Happy New..hic..Year!

As much as I’d love to wholeheartedly embrace the festive cheer and join in the celebrations for the coming New Year, I can’t seem to resist the urge to rain on the parade – or, as they say, to stick my oar in and play the role of the proverbial party-pooper. It’s a talent, really, to find the cloud in every silver lining, and I wield it with an almost theatrical flourish. Nevertheless, all the best for ’25.

Today, I was presented with a peculiar challenge. After tossing out an open invitation for ideas, I was promptly tasked with writing about something from Gilbert and Sullivan’s beloved operetta, The Mikado. Of all the sparkling characters and themes to choose from, I inexplicably landed on the Lord High Executioner himself, Ko-Ko. Why, you ask? Well, your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps it was his absurd title, his bumbling nature, or his penchant for dodging responsibility that called to me. Or maybe it’s simply that Ko-Ko embodies the kind of chaotic energy I can’t help but find irresistibly relatable.

So, here I am, poised to dissect the hapless executioner’s quirks and foibles – an odd choice, perhaps, but one that feels oddly fitting as we teeter on the edge of another unpredictable year. Shall we dive in? Okay, well, I’m going to mix it up a little with the fact that, although I’m not in favour of prohibition, and I’m not a temperance freak, I don’t like being around folk that make themselves silly with drink. So..

Ephesians 5:18: ‘Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead, be filled with the Spirit.‘ A verse that, on the surface, seems a straightforward admonition against overindulgence, yet upon closer inspection, reveals layers of theological and social intrigue. It’s almost as if Paul himself is standing in the corner of a Roman tavern, arms crossed, wagging a finger at the man who’s just decided to order his sixth amphora of cheap red.

Let’s first address the command: ‘Do not get drunk on wine.‘ Well, thank goodness it specifies wine. Had Paul extended his prohibition to ale or mead, we might have lost half of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and most of the British countryside’s cultural output. Wine, however, is singled out as the beverage of debauchery, perhaps because it was the drink of choice for the Roman elite, who were known for their Bacchanalian excesses. Yet, as much as Paul seems to be wagging his finger, one can’t help but hear the undertones of a man who’s seen one too many toga parties go awry.

And then there’s ‘which leads to debauchery.‘ The word debauchery is delightfully evocative, isn’t it? It conjures images of dimly lit feasts, overflowing goblets, and the sort of moral laxity that would make even the most lenient Victorian blush. It’s here that I am reminded of the Lord High Executioner from The Mikado. Much like Paul, the Executioner has a knack for cataloguing human folly, albeit with a bit more melody. Were he to write a list of sins warranting a ‘short, sharp shock,’ I suspect drunken debauchery would rank somewhere between flirting with a married woman and wearing a cravat improperly tied. After all, the Executioner, like Paul, is a stickler for order and propriety.

But then we come to the counterpoint: ‘instead, be filled with the Spirit.‘ A clever turn of phrase, this. Paul is advocating for a different kind of intoxication – one not fuelled by fermented grapes but by divine presence. It’s a substitution, really, like swapping your nightly glass of Malbec for a spiritual infusion of joy, peace, and a touch of self-control. Theologically, it’s a neat bit of rhetoric: why settle for the fleeting buzz of wine when you can have the eternal buzz of the Holy Spirit? Though I must admit, the latter is less likely to pair well with a cheese platter.

Now, let us consider this verse through the lens of humour. Paul’s advice is earnest, yes, but there’s a certain implicit comedy in the assumption that the average Christian would be teetering on the edge of debauchery at any given moment. It’s as if he’s writing to a congregation of overenthusiastic revellers who, left unchecked, might accidentally turn the Lord’s Supper into an all-night rager. I imagine Paul as the ancient equivalent of a stern but well-meaning headmaster, clutching his scroll and sighing, “For goodness’ sake, Timothy, how many times must I say it? No more drunkenness!”

And yet, the verse’s humour is also its charm. It reminds us of the human tendency to overindulge, to take the good things of life – wine, laughter, community – and stretch them to absurd extremes. It’s the same impulse that makes the Executioner’s ‘little list’ so amusing: the recognition that, deep down, we’re all a bit ridiculous.

In the end, Ephesians 5:18 is less about abstinence and more about priorities. Paul isn’t wagging his finger at wine so much as pointing towards something greater. It’s an invitation to trade temporary pleasures for lasting fulfilment, a call to sobriety not just of body but of spirit. And while I may occasionally raise a glass in cheerful defiance of Paul’s caution, I do so with the hope that I’m also filled with the Spirit – or at the very least, with the kind of joy that makes life worth living.

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Would the Lord High Executioner approve of my analysis? Perhaps not, but I’d like to think he’d appreciate the attempt to balance reverence with a touch of irreverence. After all, even Paul himself knew that a good message is best delivered with a dash of humanity – and maybe, just maybe, a glass of metaphorical wine.

So who was Ko-Ko? Well, I’ve had few hours to research him, and admittedly, this operetta is not on my radar: I prefer a slightly more solemn opera. So the following may not be entirely accurate, but I am tired and it’s a quick short notice bio. Let’s have a look.

The Lord High Executioner, one of the most memorable characters from Gilbert and Sullivan’s operetta The Mikado, is a masterpiece of satirical comedy. A blend of buffoonery, irony, and sharp social critique, he embodies the absurdities of bureaucracy and human vanity. Let’s dissect this delightful character in detail.

His Role in the Plot

The Lord High Executioner, Ko-Ko, is a former tailor who ascends to his lofty position through a quirk of fate: he was condemned to death for flirting but is spared execution because, as the executioner, he’d have to execute himself first. This paradox sets the tone for his character – a man in a position of power who is utterly unfit for it. His appointment is a classic example of Gilbert and Sullivan’s penchant for poking fun at societal structures: power is often bestowed not on the capable but on the convenient.

Ko-Ko’s primary function in the story is to serve as both an obstacle and a comic relief. His bumbling attempts to navigate the Mikado’s decree that someone must be executed provide much of the operetta’s humour. Yet beneath the laughs lies a biting critique of authority figures who wield power without competence or moral integrity.

His Personality

Ko-Ko is a study in contradictions. On one hand, he is cowardly, self-serving, and manipulative, willing to do whatever it takes to save his own skin. On the other hand, he is endearingly human in his foibles. His cowardice is so exaggerated that it becomes almost charming – after all, who wouldn’t hesitate to execute themselves?

His vanity is another key trait, exemplified by his obsession with appearances and social standing. He is desperate to maintain his position and will go to absurd lengths to do so, even concocting a fake execution to satisfy the Mikado. Yet his vanity is tempered by an underlying insecurity, which makes him relatable. Ko-Ko is not a villain but a mirror reflecting our own flaws, magnified for comedic effect.

His Little List

Ko-Ko’s iconic song, ‘I’ve Got a Little List,’ is a satirical gem. In it, he gleefully enumerates the people who never would be missed should they be executed. The humour lies in its specificity and topicality; Gilbert intended the song to be updated with references to contemporary annoyances, making it a timeless piece of satire.

The ‘list’ reveals Ko-Ko’s pettiness and penchant for avoiding responsibility by shifting blame onto others. It also underscores his role as a satirical tool, allowing Gilbert to poke fun at societal irritants through a character who is too ridiculous to take seriously.

Social and Political Satire

Ko-Ko is a caricature of the bureaucratic incompetence and moral hypocrisy that Gilbert and Sullivan loved to lampoon. His rise from tailor to executioner highlights the absurdity of hierarchical systems where merit is irrelevant. His reluctance to perform his duties reflects the disconnect between authority and accountability.

In many ways, Ko-Ko is a proto-modern politician: more concerned with maintaining his position and public image than with fulfilling his responsibilities. His schemes, like faking Nanki-Poo’s execution, (what a name!) are laughable in their ineptitude but eerily reminiscent of real-world political manoeuvres.

Themes of Mortality and Cowardice

As the Lord High Executioner, Ko-Ko is the embodiment of death – or at least, he’s supposed to be. Yet his profound fear of death, particularly his own, makes him a walking contradiction. This irony is central to his character: the man who symbolises the ultimate punishment is too timid to carry it out.

Ko-Ko’s cowardice is not just a personal failing but a commentary on the human condition. We all fear death, and we all have moments of moral weakness. Ko-Ko’s exaggerated timidity allows us to laugh at our own fears and shortcomings.

Humour and Relatability

What makes Ko-Ko so enduringly popular is his relatability. Despite his flaws, he is fundamentally human. His schemes are ridiculous, his cowardice exaggerated, and his vanity absurd, but we recognise elements of ourselves in him. He is the underdog who has stumbled into a position of power, the everyman overwhelmed by responsibility.

His humour is both situational and character-driven. From his convoluted reasoning to his over-the-top delivery, Ko-Ko is a masterclass in comedic characterisation. His interactions with other characters, particularly the Mikado and Katisha, highlight his wit and resourcefulness, even as they expose his flaws.

So, the Lord High Executioner is a brilliantly crafted character, blending absurdity with sharp social commentary. He is a figure of ridicule and empathy, a satirical critique of authority and a celebration of human imperfection. Whether singing his ‘little list’ or scheming to save his own neck, Ko-Ko remains one of the most memorable characters in the Gilbert and Sullivan canon – a reminder that even the most ludicrous figures can hold a mirror to society’s flaws.

In the end, we laugh at Ko-Ko not because he is so different from us, but because he is so much like us. And perhaps that is his greatest triumph.