Two Chaps Talking

Dear Boy,

The Memsahib and I have just returned from a splendid couple of days at the Burgh Island Hotel. As you may be aware, the place is pretty much unchanged since it was built in the 1930s and sits on an island just off the south coast of Devon. It can be reached, at low tide, by a beach causeway and, at high tide, by a contraption called a 'Sea Tractor'; something like a scaffolding tower on wheels with an engine. A most enjoyable experience.

The best part was dressing for dinner as the hotel requests full fig at table. My own 'Soup and Fish' is, of course, a classically understated single breasted, regular-lapel job in a cocktail-proof wool barathea. The trouser has single pleats which rise precisely to the base of the immaculately waffled T&A shirtfront. The tie is, naturally, a handjob set against a regular turndown collar. I eschew studs, allow only a black silk, turk's-head cufflink and root the entire affair in highly polished black Oxford boots. In all, a quiet, honourable ensemble, guaranteed to sweep a lady of quality off her Manolos without scaring the horses.

As one could almost have predicted, my fellow guest were not quite up to snuff. Although two fellows were wearing suits of restrained cut and ornamentation they both appeared to be weekending with considerably younger and more pliant women. I would have wagered that they were doing so without benefit of clergy, or, indeed, the knowledge of their wives and thus, as bounders, they need trouble us no more.

Several men had gone for the stand-up collar, an aberration made only more ludicrous if it is detachable. They may think that, as they loosen their tie in the bedroom, they look as charmingly rumpled as Rupert Graves in 'Maurice' but the effect, after three gallons of Lambrusco, is more that of an articulated trailer shedding a remould at speed.

In one case the stand-up revealed the mechanism of an adjustable made-up tie. It was somehow reminiscent of beggars in the dJemma-el-Fna who, not content with owning a leprous deformity, feel the need to thrust it in the faces of passers-by. I was tempted to give the poor sod a sovereign and a firm admonishment to spend it on bread for his children.

Several fellows wore Nehru jackets though not, noteably, the only Indian gentleman present (who did very creditably if we can forgive him ill-advised shoes). I'm never sure with the Nehru. Is the wearer apeing the man himself, the Beatles, Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen or the waiters at the Red Fort? Whatever the inspiration, the result is unremittingly vile

There was also an obese fourteen-year-old boy, of repellent aspect, accompanied by his grandmother and some species of aunt. His evening wear, and I find these words hard to type, featured a pair of three-quarter length combat trousers and some kind of sports footwear that appeared to be rotting off his feet. In a mood of benign forgiveness born of champagne, the Mem pointed out that he probably wasn't old enough to own the correct rig, which seemed a fair point. I, on the other hand, felt they could, in the pursuit of authenticity, have hired a Fauntleroyish sailor suit and forced the little bastard to wear that.

There were some cummerbunds.

Though dinner was extremely competent, breakfast was more of a challenge. The waiter was quite unfazed by an order for scrambled eggs on toast but seemed unable to grasp the necessity of delivering both at the same time. As you will know from previous correspondence, I take a dim view of those that bugger up my eggs.

Fortunately, I was able to drown my sorrows in authentic, Devon clotted cream from a dairy in Honiton. I was pleased to be apprised of the fact that, due to the concentrating effects of long, slow heating, there is more pure cholesterol per ounce in clotted cream than in any other foodstuff apart from an obscure South American nut. As I am presently too busy to travel to South America it will have to suffice.

I hope I won't be torturing an expat by reminding you of the pleasures of scones, jam and clotted cream. As with all the best things, it is a dish with few, though fiercely fought, variations. Plain or fruit scone; strawberry or blackcurrant jam; cream under or over jam? I have, as you will probably have guessed, some strong opinions on these matters.

The scone itself is a dry, unforgiving thing. Like all Scottish contributions to culinary history it is unpalatable in the extreme without quantities of sugar that would put a horse into a diabetic coma. If the scone is to be essayed au naturel, it needs to be consumed hot, lubricated with quantities of melting butter and enlivened with dried sultanas. If, however, it is to be consumed in the traditional manner, one requires the astringent, baking powdery flavour of the plain scone to contrast elegantly with the jam and cream.

Most Englishmen who remember the war or school (equally likely to provoke post traumatic stress) usually favour strawberry jam but I find the tartness of blackcurrant to be preferable with the added advantage of being almost unknown outside these Isles.

Finally the order of assembly. I've always felt that those who apply the jam first and then the cream are tapping into some subconscious belief that the cream is an indulgent afterthought to a jammy scone: a forbidden treat. This dishonours both foodstuff and diner. I hold that the cream should go on first, replacing the butter, in a calculated act of extravagance. If it is true that Her Majesty uses silk squares or live kittens instead of toilet paper, then this is a gesture of a similar order.

Enough of food. This weekend marks the August bank holiday. As the entire population of the metropolis flees to the coast in a frenzied fit of scorching flesh, alcoholic abuse and ill-judged sexual adventuring, I will naturally take advantage of their absence. London can be blissful for this one perfect day when one can drive directly to one's favourite pavement cafŽ, slip elegantly into a convenient free parking space, be granted a decent table on request and without a booking and be served by positively grateful staff.

There is, of course a 'downside'. The Notting Hill Carnival also takes place this weekend. Now of the Carnival itself I have nothing but good things to say. It is invariably a cheerful, amusing event where, if the Constabulary restrain themselves and the criminals get stoned early enough, there is little to trouble the Gentleman save a little rhythmic jigging. I normally attend on the last day when everyone is narcotised into placidity and the music takes on a mellower tempo. I naturally eschew most of the more egregious excesses of cruisewear (named, I would hazard, not for cruise ships but rather for Tom Cruise in 'Cocktail') but I feel I cut quite a dash amongst the revellers with my tightly furled brolly and my brightest tweeds.

Perhaps the most entertaining part of the festivities is watching the national news programmes over the weekend for the first sighting of the annual "Enormously-fat-and-jolly-Caribbean-woman-dancing-with-embarrassed-young-copper-while-wearing-his-helmet" newsclip. Cognoscenti anticipate this with far greater fervour than the first cuckoo.

Of course, now I am considering dipping my toe into the sharkpool of PR, I am entirely aware that this event is even more of a fit-up than planted dope. One can picture the scene at the Paddington Green nick. A handsome, callow young probationary constable enters his superior's office and comes to attention with a sharp salute...

PC: You wanted to see me, Sir.

SO: Yes, Constable Cholmondeley. I have a rather special mission for you.

PC: Thank you, Sir. My Father, the Chief Constable, will be very proud. I've always hoped for undercover narcotics work. Will you be wanting me to infiltrate a Yardie gang at the Carnival, Sir? I've been practising at home, Sir. I have my own Cherry Blossom.

SO: I'm afraid it's rather more risky than that, Cholmondeley. I want you to lend your hat to an enormously fat and jolly Caribbean woman...

PC: My God...

SO: ...Yes, Constable. Then I want you to dance with her on national televison.

PC: But Sir...

SO: I know it's risky, Constable. Your reputation may never recover. But you'll have back up. 27 crack officers from the Met PR Squad, a small team of choreographers and of course, Mrs Livingstone.

The door darkens in the shadow of a large body.

PC: Mrs Livingstone Sir?

SO: Your partner, Cholmondeley. Ex Alvin Ailey dancer, all Jamaica shot-put champion, a retired WPC, SWAT trained and not a day over 65 - Come in Mrs Livingstone.

Actually the most amusing part of the carnival is how people, trying in some revolting way to be authentic, refer to the event as 'Carnival' without the definite article. Everyone;, Trustafarians, newspapers, Time-Out, even the bloody BBC. 'Will you be going to carnival this year?' It's unbelievably irritating. At first I couldn't work out why it's suddenly acceptable to drop this useful part of speech without so much as a by-your-leave. There seemed to be no rationale. Then I spotted this deathless line in the Guardian's annual guide to the Edinburgh Festival.

"...Whether you're booked in for Festival or just checking out Fringe..."

So obviously a case for a new rule in our English Usage;

"In describing any event which juxtaposes face painting, fire juggling and music with herds of middle-class knobscrapes immersing themselves in any culture that promises to fill the yawning void left by their own entire lack of authenticity, it is not necessary to use the definite article."

"...And finally", as they say during the Silly Season, when there's nothing other than the complete, public meltdown of a corrupt government to occupy the media, I turn my thoughts back to clothes. Not for me, you understand. I've been shopping for clothes for L. who, at 14 weeks old is starting to sprout like a weed. Pray God this is not something that should worry you for a while but it is impossible to purchase chlidren's clothes unembellished with ribbons, pockets and ridiculous decals and slogans.

Why should she wear a t-shirt emblazoned with 'Daddy's Little Girl'? I would of thought that was bloody obvious, wouldn't you? When did you last see a child walking down the street wearing 'Product of an unnatural cloning experiment' or 'Result of Virgin Birth'? And why, pray, pockets? She's just over three months old. She can't hold anything, for Christ's sake. What's she going to keep in there? Pipe tobacco and a copy of the Racing Post?

Best of all, I bought, what I thought was a pack of half a dozen discreet white cotton vests only to discover, on opening, that each had a little decal on the chest saying 'Baby'. May a benign God bless the one who dreamed up this useful device. Never again will I arrive at a vital meeting, feel a little constricted under the arms and realise that I have inadvertently put on a three-month-old girl's vest. As a bonus, once L. is thus labelled, neither her Mother nor I will ever mistake her for anything else; a Pipistrelle bat, perhaps, or a toaster.

As a final note, I've just finished a terrific book by Ben Rogers. A treatise on the place played in English History and popular mythology by roast beef and John Bull. I sign off, therefore with a popular Georgian toast and the title of the book...

"To Beef and Liberty".

T