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Keats & Chapman

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Brian O'Nolan (also spelt O'Nualáin and O'Nualláin) is perhaps best known as the novelist Flann O'Brien, under which name his works include At Swim-Two-Birds, The Third Policeman (perhaps his best novel), and The Dalkey Archives (some would say his worst).
For many years he was a columnist for the Irish Times, writing under the pseudonym Myles na gCopaleen (Myles of the wild horses). Occasionally the column contained anecdotes about "Keats and Chapman", characters loosely based on those two poets. These little stories were always vehicles for an ending consisting of a most marvellous (or excruciating, depending on taste) play on words, usually a Spoonerism of a popular saying.
The stories here are originals of mine based on that idea (at least, I hope they are all original, and not inadvertently stolen from the man himself).

Keats and Chapman were staying on the site of an archeological dig in Kurdistan. One night, Chapman was woken by noises outside his tent. Peering out, he saw two figures emerge from a nearby tent, then make their way to the next tent and crawl quietly in. He realised that the men were native tribesmen stealing from the tents while the camp slept. Chapman left his tent and cast around for a weapon, thinking that the natives might be armed. The first thing that came to hand was a bone from a pile nearby. Chapman recognised it as a human thigh bone. Moving quietly to the tent where the robbers were, he waited for them to emerge. As they crawled out, he struck first the one and then the other sharply over the head, knocking them both unconscious, then raised the alarm. The camp came awake, and a small crowd gathered around Chapman and the two unconscious natives. Chapman explained what had happened.
"Well done, Chapman," said Keats. "You seem to have stilled two Kurds with one bone."

Walking along the cliffs near Land's End one day, Keats and Chapman came across a spot overlooking a small bay, where they decided to rest for a while. Lower down the cliff, they noticed a group of boys throwing stones at the sea birds in the bay.
After a while, Chapman said, "Keats, don't you think we should do something about this?"
"What? Yes, yes of course you're right," replied Keats.
Leaning forward over the cliff, he called down to the boys, "That's it, lads, keep it up. Leave no tern unstoned."

Keats and Chapman were visiting a friend at his house in the country. Their friend was well known for his hobby of collecting thrones, rather unusual collector's items perhaps, but the man had the wealth to have acquired quite a fair few of them. At Keats' request, the man led them through to a large conservatory, where the collection stood. Some were set out for display, whilst others, the less worthy perhaps, were stacked in piles. Chapman was particularly struck by one throne which was some way down in a stack in a corner. He asked if it might be possible to view it properly, and their friend obligingly called for the butler to dismantle the pile.
The butler was some time in arriving, and Chapman, impatient at the wait, began to lift thrones from the pile himself. Unfortunately, the pile had not been well stacked, and, on Chapman disturbing its precarious equilibrium, the whole heavy tower of thrones toppled and fell, crashing through the glass end wall of the conservatory.
There was a silence, then Chapman, horror-stricken, said, "What can I say?"
"You could try the old adage," said Keats promptly. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't stow thrones."

An unfortunate series of events had led to an acquaintance of Chapman's becoming an inmate of the local lunatic asylum. Our heroes went along one visiting day to see the man. The asylum was built in the form of a square, enclosing a courtyard, and it was in that courtyard that the visitors were allowed to meet their unfortunate friends and relatives.
After some time, a white coated attendant came out to the top of the steps that led down into the courtyard, and began ringing a handbell.
"What does that mean?" asked Chapman.
"It means it's time for us to leave," said Keats, "he's ringing in the sane."

Keats and Chapman were at the dress rehearsal of an open air concert, the conductor being a friend of Keats'. During the first half, they became aware that the audience was bigger than they had realised - a herd of cows in an adjacent field were lined up along the fence bemusedly watching this human interruption to their grazing. Come the interval, a number of the orchestra rushed off to the nearest pub, the Old Bush. The allotted time for the interval passed, but the dress did not resume. Eventually, Keats went over to ask the conductor what was causing the delay. Apparently two of the orchestra had still not returned from the pub.
"Come on, Chapman," said Keats, and rushed off to the field of cows. Somewhat puzzled, Chapman followed. Keats entered the field, and began shooing the cows out through a gate towards the site of the concert.
"Whatever are you doing?" asked Chapman.
"There's no time to talk," replied Keats. "Just get these cows into the orchestra. Stand aside, there, chaps, make way, make way! A herd in the band is worth two in the Bush!"

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The cartoons on these pages are the original creations of Jeff Bucchino, "The Wizard of Draws".

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