Two Chaps Talking

My old fruit,

How similar our recent movements seem to have been. But of course how could they be that different with us both being young, gifted, and super 150's-clad in this increasingly khaki-dominated world.

We too attended the recent anti-war march. I gather Plod was a little keener to get his size tens stuck in over here though and one or two crusties had their dreads ruffled. Of course the Idiot-in-Chief paid no attention, watching a rodeo or something I imagine. Anyway a splendid time was had and I consider it a privilege to have heard Desmond Tutu live and direct.

On a happier note I have recently come across some required reading for our kind. It came about by accident as great things so often do. I was browsing the shelves of The Lyrical Ballad, a book shop in Saratoga, searching for something to take me away from all this, something to transport me from under the heel of these Imperialist oppressors and back to a happier time. A time when bunking-off last period games to go and sit on my bike in front of a girl's house was all I craved. In the knowledge that if I could only keep the front wheel up for five full seconds then she'd be mine. And if Mum would only let me have the trench coat that I so sorely lacked, then the world, or at least The Roller Bowl, would be my oyster.

So there I was, dusty finger stroking worn Moroccan, and what did I see but a book entitled The Unexpurgated Code by a chap calling himself J P Donleavy. Wondering if it might bear any resemblance to my own work I plucked it from obscurity and gave it the once over.

Oh my goodness gracious, or fuck me in current parlance. What unearthly delights did I uncover that you and I my dear old chap have but lain awake and dreamt of? How our lives would've been different had we only this tome to guide us. I will offer you a mere soupcon just to get your juices flowing.

Upon encountering a woman while social climbing you might for instance offer -

'Madam, I beg for the pleasure of your left breast as a platform of my right palm.'

Were she to reply in the negative, taking possible umbrage, the conversation might proceed as follows -

'Madam, you are behaving as if goosed by a big fingered farmer.'
'How dare you suggest such a rural nudge.'
'May I then offer madam an idyll in some citified haven where random but gentle organ thrusts of large pianissimo would temper her presently gruff tone.'
'No you certainly may not, since rather than endure your clapped out attempts in the orchestral you suggest, I would prefer, in the most moving style imaginable, some callow youths vivace crecendo.'

I think you get the picture. Imagine my further joy when it transpired that Mr Donleavy had also written numerous novels featuring characters who behave in just such a way. 'The Destinies of Darcy Dancer, Gentleman.' being the first I read. (Think of Bertie swearing, screwing and fighting). If you haven't yet come across this chap then run don't walk and secure for yourself a copy of whatever you find. I put off telling you as I wanted to send you The Unexpurgated Code but alas I've been unable to locate another copy and I'm still studying mine

My how they hate the French over here. As though the double-dealing Frenchies' motives were somehow less worthy than those of the home grown hypocrisy. It's hard to even have a conversation over here. Anyone that believes even a word from the current Junta is clearly smoking crack and completely incapable of rational thought. If I didn't have the Beeb et al via the internet I think I'd be on the next liner home. Blair may ignore public opinion but at least the press don't. They consider questioning politicians here to be un-patriotic.

That's the view from the trenches old love. I continue to fight the good fight and educate these savages. Tonight I shall be joining Mr Will Self in his endeavour to do same.

Vive la France!
Monsieur S

Posted by S at 06:44 PM | Permalink

Dear Fellow,

I've just finished setting up a new computer and, as a consequence, have had to reinstall Microsoft Word. Imagine then, my delight, when, as I typed the deathless line...

"Dear Fellow,"

... a small animated paperclip popped up to offer assistance.

I've been known to consult a dictionary, I've heeded a muse and, on occasion had recourse to the undoubted brain stimulant properties of an agreeable single malt. I have never, though - and pray God never shall - taken advice on style from a cartoon.

Enough of this whiffle. It seems we plunge with all the diplomacy of a lust crazed Bison further into war. What a bloody mess it all is. As neither of us are Etonians, it seems unlikely that we'll be sent to the front to commit sensitive crimes in a dugout and get blasted across Arras leaving only a slim volume of poetry and a mess of weeping Subalterns. Instead I have decided to follow an old idol, Lytton Strachey, and become a Conshie.

As you will remember, dear Lytton turned up at court to defend his position, carrying his knitting and a doughnut shaped inflatable pillow (he was a martyr to the 'Chalfonts'). When asked by the judge what he would do if a German soldier were to try to rape his sister, Strachey replied, 'I should attempt to interpose my body'.

Though I lack his ready wit and, indeed, nobody actually expects me to serve, I have had to content myself with joining the two million people on the recent peace march. This was a pleasingly British event. At least double the size of the countryside march and thus the largest act of civil disobedience in English history, it passed, as they say, without incident.

It was a wonderfully middle class event with face painting and Thermosi (is that the correct collective noun for Thermos flasks?) in abundant evidence.

I, of course, didn't actually march, having left that behind me on a Bournemouth drill square; no, I merely sauntered, brolly in hand and jolly nice it was too. I found myself sandwiched between a group of vocal Palestinians calling for the bombing of Israel and the Birkhamstead chapter of the Woodcraft Folk. I met several members of that redoubtable band, the 'Lesbian Avengers' (always to be found at any good march) who muttered darkly about things 'Kicking Off' but the only time I actually saw the constabulary engage with the protesters was to second a small squad to push some kids in wheelchairs (as opposed to 'put some kids in wheelchairs'). It was most heartening. Sadly, My Little Tony(tm) will pay precisely no attention to the march.

Latest other news in London has been the surprise success of Ken Livingstone's congestion charging scheme.

As of last Monday, any car entering the centre of London (an area bounded by Marylebone Rd, Park Lane, the Embankment and the City Rd) is charged £5 for the privilege. Security cameras shoot registration plates and fines of £80 are automatically sent to anyone who hasn't paid by midnight. The Daily Mail, of course, has issued cut-out number plates reading "5OD U KEN", but on the first day, all offender were duly fined and shut up immediately. By day two, the cab drivers who had moaned without ceasing since the scheme was first mooted were starting to make appreciative noises and by day three it was approaching bliss. Busses are becoming a real option (Imagine me hopping off the rear deck of a Routemaster) rather than a form of cattle transport for Scratchers*.

Of course, our exclusive London address is actually inside the ring and thus we get away with a charge of 50p per day for blissfully clear roads.

My next plan is to institute an intelligence test for entry to certain postal districts.

Anyroad. I must push on. I have to meet with tradesmen about conversions to the residence. Obviously I'd rather spend a constructive hour hammering coach bolts through my bell-end but, needs must and all.

What Ho!

Beefy Bingham

*Scratcher: A term coined by Little Sister to denote the indigent poor of London. "Because they are verminous and thus scratch?" I asked "No, she opined, because they have to scratch a living". God Help us all.

Posted by T at 12:19 PM | Permalink