The Smell Of Rebellion

MISS TRUNCHBULL
This school, of late, has started reeking –

AMANDA
[quietly] Eric.. .

MISS TRUNCHBULL
[to AMANDA] Quiet, maggots, when I'm speaking!

ERIC throws himself flat on his mat.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
– reeking, with a most disturbing scent.
Only the finest nostrils smell it,
But I know it oh-too-well.
It is the odour of rebellion.
It's the bouquet of dissent!

And you may bet your britches this Headmistress
Finds this foul odiferousness
Wholly olfactorally insulting.
And so, to stop this stench's spread,
I find a session of phys-ed
Sorts the merely "rank" from the "revoting".
[She takes off her jumper to reveal a top with the Olympic logo emblazoned on it. She starts exercising and the children follow suit. ]

The smell of rebellion comes out in the sweat,
And phys-ed will get you sweating.
And it won't be long before I smell the pong
Of aiding and abetting.
A bit of phys-ed will tell us
Who has a head full of rebellious thoughts.
[She stands on one leg and the children follow.]
Hold, hold!

Most of the children fall to the ground, but MISS TRUNCHBULL sees that MATILDA is still standing.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
Just like a rotten egg floats to the top
Of a bucket of water.

Realising what she has done, MATILDA slowly lowers herself onto her mat.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
The smell of rebellion.
The stench of revolt.

CHILDREN
One, two, three, four.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
The reek of insubordination.

CHILDREN
I can't take it anymore.
One, two, three, four.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
The whiff of resistance.
The pong of dissent.
The funk of mutiny in action.

MATILDA
That's not right.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
Before the weed becomes too big and greedy,
You really need to nip it in the bud.
Position two!
[She takes an inhaler from HORTENSIA and throws it into the wings.]
Before the worm starts to turn,
You must scrape off the dirt
And rip it from the mud!

The whiff of insurgence.

CHILDREN
One, two three, four.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
The stench of intent.

CHILDREN
One, two, three, four.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
The reek of pre-pubescent protest.
The pong of defiance.

CHILDREN
One, two, three, four.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
The odour of coup.

CHILDREN
One, two, three, four.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
The waft of anarchy in progress.

ERIC
Please, miss, please!

MISS TRUNCHBULL
Once we've "exercised" these demons,
They shall be too pooped for scheming.

MISS TRUNCHBULL drags off a mat to which ERIC still clings. The OLDER KIDS bring in a tall ladder, a trampoline, a gymnastic platform, and a mattress.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
Some double-time discipline
Should stop the rot from setting in!
[She climbs onto the ladder.]
All right, let's step it up. Double time.

As MISS TRUNCHBULL sings, each of the CHILDREN jump onto the trampoline, land on the platform, and fall onto the mattress. Some miss their landing. Some are pushed, sometimes unintentionally, by their classmates.

MISS TRUNCHBULL
One, two, three, four.
Discipline. Discipline.
For children who aren't listening;
For midgets who are fidgeting
Or whispering in history.
Their chattering and chittering,
Their nattering and twittering
Is tempered with a smattering
Of discipline.

We must begin insisting
On rigidity, and discipline,
Persistently resisting
This anarchistic mischieving.
These minutes you are frittering
On pandering and pitying
While little 'uns like this:
They just want discipline.

The simpering and whimpering,
The dribbling and the spittling,
The "miss, I need a tissue" –
It's an issue we can fix.
There is no mystery to mastering
The art of classroom discipline.
It's discipline, discipline –

CHILDREN
Discipline!

MISS TRUNCHBULL
The smell of rebellion,
The stench of revolt,
The reek of pre-pubescent plotting.
The whiff of resistance,
The pong of dissent,
The funk of moral fibre rotting.. .

Imagine a world with no children.
Close your eyes and just dream.
Imagine – come on, try it –
The peace and the quiet.
A burbling stream.
[She stands and jumps into a sitting position on the wooden platform.]

Now imagine a woods with a cottage,
And inside that cottage we find
A dwarf called Zeek,
A carnival freak
Who can fold paper hats with his mind.
And he says,
"Don't let them steal your horses.
No!
Don't let them throw them away.
No, no, no!
If you find your way through,
They'll be waiting for you, singing,
"Neigh! Neigh!"
[She whickers like a horse.]

ERIC
She's mad!

MISS TRUNCHBULL
Aha!
And there, just like I said:
The stinking maggot rears his head!
Even the squitiest, pitiest mess
Can harbour seeds of stinkiness.
Have you ever seen anything more repellent?
Have you ever smelled anything worse than
That smell of rebellion?

The stench of revolt.
The reek of insubordination.
The whiff of resistance.
The pong of dissent.

And I will not stop till you are squashed;
Till this rebellion is quashed;
Till glorious, sweaty discipline has washed
This sickening stench – away!