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P2-3 Editorial / Debate of the Day
The Gentlemen’s Club Editorial
by Harold Brandlemash.
Fortitude. Perseverance. Dignity. Three words said by my headmaster at Charterhouse when welcoming new boys to the school. He said, in a sage like manner, that these were three qualities all boys should aspire to have. It was later discovered that on the day of his first speech to the new boys he was stuck for inspiration and merely used the first three clues from that morning’s Times crossword. He tried a similar speech when welcoming back the sixth-formers the following day, but foolhardily using the new morning’s crossword. When two hundred 16 & 17 year-old are welcomed back and told by their headmaster that he expects them to show signs of (1 across) Insolence (2 down) Promiscuity and (3 across) A Tropical Disease over the coming year then they are often confused.
He had a thing about crosswords did old Mr. Herbert. He used to say life was like a crossword. Some blanks would get filled as time went by. Others might not. Some might get filled in, but may not be what one thought they should be. And of course it had it’s downs. He never really thought of anything to compare ‘across’ to – which drove him round the twist. He did think of something on his last day as a teacher there. I remember him shouting “Look boys, I know the analogy for across”, with a big beaming smile on his face as he leapt from the top of the belfry.
Unlike other schools such as Gordonstoun that believe that suffering and austerity breed character, the philosophy at Charterhouse was far more cruel. The founders noticed how one can adapt to total hardship, so they installed a regime where things were not unbearable, but are still not quite as nice as one would like them to be. A day typical would start at just before half eight, when we were woken by matron tweaking our ears. We then had to take a luke-warm shower before the 200 yard run to the breakfast room. A delicious full cooked breakfast was cooked but only one item of cutlery was allowed per boy. One rascal of a boy once bought in a spare fork and was severely punished – being given two lashes of the came across the soles of his shoes.
But those wise words from Mr Herbert have definitely put me in good stead. For now I am able to share the ideals of fortitude, perseverance and dignity through the pages of this fine magazine, for it would never have got started had I not had those three qualities. Obviously, my father being a publishing magnate helps, but let’s just be thankful that I was not a sixth-former when I first heard Mr Herbert speak, or Gentlemen’s Relish could have a rather different readership.
Debate of the Day
Welcome gentlemen, to a new feature in Gentlemen’s Club where we will endeavour to enter the intoxicating word of intellectual debate. Each month we will gather two of today’s best academic minds and thrash out one the issues of our modern society. Today we feature the burning topic of the possibility of women being given the right to vote sometime in the not too distant future.
I have with me today Mr. Archibald Wickford, emeritus professor of social history at Kings College, Cambridge and Lord Pembroke Q.C., one of the countries leading experts in societal law. Lord Pembroke, if I could start with you. Do you believe women should be given the vote?
Lord Pembroke: No.
And you professor?
Prof. Wickford: I totally agree.
Well there you have it*. Next month, should we abolish hanging – and bring in something
nastier instead.
* Some of our more liberal readers may feel this debate may have been better served had we invited a female into the discussion. We did consider this, but the rules of the Gentlemen’s Relish club rooms implicitly state no woman shall be granted admittance. To compensate we allowed an embroidered cushion to state the female viewpoint. Sadly the cushion failed to contribute to the discussion at any time during the proceedings.
P4-5 Journal
Journal
I was walking through the park the other day, minding my own business, when this dog jumped up and bit me. I don’t why. It’s not as if I’d ever done anything to annoy it. I hadn’t bitten it first or anything. I hardly ever bite animals.
It failed to ruin my mood for a dinner party later that evening though. Luckily there was a servant there who was able to ruin it properly for me. The waiter was offering canapés with what looked like a fishy topping.
“Smoked salmon Sir?” he asked.
“No.” I replied. “I’ve never smoked salmon”. That angered me. Do I look like the kind of man who goes around smoking aquatic life forms? I don’t think smoking’s good for you. Cigarettes killed my uncle Charlie. A crate of them fell off a shelf and broke his neck down at the docks.
Uncle Charlie spent almost all of his adult life down at the docks, on account of the fact that he could never remember where he lived. It was a condition exacerbated, some may say, if they were given to using such a word, by the fact that his wife couldn’t stand him and would frequently move house in an effort to confuse him further. At one stage Aunt Maude was moving house at a rate of four times a week. It’s a tragic tale.
But not as harrowing as the tale of Great Aunt Agnes and Great Uncle Hubert. They wanted a baby you see. They had been married for years and God had never seen fit to bless them with a child. Then, a whole thirty four years into their marriage, the much waited for happy day came and she gave birth to a daughter. And she was horrible.
Not like Lady Emily who I met at the huntsmen’s ball. She was a lovely girl. She made me feel very chivalrous.
She was the kind of girl for whom if her clothes were to ignite I’d gladly beat out the flames with my bare hands, and I told her so. In fact I offered to set fire to her dress just so I could prove the very point, but she didn’t seem keen, much to my chagrin. I followed her for weeks, playfully flicking lit matches at her undergarments as she played along, coquettishly screaming and fleeing in apparent terror. The problem with women is that they are unpredictable and hard to train – unlike animals. If I’d been given the chance to train that dog in the park he wouldn’t have bitten me, I’d have trained him to bite somebody else.
You’d be amazed at what you can train animals to do. Many mortals have trained dogs to fetch the newspaper. Mine is so well trained that he not only goes out and buys it himself from the newsagent, but he also selects any other periodicals that may be of interest to me while he is there.
And it’s not just in the domestic field that trained animals are useful. An entire coal-face of a pit in Barnsley is solely mined by well-trained pigeons, who may be slow but only need feeding a few bread crumbs each day.
My own pioneering work, where I trained an otherwise ill-disciplined bunch of red squirrels to run the entire Chiswick postal sorting office, has sadly come to an embarrassing end due to the entire workforce deciding to hibernate just before the busiest time of the year. Can’t win ‘em all eh?
P6-7 The Taming of Kilimanjaro
February 19th 1896, Day 37
Supper was tense at base camp today. We have to decide whether we were going to continue our planned route to the summit or have a go at a direct assault on the North face. One of the native guides had suggested the North face alternative as a quicker route, but it was to be far more dangerous as I was to discover yesterday when I lead an advance party for preliminary reconnaissance.
The ground was much more rocky and steep. Very early on I was able to sense that this climb could be to tough for some of the weaker, less British members of the party. The loose soil was treacherous and getting a good footing was so difficult that at one stage I was nearly tipped out of my sedan chair. Hedges, my manservant, was finding his brogues to be of little use on this surface and he began to slither towards some jagged rocks. But by a stroke of luck one of those damn gallant native chappies blocked his path and was sent to a gruesome death instead. It was then that I noticed that not only was this native chap our guide – he had many of our provisions with him. This was very serious. Not only would we need to find our own trail back without a guide, we were also right out of claret.
I noted the position of the sun in the sky and realised that night, with all it’s bitter cold and other dangers, would be upon us in less than four hours. We began our precarious descent. We prayed for good fortune and, a gruelling twenty minutes later, we had covered the few hundred yards back to base camp, just in time for afternoon tea.
We are falling behind schedule. “Time is of the essence. We must not waste a second”. This was the message I tried to get to through to the rest of the party during afternoon cricket. After port and cigars we decided to abandon the North face option and proceed with plan A.
Another guide had said that some of the locals like to climb the rocks and they have created all kinds of wondrous implements that can be struck into rock to give a firm footing, or even for tying ropes or vines to which will allow vertical climbing. I rejected this heresy outright. Charles Darwin may think that man descended from the apes, but surely even he would admit that we have evolved so we no longer have to climb like them. No I say.
You may recall that on leaving England I promised Queen Victoria that not only would I scale this giant peak, I would claim my trail in the name of England and it will be fit for the Queen.
That is why I intend to scale Kilimanjaro by cutting steps out of the very rock itself. I, of course, do none of the labouring work myself. I am of more value doing behind the scenes work such as shooting any big game in the area, or writing this diary after luncheon. I have numerous coarse fellows to do that work for me. Some are natives, but I also was allowed to acquire several others on temporary release from Newgate Prison – they came as part of an attractively priced package which also allowed me use of Mr Figgers and Mr Black, who were in charge of discipline at the prison. But even with Messrs Figgers & Black motivating the workers with whips, progress is slow.
The steps themselves are coming along quite nicely but we are losing time on the banisters. We may regain some time once work on the ornamental balustrade at the start of the staircase is complete, but we are already experiencing hold-ups in trying to fit the carpet.
Whenever the good lady wife and I stroll out along the 93 yards so far completed, I try to imagine how it will look when the other eight miles is finished. It will be a lasting monument to the perseverance of the ruling classes, and I often think in a hundred year’s time how glad the world will be that Kenya is British.
To-morrow…..how I plan to be the first Englishman on the moon, using an ingenious series of pulleys and levers.
Like this:
P8-9 Dr. Grenble’s Medical Curiosities
Dr Genble’s Medical Curiosities
Dear Dr Grenble,
my son has recently been complaining of toothache. I called out the local dentist but he merely administered a creosote tincture and charged me a whole shilling! I was wondering if you had a remedy for this ailment that I could administer myself.
J.F. Witherington, Dorset
The Doctor replies : indeed I so Sir, and what is more it seems to be a long lasting cure. About two years ago my seven year old son complained bitterly of the pain a cavity was causing him. I seized the red hot poker from the fireplace and immediately began to cauterise the wound. Such an action may sound harsh, but in fact so comforting was this that after a brief few seconds of violent spasms he drifted into a peaceful comatose state next to the coal scuttle. And what is more, he has never complained of toothache since.
Dear Dr Grenble,
my wife suffers from terrible stress and seems constantly nervous and depressed. I’ve tried to beat the depression out of her but with no avail. Any ideas? I wrote to you once before and you suggested using common opium as a sedative. At first it appeared to work but now, apart from a few hours when she seems blissfully happy, she just becomes agitated again no matter how much I increase the dosage.
S.R. Penfold, Greenwich
The Doctor Replies : I sympathise Mr Penfold. It must be terrible to have your wife like this. I have taken the liberty of discussing this case with my colleagues to gather opinion on what to suggest. After much reasoned thought we suggest that you take a mistress. I’m sure you won’t regret it. Believe me, after a few weeks in the company of a younger woman you won’t even notice your wife’s ailments.
Dear Dr Grenble,
I have a, no, I have a friend, yes a friend, who has a problem. I wonder if you give me some advice, no him some advice, no give me some advice to give to him. He has, I don’t know how to put this, recently been receiving comfort from a lady who lives above one of the taverns by the docks. Although it’s obviously a complete coincidence, since about that time he has developed an unusual kind of rash, apparently, I don’t know how unusual of course not having seen it myself. This rash is on his, well obviously I don’t know where again not having seen it myself and I wouldn’t tell anyone where it was. And nor would he obviously, because he hasn’t told me where it is. And I don’t know where because he’s got it not me.
K Smith, Kensington, no not Kensington, Harrow
The Doctor replies : I can give you advice on this delicate matter, to give to your friend of course. I suggest you, or he obviously, go to your, or his, nearest hardware store and buys the coarsest sandpaper you, or he, can find. I would then suggest that you, or he, rub the effected area vigorously with the sandpaper for at least 10 minutes. When I say you or he rub, I obviously mean yourselves, not each other, although obviously it’s just him that would need to rub with the sandpaper, himbeing the one that is ill, not you. This will not necessarily cure the rash, but it will stop you, sorry him, from catching it again in a hurry.
Dear Dr Grenble,
I was wondering if you could give me some details on the causes and cures for rickets. My eldest, Jeremy, is otherwise a wonderfully lively fourteen year old and a keen player of this new fad of football. Sadly, having rickets and being a goalkeeper are not an ideal combination and poor Jeremy does worry that his condition will effect his chances of ever playing for his heroes, the Old Etonians.
P. Solby, Hackney
The Doctor replies : first let me assure you that having rickets will make no difference to your son’s chances of playing for the Old Etonians. Coming from Hackney there is no chance of your son ever being accepted into Eton, so there is equally no chance of him making the old boy’s XI with or without rickets. I hope that will put his mind at rest. But rickets are a serious issue effecting society today. Some people suggest that this condition may be caused by lack of sunlight. What nonsense. They are just too wishy-washy liberal to accept the real truth.
Rickets are caused by unemployment. When I do my rounds it becomes all too obvious that rickets children tend to come from the poorest families, normally those with parents claiming to be too ill, or just unable to work. It’s not good enough. If they weren’t such malingerers they’d all be able to find work. Such people come to me complaining that they’ve had limbs cut off in accidents with machinery. Malingerers! That’s all they are.
One came to me saying he’d lost the lower half of his right arm up at the mill. What rubbish. You can lose your spectacles, some small change or even your pocket watch, but lose your arm – it’s ridiculous. He waved what, admittedly, did look like only half an arm at me but I repeated “You can’t lose your arm – it’s attached to your body and won’t come off however hard you tug, and so it certainly can’t come off accidentally without you knowing it “ That got him. He changed his story, now claiming that the machine had cut it off. Lost one minute, cut off the next, I ask you? Did he think I was born yesterday? I threw him out onto the street.
That’s not the worst of it. I was called the other day to call on Mr Hegson at the workhouse. He was having trouble with one of the work-shy lazy malingerers who appeared to think he did not need to carry out rock-breaking tasks in order to earn his daily gruel and lodgings. This wretched fellow had the pallid complexion of the lazy and just lay still onthe floor while poor Mr Hegson shouted at him to work. He hadn’t moved for three days apparently. Even the cat-o-nine tails wasn’t enough to stir this turgid soul into action. This man was so lazy that he couldn’t even be bothered to bleed while being whipped.
Later, another doctor came to the scene and pronounced the man dead. Typical – the lengths some people will go to to avoid work.
So back to rickets. Do I have a cure? No. But warming the bones to make them softer then hitting them with mallets, rather like an ironmonger working steel may help. On the bright side the enforced shorter posture could make him suited for working in the cramped mines around the country. That’s all. Next week I will tell you my ideas on how chest infections can be helped by the warming action of inhaling cigar smoke.
Doctor’s note: I have to make it clear that although I am prepared to make personal replies to those of you who wish for your ailments to be remain private (such as F.R. Jackson of Oxford with his hideous downstairs troubles) I do require the usual fee and an SAE.
Addendum: young Mary-Anne of Richmond, the above does not apply to you as I know your financial situation. I can assure you those growths are quite normal, but yes, perhaps it would be wise for you to keep sending the photographs and I’ll pay the postage.
P10-11 Today’s England
Today’s England
As we rush headlong into the 20th century sometimes I feel we should ask ourselves if we can really call ours a modern country. In the north of England there are people working and living in conditions an Englishman wouldn’t wish upon the French. I decided to travel to Blackburn in Lancashire to see for myself.
Upon arrival I made my towards the nearest mill which was turning out its workforce for the evening. Many of these workers were making their way straight from the gates to the door of the hostelry across the road. I decided that this would be the best place to start my enquiries.
I thought I was prepared for what I may have heard, but I was shocked as soon as they spoke. Such is their deprivation that they know nothing of elocution. It took several minutes to realise they were even speaking English. Some were becoming uneasy. My helpful correcting of their pronunciation was for some strange reason not appreciated.
Despite my station as Chairman of the Wealdstone Temperance Society, I knew that if I was to gain their trust I’d have to join them in quaffing equal quantities of the beverage known in these parts as ‘Bitter’. As I drank with them they told me various tales of the working practices at the mill. I locked these away in my mind ready to challenge the mill owner later. Strange as it may seem, as I drank and the evening wore on, I began to regard these uncouth ruffians with unfamiliar affection.
After a mere five hours of drinking with some complete strangers I felt oddly moved enough to embrace one of them around the neck and publicly declare that he was ‘my best chum ever’ (no hard feelings Charlie).
But enough of this revelry. It was time to confront the mill owner. He must have been warned of my approach as he seemed to employ some amazing device which made the very ground itself move beneath my feet and I fell several times. His front door also made use of a bizarre conjuring trick whereby the brass knocker appeared as a double image which moved around before my eyes.
Then it became really shocking. A force unseen to me, a henchman with a cosh no doubt, rendered me unconscious and I awoke to find myself in a police cell under the trumped-up charge of being drunk and disorderly. It just goes to show that for those rich enough to have friends in high places, corruption knows no limits.
The Letters of Gentlemen
Dear GR,
I was recently at the country home of Sir Enborne ‘blaster’ Smythe, a gentleman no doubt well known to many readers of GC, especially those who enjoy the odd spot of shooting or those with a ‘nose’ for a good brandy.
While enjoying the most wonderful sport bagging a few of ‘blaster’s renowned grouse I observed the man himself put away an entire decanter of the finest V.S.O.P. as if it were sherry. As I stood silently amazed at his fortitude and strength of character, ‘blaster’ ran across the field with a remarkable weaving motion giving anything that moved a rousing hello with both barrels of his new 12-bore. What a jolly fine chap he is, he even managed to wound me just below the knee, though even as I fell down into a pool of my own blood it was all I could do not to roar with laughter.
A day to remember, especially as I managed to bag several grouse. This however pales into insignificance against ‘blaster’s marvellous tally: 2 grouse, 3 pheasants, Rover (a damn fine gun-dog), 4 cows, 18 sheep and old Rodgers the gamekeeper who unfortunately took one in the lower torso.
Keep up the good work (and that’s an order you blighters!)
General Sir ‘Alfie’ Mainwaring-Barton
(retired)
Dear GR,
(Content of this letter has been censored)
Yours, worried of Gloucester
Editor’s reply: I can assure you my dear fellow that the sickening rumours you have heard are not true. Children are a blessing from God to married couples. I should know – I have three healthy children myself and I have certainly never done any of those things with my good lady wife. I do have some experience of the vile and beastly acts of which you speak. During my time with the navy we were required to commit a necessary amount of indecency with the fallen women who frequented the docks – apparently it was a very effective form of aversion therapy for them. It never ceased to amaze me how satisfying helping others can be.
Dear GR,
I never believed that the more risqué letters to your publication were true until an event happened that changed my entire life. During an invigorating debate on the benefits of hanging for the non-payers of window tax at my local hostelry, I began to converse with a fine looking lady who had the unusual gift of being able to speak without embarrassing herself or her companions. After a long courtship we married and now, only three years later, she occasionally allows me to glimpse her in her night clothes. I will keep you posted for any further developments
(Name withheld by request)
Editor’s reply. May I remind our readers that although this is a publication for adult gentlemen, we do have standards of decency to maintain. Had this letter not been written by an old teacher of mine I would have had no hesitation in sending it straight to the police, and I certainly wouldn’t have upheld the request from old Mr. Crawford to protect his identity.
P12-13 The Wonders of Medical Science
The Wonders of Medical Science
Having recently attended a conference at the Leytonstone Society of Medical Experimentation, I feel it is only my duty to share details of some of the marvellous pioneering work that has happened in this great nation of ours (God bless her) over the last year.
The first thing I noticed as I entered the magnificent and imposing hall of Leytonstone Manor was the abundance and variety of moustaches worn by many of the gentlemen in the room, and not just beneath the nose! I saw at least one gentleman sporting a surprising array of ginger ‘taches all down his left arm, and another two gentlemen, twin brothers I believe, who were joined at the knee by an incredible black moustache 3 feet across!
Anyway, after a quick snifter or two in the main drawing room, we adjourned to the laboratories to investigate the latest specimens of advanced scientific research. The first thing we saw was a man with the head of a sand lizard. This amazing creature had been created by an unusual-looking gentlemen named Richard Draycott-fothering. Captain Draycott-fothering has initially been working in France, where he had successfully grafted the head of a crane fly onto the body of a twelve-year-old boy. Unfortunately he had to leave the country when his creation was elected Prime Minister.
After this turn of events the Captain has found it difficult to find funding for his work and has had to resort to using his own body for experimentation. This would no doubt account for his unusual appearance, especially the swan’s head where his left hand should be, and an otter’s tail instead of a right eyeball.
In the next room the whole company of gentlemen paused for near-on an hour to marvel at the sight of what, at first glance, appeared to be naked woman bathing, which is in fact what it was, this room being the bathroom and the lady of the house being the divine creature in question. Our studies were prematurely ended however, when she noticed the faces at the window and set the dogs on us.
As we walked along the corridor, I could help but feel proud at the sight of this great pioneering work, and the great nation that produced it. Where else could you see in a single afternoon, a man with a geranium for a tongue, a dog with a trombone for a tail, and a delightful creature that was half fiddler-crab and half occasional table. Successes all, although the last-mentioned did have the unfortunate habit of running off with one’s whisky glass and pinching one painfully on the upper thigh.
Well, I must say my goodbyes for now, but keep up the good work chaps.
P14-17 Zoologist of Royalty
Zoologist to Royalty
Does it bite? The three most common words said by members of the public when viewing a new animal at the zoo. Actually that’s not quite right – ‘the’, ‘is’ and ‘it’ were found to be the three most common words said by members of the public at zoos – according to ‘Members of the Public Looking at Animals in Zoos Weekly’. But even if ‘the’, ‘is’ and ‘it’ are the most common words they do not form the most common phrase of ‘does it bite?’ Well ‘it’ does I suppose but I digress. There’s only one kind of animal that doesn’t bite – the group of animals commonly described by zoologists as ‘dead ones’.
Don’t get bitten – that’s my motto. The phrase ‘once bitten, twice shy’ could have been written with working with wild animals in mind. Or ‘once bitten, twice amputated’, as my ex-colleague Albert may have said after chancing his arm, quite literally, once too often near the lion enclosure. That is the lion enclosure, next to the members’ enclosure at Ascot racecourse. A dangerous folly if ever there was one. And getting the lions to wear the club tie was nigh on impossible, as Albert found out. Albert’s days as a tic-tac man are sadly over.
But not all dangerous animals are dangerous because they bite. During my recent explorations in Darkest Africa I heard of animals who survive on much more ingenious methods than biting. Take the legendary Waga-Waga bird of North Rhodesia. It cunningly tickles its prey over the edge of the many waterfalls of the Zambezi using only the tips of its wings – a truly fearsome creature.
The fisherman along the coast of The Natal live in fear of the Houli-fish, which uses a third eyeball and curious facial expressions to hypnotise animals and children into the sea. Very few people who have ever been hypnotised by a Houli-fish into drowning themselves in the Indian Ocean ever live to tell the tale. But these pale into insignificance against the danger of the deceptively named ‘No-Cricket-Bat Toads’. Their prey hears croaking and is lured into a false sense of security by a stooge toad who looks harmless. But quickly a whole gang of loads will leap from the bushes and batter their victim senseless with ruthlessly wielded Gunn & Moore size 5s. It just proves how adaptable animals are. Few more so than Hyenas of the Kenyan plains, who have discarded their usual scavenging diet and now live solely on the contents of Fortnum & Mason’s Christmas hampers.
Fruit bats in Nairobi have abandoned trees and now perch upside-down in the petticoats of large-skirted ladies. It’s the most alarming sight to see a bat infested woman attempt to sit. Many of the well-to-do ladies often employ skirt-beaters to constantly beat the back of the skirt with the palm of the hand to discourage bats from roosting underneath. My own wife employs one and she is a real hard task-master. I often hear her at night demanding that he slap the back of her skirt harder and harder – even though any bats must have surely been scared away already.
Of course there are people who try and tell me that keeping animals in zoos is, in some obscure way, cruel to them. But they are totally wrong. Take the Koala Bear for example. In Australia they are forced into spending all days up Eucalyptus trees eating leaves. What kind of life is that for an animal? At our zoo they get the very best brick and asbestos enclosure and get to eat the best of what’s left of the nearly clean hay from the stables. It’s a shame they all seem to die so quickly.
But it’s not just in England that out zoo does sterling work. We also help the wildlife in Africa. Colonialist donations allow us to feed the threatened dodo with the finest plump guinea fowl kindly provided by those benevolent animal lovers – the LBFDSWCHTEA (Let’s Breed Fattened Dodos So We Can Hunt Them Easier Association).
And speaking of donations, please spare any money you can to the Victorian Wildlife Fund. For every pound donated, after allowing for the necessary administrative charges, allowances and expenses, a whole 2s 9d goes towards saving animals. A fine cause indeed. All donations to be made to the usual address. No questions asked.
Letters of Gentlemen
Dear GR,
I don’t think I’ve ever been so outraged as I was last Wednesday afternoon. I’m so shocked and appalled at what happened right outside my house that I am unable to bring myself to speak the words to describe it, let alone commit them to paper for publication for the world to see. If it is not already against the law then I think it most certainly should be.
I’m no prude, but if people wish to do that sort of thing in the privacy of their own home, then they deserve to be locked up for their crimes against humanity. I may be a man of the world but even I was sickened by what I saw. I’m just glad that my wife was spared from seeing such a sight. In fact I was so relieved that she hadn’t seen it that I grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the window to see for herself. “Look at it!” I shouted at her while holding her head towards the disgusting sight outside. “Look at it! You might have seen that if I hadn’t been here to protect you”. I hate to imaging what kind of irreversible corruption would have befallen my children had they witnessed such a spectacle. It’s a good thing I took the precaution of not having any I suppose. Rest assured, you have not heard the last of this and I will not be placated until this matter is resolved.
Yours, Angry of Hampstead.
Editors Reply:
Help is at hand. I have spoken to several of the MPs who are members of the club and although you were unable to give details of the actual offence, they all share your sense of revulsion and are preparing a bill to make it illegal as soon as possible.
PS. George Wimslow, prospective Conservative candidate for Harlow East, wishes to state quite categorically that he was nowhere near Hampstead last Wednesday afternoon.
Dear GR,
I feel I have to write a discuss the subject of poverty. We live in an apparently civilised country but everywhere I go I see these poor wretched people living their lives in misery. It is a blight on our fair city. Surely, with all the great thinkers we have in our empire something can be done. My suggestion would be to wash them away with firehoses, or failing that, attach bells to them so one is warned of their presence.
Yours, Mother (ps. tea at yours Sun?)
P18-19 The Sporting Gentleman
The Sporting Gentleman
I went with some chums at the weekend to the Oval at Kennington to take in an exhibition of the flourishing new game of Association Football.
The game was played between some ghastly northern oiks who call themselves ‘Blackburn Rovers’, and a team comprising of some of my oldest and dearest friends, the ‘Old Etonians XI’. It would give me a chance to not only see what the old devils are up to these days, but to also reminisce about our school days – the studies we took, the masters we ragged and all those exhilarating games we enjoyed, both on the rugby field and in the dorm after lights out.
The Old Etonians took the field and the players posed for teams etchings before the match. The Etonians cut a fine dash in their lilac, ochre, turquoise and chocolate quartered shirts, worn tight enough to show off the public schoolboy’s natural healthy torso and strong, masterful limbs. This manly pose, coupled with the slicked-back hair and well-groomed bushy moustaches gave rise to a look which I’m sure will remain synonymous with masculinity and male bonding for generations to come.
The game started and even to my untrained eye the Old Etonians seemed to have the better of the play. The most exciting moment came when W.J. Anderson of the Etonians managed to kick the ball past Blackburn’s goalkeeper and between the uprights. I’m sure if the ball hadn’t then got stuck in some damn silly net he could have scored a try.
The crowd didn’t seem to mind though, getting worked up into a frenzy the way only commoners can. Undignified as it seemed, I have to admit to quite enjoying the experience. There was the rejoicing, the bonhomie, and the chance to be squashed between a plethora of unsuspecting swarthy fellows.
Such is the popularity of this game that afterwards the Old Etonian’s captain was asked for his thoughts by many a national paper.
I felt it necessary to get my own quote for GR. He summed it all up eloquently with “…well what can one say Brian? The chaps are all feeling higher than the moon. As for the goal itself, well I saw ‘Anders’ making an exquisite dash forward so I propelled the ball with most urgency in his direction. I have to say that the big fellow did splendidly, deftly elbowing a defender out of the way, before showing the kind of composure than only comes from breeding, as he marshalled the ball into the goal. It was good night, Blackburn.
Damn silly game though. It’ll never catch on.
P20-25 Finger on the Pulse
Hello ordinary people. I’m here yet again I bring you the benefit of my Lordly wisdom. For example, there are a lot more murders in bakeries than we ever get to hear about. A classic case in point occurred last week. I had met a charming young lady one lunchtime in my local tavern, and I was entertaining her with my life story. After half an hour, a point at which I was recalling the exciting moment of my umbilical chord being cut, she suddenly stood up and announced that she had to leave this instant and go to the …err..(she hesitated here)…the bakery next door.
I’ll tell you something strange happened. I know. I waited four hours for her to return but she didn’t come back, so I went round to the bakery and asked what had happened. “What happened to the girl who came in here four hours ago?” I asked probingly. “Lovely girl. About 5’ 2”. Black hair. Doesn’t say much. A good listener. Listened to me for half an hour without even attempting to speak herself. Transfixed she was, by my charm. You can’t have missed her”. All of them in the shop said they hadn’t seen the girl.
Now this got me suspicious. How could ALL of them not seen her? There could be only one explanation. I challenged them outright. I said that they’d murdered my potential wife. Of course they denied it. They said I was being ridiculous. Ridiculous am I? I’ll give them ridiculous. When the four of them are up in front of a black capped judge at the end of a murder trial I’ll challenge them to find some ridicule.
No, they’d murdered her in cold blood and I knew it. I don’t know why they always say “in cold blood”. I can see how you could murder someone in ‘blood’ – drowned them in a bath full it or something, but I fail to see the relevance of the blood being cold. Perhaps cold blood is more coagulated which might drown the poor blighter quicker. But what if you don’t have any blood, be it cold, cool, warm, piping hot, or otherwise at hand? You can hardly pop down the abattoir and ask for about 20 gallons of blood – people would be suspicious. They’d say “Hmm. that’s a lot of blood. About a bath full. I do hope he’s not intending to murder someone by drowning them in it”. No. You’d have to buy it in small quantities – perhaps a pint or two at a time and pretend you were making some black pudding – and build up a bath full over a period of a few months. It’s preparation like this that separates the master criminal from the common herd.
You may be wondering from earlier on when I said I was telling the tale of my umbilical chord being cut. Of course I can’t remember the actual moment myself, I was merely reciting from the diary made of my early life. My mother made a diary chronicling my entire nine month gestation period. You may think such a diary would be boring. And you’d be right. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything more tedious. My mother lacked imagination you see. I’ll show you a few examples.
7th June.
Looked a bit fatter.
8 June.
Fatter still
9 June
Baby kicked. A little bit more fat today
10 June
Even fatter.
You may have noticed something of a theme running through the entries. It builds up to an exciting ending though.
29th June
Very fat. Baby popped out. Husband fainted.
The shock had been too much for my father. At the exact moment I was born someone told him the devastating news that Surrey were 29-4. The diary of my early moments was actually written by a journalist from The Times, doing what is apparently known as a ‘fly on the wall documentary’. He recorded the early part of my life in great detail, right up to the age of one hour, when he realised he was in the wrong room and he was meant to be covering a member of the Royalty next door.
I always tell people that I could have been a member of the Royalty you know, I was just born into the wrong family. Had I been born just 10 feet to the left I would be in line for the throne. There are some people who say we shouldn’t have a Royal family, but they are a dying breed. Dying mainly through being hung as traitors. But think of all the things we would not have if we didn’t have royalty. I’ve got a splendid front door which is painted Royal blue. Now if we didn’t have royalty then we wouldn’t have ‘Royal’ blue paint so my front door would just be bare wood like the commoner’s houses. I would be ostracised from the social circles in which I live for being a commoner.
Coins are another thing. Currently all our coins have the totally lifelike portrait of our own Queen Victoria embossed onto one side. Without that, our coins would be flat on one side and very easy to forge which could result in the country being flooded with forged coins, leading to a crippled economy and the ultimate collapse of the Empire. That’s the Empire as in the collection of the commonwealth states, not the Empire Ballroom in the High Street which should remain structurally sound irrespective of how many forged coins flood the country.
I think there comes a time in a man’s life when he has to ask himself an important question. It doesn’t matter what it is, just as long as it’s important. I asked myself “Do I want to spend the rest of my life squandering my inheritance or do I want to Join the Navy and travel the seas?” The answer was no. I didn’t want to do either of those things. I want to stay at home all day sucking sherbet lemons and playing with my pet ants.
Ants are fascinating creatures you know. I’ve got to know them so well that they will quite happily eat out of my hand and playfully run over my body while I’m in bed. There are hundreds in my room and I’ve given them all names. People are amazed when I tell them this. They say “how can you remember the names of hundreds of ants?”
“It’s easy” I say. “They’re all called Trevor”.
Ants really are lovely little things. I’m surprised more people don’t keep them as pets. They’re very cheap to run and have such cute and happy smiling faces. Well I think they’ve smiling. Being so small it’s hard to check.
I tried to check once, under a microscope, but it must have been faulty as all I could see, rather than a conclusive anty expression, was a mushy blob. I don’t understand as I put Trevor in the slide just as it said in the instructions.
I think that my ants, being brought up in a loving environment, are much better than other ants and so I have put an advertisement in the paper offering some of my very best ants as ‘stud’ ants. I was hoping that hundreds of other ant lovers would arrive at my doorstep with pet ants in tiny ant carrying cases willing to pay for some thoroughbred offspring, but sadly no-one has turned up yet.
Do you know what the collective noun for a group of ants is? No, neither do I, but I’m going to pressure the Royal Society for Deciding the Collective Nouns of Things to officially start called a group of ants a ‘Trevor’.
That is my ambition in life. Some may say that it’s not much of an ambition compared to those who want to discover undiscovered countries or fly to the moon in a balloon, but it’s a start.
I could have been an explorer you know. I could have discovered a few undiscovered countries, but I didn’t know where to look. I can’t get very far on my push-bike and I don’t suspect there are all that many undiscovered countries in the Maidenhead area anyway.
I may not have discovered any countries, but what I have discovered is something very fascinating. Apparently, if you were to take out your intestines and other internal organs and lay them out end to end, then you would probably die. I didn’t know that. I’ve been researching things like that in the library. Someone told me that you can learn a lot from books but I’m not so sure. I got this book out. It was called ‘1001 facts that you already know’. It didn’t teach me anything.
An unusual thing happened the other day. I was coming back from the library and if I was to try and tell you about the amazing objects and sights that I saw in the sky then you wouldn’t believe me, so I won’t bother.
In the end I was so shaken by this experience that I had to drop in on my friend Derrick. Derrick’s not a stranger to the unexplained you see. He claims his house is haunted. I once asked him who haunted his house. “Ghosts” he replied. It’s wisdom like that that’s got Derrick where his is today.
“Nice weather” Derrick said during a lull in our conversation.
“What was that” I replied three hours later. “What was that about the weather?”
“Oh it’s not Important”
“Not important!” I said “Not important! I’ll think you’ll find that weather’s very important indeed”.
If it wasn’t for the weather all the hot and cold bits of the world would be out of place. Just imagine if it was really hot here in England. Remaining decently clothed would be unbearable due to the heat.
It’s only right that god should makes places like Africa hot because the people there are poor and don’t have proper clothes. But if there was no weather then crops would fail and millions and millions of people around the world would starve to death. The world could be gripped by global famine and you think it’s not important”.
And with that I left. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as someone who treats human life so lightly. It’s people like that who are probably the type who commit murder in bakeries, which I think is where I came in. So, having proved my point, I’ll leave it at that.
Lord James West-Lothian
Editor’s comment – A fine point, eloquently put.
