Two Chaps Talking

Mon vieux,

We won, I gather. Not having stayed conscious beyond four in many years I was unable to enjoy the action live and direct so it was via the World Service that I got the news the following morning. Furthermore I'm told it was all done with courtesy and respect both on and off the pitch. But then it is famously a hooligans game played by gentlemen, as opposed to footie which is different.

And the I-i-C's sightseeing tour involving empty streets and paid 'locals' passed off without incident. Not even his storm-troopers managed to ruin the party by having a pop at passing innocents. Thank heavens they weren't allowed to bring the tank they wanted. I think the protest employed by veterans of the Second Little Unpleasantness during a recent visit was perhaps the way forward. Fill the streets with your brothers, shoulder to shoulder stand to attention, and when the offender passes simply turn your backs. Dignified and unequivocal.

With crowds of Englishmen so much on the wireless I am reminded of an incident from my murky past where I'm afraid to say I might have misjudged the lumpen proletariat.

Resplendent in quiet grey herringbone and black kid gloves, surrounded by acres of Connolly hide, Axminster and walnut, I was guiding my old '68 four seater through the narrow and winding streets of Mayfair when what do you know? The lovely old thing decided to have a rest and ceased to function in any useful way. Hilariously we were of course in a narrow but extremely popular street and, need I add, in the cross hairs of a super junction.

Unused to physical exertion, not since retiring prematurely from the rugger pitch anyway, I sat still and considered my options;
i) Get out and make an effort to push via the open driver's door (fine for a Mini but something of a strain in a two-ton midnight blue Sovereign).
ii) Get out and try to look approachable in the hope that a ganger and his lads would take pity and give me a shove.
iii) Allow my rarely more than half-open eyes to close gently and join the motor in a much-needed snooze.
iv) Run.

Horns were being honked, fists were being shaken, white vans were being revved. Things weren't looking good and I was on the point of choosing a rapid exit strategy when would you Adam it, four hundred footer hooligans emerged from a nearby alleyway and swarmed across the street.

Ah well, at least attention would be diverted and perhaps during the ensuing riot I could make good my escape thence to issue a wonderfully creative invoice to Lloyds of London to replace the concours condition vintage pearl that would by then be a smoking pile of twisted metal.

Unless they took it upon themselves to give me a thrashing. Oo-er. Was I wearing anything that might suggest allegiance to the opposition? Had I the right cut of jib? Could I claim hooligan credibility for my head-kicking brogues?

I wound down the window to asses the situation, much like Sir Percy probably did when spiriting away damsels in distress. A break in the throng appeared. Now. Now. Run. I opened the door. But the gap had allowed them to get a good look at my situ.

'Look,' said one of their many-headed number, pointing at me with his sharp implement.

Oh god, now I was for the high jump. Turning my motorised gentleman's club over would be a challenge, but one they were well known for rising to.

'It's Inspector Morse. Huh huh huh. Look. Inspector Morse.'

Oh ha ha. Very droll. I smirked to myself, shot my cuffs and dropped my eyelids the fraction that indicates mild friendly insouciance rather than punchable condescension. So now in addition to my ignominious retreat I would be subjected to cat calls and base mockery.

'Ere Baz, Maz, Taz and Laz,' the word spread through the M-H, 'Get up the back and give the Inspector a push.'

Coventry's Finest miraculously began to advance and continued until we were safely ensconced in a pub car-park entirely out of harm's way.

'There you go Inspector. Say 'ullo to Lewis. Huh huh huh.'

I actively considered distributing fivers with largesse but the mob had moved on and I was left alone. A narrow escape one would think. Such occasions can often go extremely pear-shaped. The motor in which I so enjoyed spending time could have become my final resting place. Not the worst place to go but you want at least to be doing a ton over the White Cliffs with an enemy spy in the boot thus saving the nation.

But no. I had mis-judged the mob. They had been courteous, helpful and mildly amusing. I rang the Royal Automobile Club to summon their foremost team of oily grease monkeys.

As much as I praise the efforts of these chaps who motor out to fix your two-or-four-seater in rain or shine I must say that their tendency to explain what's wrong is baffling. Do I now or have I ever struck you as someone to whom the engine of a motor car is anything of interest? Can you make a drink of it? Can you wear it in polite company? Would it be appropriate decoration for one's study? Nay, nay and thrice nay.

So there I was some hours later nodding sagely at the rear-end of the man from the Royal Automobile Club as from under the bonnet he explained that my diff wasn't sprocketing the main under-cog, or something. I was on the point of doing a bunk and leaving him to it when the inn erupted and the many-headed began to spew forth, fully charged and ready for gladiatorial action. Seeing their approach and apparent interest in our plight the man from the RAC hastily went round the back and stuck his head in the boot, there to conceal himself and poke around usefully.

I on the other hand crossed my arms and leaned casually against the front of the car for unlike the combat-jumpered-and-bereted mechanic I knew the drill. The rules clearly state that having been offered help previously I was now under the mob's protection. I smiled indulgently and chose a point in the middle distance on which to rest my benevolent gaze.

But we weren't in the clear yet.

'Ere mate,' said a wag seeing the RAC man's derriere protruding from the capacious boot.

'The engine's in the front. Huh huh huh.'

The rolling guffaws echoed round the car park and stayed with us long after the hooligans were chasing their opposite numbers up the high street with murderous intent.

So you see old love, surprised at the crowds behaviour in London and in Sydney I was not. As you yourself pointed out, there is surely some good in any man who wears a Crombie and shaves his head.

Once more unto the throng,

S.