Dydh Foll Ebrel oor Engels

Dydh Foll Ebrel

Vertalings in die woordeboek Kornies - Engels

April Fool's Day

[ April Fool’s Day ]

eienaam

voorbeelde

Heb mar, ni a wodhya nag o dydh Foll-Ebrel. Dres henna, lies our a dremenas kyns y teuth imajys an omsettyans der an bellwolok. Yth esa habadoellya difronn yn stretow Melbourne kresel, arva dhien – mes nyns esa dredhi imajys vyth a’n Bennskol hy honan. Yth esa kansow yonkers, zombis gorow, ow poenya yn hwyls ha skuba pup-tra oll a-dheragdha. Yth esens i ow ladha peub oll na allsa fia dhe’n fo – hag ynwedh an re na neb a hokyas. “I re dheuth dres oll dhiworth mestrev Parkville,” a hwystras an derivador, ow plattya a-dryv kertik darlesans-a-ves. “A-dro dhe glosyow Pennskol Melbourne.” Ytho, y fien ni yn kres-wartha an tardh, dell heveli. Oll an terroes a welsen der an skrin ow taskrena re via lesys dhiworth omma. Ena, heb gwarnyans, oll an darlesansow-nowodhow a hedhis. Praga? Sawder Kenedhlek? Gordhroglamm an Zombis re dhothya yn apert ha, omsettyes oll a-dro gans an rout nownek, ni a omgevi bos ow mires orth towlennow dasdharlesys a “Sesame Street”! Henn o nebes anwaytyes. Pyth re hwarsa dhe’n “Towl Kenedhlek Goredhomm”? (Po pypynag.) Pleth esa an bolitigoryon, asper aga fismens, orth agan leverel pyth o edhomm ahanan ni lemmyn? Wosa pols, ni a glywas eskelli-tro a-vann. Dre blegyans agan konnow erbynn an fenestri, ni a ylli gweles bos peder anedha: diw yn furv vreselek (Shinouk?) ha diw erell, vyghanna, yn furv sivilek. Wosa a-dro dh’unn our, i eth dhe-ves - ha ny dhewelsons i. Dhe’m part vy, y fien lowen bos drehevys dhiworth to an lyverva gansa ha degys dhe le salow. Byttegyns, nyns o hemma, rann ‘An Towl’ (pypynag o henna). Praga? A nyns esa gwiwder lowr dhyn rag bos selwys? Yth esa hwath kansow an dus erell, dell grysav, maglennys y’n drehevyansow oll a-dro dhe’n kampus. Yn hwir, ni a wodhya bos henna an kas drefenn nebes yntredhon dhe elwel, dre bellgowser, dhyn ni y’n lyverva, ow krysi agan galloes aga gweres. (Yn tryst, nyns o pareusys an gwella lyveryas hogen rag an oberenn ma.)
It soon became clear that it wasn’t – but it was hours before any footage of the onslaught was shown. It showed complete bedlam, absolute carnage in the streets of central Melbourne – but no footage of the University itself. Hundreds of youthful, male zombies running amok and sweeping all before them – killing and dismembering anyone who couldn’t flee – or who even hesitated in their flight. “They seem to have come primarily from the Parkville area,” intoned the reporter, cowering behind an outside broadcast van. “Around the precincts of Melbourne University.” So, it seemed, we had been at the epicentre of the outbreak. All the havoc we saw on the flickering screen had spread from here. Then, without warning, all newscasts stopped. Why? National Security? The Zombie Apocalypse had apparently arrived and, besieged by the all- devouring horde, we found ourselves sitting about watching repeats of “Sesame Street”! This was a little unexpected. What happened to the “National Emergency Plan”? (Or whatever.) Where were the stern-faced politicians telling us what was now required? Not long after, we heard helicopters overhead. By craning our necks at the windows, we could see there were four in total: two military-style choppers (chinooks?) and two small, civilian jobs. After an hour or so, they went away – all of them – and didn’t return. I, for one, would have been happy to be plucked from the library roof and whisked away to safety. It seems, however, this was not part of ‘The Plan’ (whatever that may have been). Why? Were we not worth saving? Presumably, there were hundreds of others, holed up in buildings scattered about the campus. Indeed, we knew positively that there were because a few had called us at the Baillieu, thinking we could help them. (Sadly, even the best trained librarians were not prepared for this task.)

Andhistemprys, Davydh a shakyas dhe-ves an best. Ev a wrug kamm a- denewen ha’y weskel, meur y sleyghneth, gans y welenn hokki. Gyllys o an best. Unn hwaff dhiworth Davydh re via lowr. Lemmyn, klerhes anedha o an arethva. Ny remaynya travyth a-der aga horfow, gorlesys oll yn kyrghynn – ha nyns esa den anvarow vyth yntredha a waysa arta yn skon. Uskis, Davydh ha my a elwis dhe’n studhyoryon, dew po tri hepken, re darysa, meur aga ownekter, ogas dhe’n mallborthow. Yth esa remnant an studhyoryon hwath ow resek, dell heveli dhyn. Warbarth, ni a guntellas pymp vyktym a heveli bos hwath yn fyw ha degi aga horfow goesek dhe’n Lyverva Baillieu. Ny via goli down, goli Davydh. Nyns esa edhomm a wri hogen. Mes y fia goli lowr rag lesa an klevesans. Hag ytho, yth esa ev a’y worwedh, den bras y golonn. Ev re salwsa bywnansow an re a vynna lemmyn y dewlel yn-mes kyns ev dhe janjya keffrys. Pup-prys an own a wayn erbynn an gras. “Ny vydh hirneth lemmyn, ‘vata,” my a hwystras ha sygha y dal unnweyth arta. A byle y lammsa an klevesans ma? Gorthyp berr: ny wonn vy. Nyns yw hemma rann an hwedhel a allav derivas dhis – mes y hallav derivas pyth a wonn vy ha ty a yll ombrederi warnodho dha honan. Ha ni omskeusys yn-dann difresyans doutys an Lyverva Baillieu, ni a gavas pellwolok (gwynn ha du hy imajys ha nebes usyes o) yn soedhva Pennlyveryas. (Yn apert, nyns esa towlargh lowr an lyverva rag prena hwath pellwolok nowydh ha liwek hy imajys.) Y’n kynsa le, pan skwychsyn ni yn fyw an jynn koth ma, nyns esa travyth o marthek. Y’n tir-bellwolok, yth esa pup-tra oll herwydh usadow: keginieth, filmys koth, towlennow-glapp, gesdelinyansow – anwoderrys yn tien. Nyns esa lughesenn-nowodhow vyth erna dremensa moy es unn our wosa an groaduryon dhe dardha y’n areth frynkek. Ena, an kynsa lughesenn-nowodhow: heb manylyon ha kewsys yn fordh hwarthus. Lenner-nowodhow ankryjyk a worfennas an erthygel y’n for’na: “...Hay! Yw hemma dydh Foll-Ebrel?!” 11
Unperturbed, David shook it off, sidestepped and deftly struck out with the hockey stick. The beast was gone. One blow from David was all it had taken. Now the auditorium was cleared of them. Only their corpses remained, sprawled here and there – and none of them looked like they would be moving about again any time soon. Quickly, he and I summoned one or two of the students who had lingered timorously at the exits – and there really were only one or two. The rest of the students were still running, we supposed. Together, we gathered five of the victims who seemed still to be living and carried their bloodied bodies to the Baillieu Library. It had not been a deep wound, David’s wound. It did not even require a stitch. But it had been enough to pass on the infection. And so, here he lay, a hero whose actions had saved the lives of some of those who now wished to cast him outside before he, too, ‘changed’. Fear trumps gratitude every time. “Not long now, Mate,” I whispered and mopped his brow again. Where had it come from, this infection? Short answer: I don’t know. This is not part of the story that I can tell – but I can tell you what I know and let you puzzle over it yourself. As we sheltered in the dubious protection of the Baillieu Library, we accessed a fairly beaten-up black and white TV that we found in the Head Librarian’s office. (Obviously, the library’s budget didn’t yet run to purchasing one of those expensive, new-fangled colour TV’s.) When we first tuned in, nothing of note. Everything was normal as far as the TV broadcasters were concerned – all the usual programmes: cooking, old movies, chat shows, cartoons – completely uninterrupted. There was no newsflash until over an hour after the creatures had burst in upon us in the French lecture. Then the first newsflash: sketchy and delivered in a jocular fashion by a disbelieving newsreader who concluded: “...Hey! Is this April Fools’ or what?!”