvel that intellect can fly so high and taste can sink so low. We admire only the gusto of the Gold-Diggers.

Lord Bledisloe was so cleverly made up to represent Lord Plurry-slow that, mistaking him for Mark Twain, we said it was Lloyd George.

Mr. Fear, from expert wisdom, so ably coached the Samoan Police Force to look militarealisistically unintelligent that we are now even more convinced that the anthropological knowledge necessary in native administration is to be gained by studying the introspections of these moron children of Mr. Fear's brain.

The popularly inefficient Eastbourne Fire Brigade, appropriately manned by our scientists, pursuing their sulphuretted fun, managed to distinguish itself by spraying a foul and unkind mixture upon the fires of justified wrath that sprang up all along the streets. The Brigade failed to do its duty and extinguish itself.

We understand that other stunts amused us.

After listening to a miserable attempt at speech-making in Post Office Square, during the course of which fiasco the horses and ourselves became highly disgusted, we and the horses bolted for fresh foods and pasture's chew."