Two Chaps Talking

Mon Vieux,

It's dark in here. Very dark.

Heavy claret velvet shields the windows and door. There may be noise without, the world may be coming to an end, but within all is quiet. All quiet. I am writing with a wax crayon as the scratching of my Duofold on parchment would be intolerable in my present state. Occasionally I sip from a crystal decanter of Spring water from the Old Country. Not long now. Soon it'll all be over.

Well a Chap can't complain really. It's been a good innings. One's had one's share of googlies and questionable decisions, but there've also been a good few sixes, and plenty of boundaries. At least one can say one's always tried to play off a straight bat. All right so once in a while one's strayed, but to err is human after all.

My descent into this pit of hell began shortly after the last missive. You may recall my suggesting the intention of drinking my own weight in Champ... no I can't say it. Forgive me. Anyway the agony and the ecstasy that is Christmas kicked off with an intimate gathering in a suite at the Chelsea, you know, the place where Sid Vicious and many others met their makers. Several glasses into my task I found myself talking to a chap from Blighty whose job was something so secret that if I'd understood it he assured me he'd have had to kill me.

Fair enough. He was the spitting image of Graham Greene and lived between Saigon, Washington and an undisclosed location. All well and good thought I until he said something that chilled me to the very marrow of my bones. Something so terrible that I was moved to drain the bottle of C. I was holding and reach shakily for another.

I am sorry to have to lay this before you Old Thing, but in the interests of the truth I must tell you. Those cruel words were -

'My tailor is dying.'

There was absolute silence after he made this proclamation. The will to live seemed to have drained from the room. Perhaps this was what drove Sid to end it all. Was the hotel cursed with the ghosts of departed tailors who when mentioned drove all gathered to question the point of it all? People drifted slowly to the door and left with heads bowed. For all I know they chucked themselves down the stair well in the sheer hopelessness of it all.

I found myself eyeing the window and wondering about the landing options from a sixth floor defenestration. If my time was up then I was at least dressed for it. I tenderly fingered the cosh pocket of my Bethnal Green special. The window seemed to get closer and more inviting as the silence lengthened. I was truly on the point of ending it all when, as though from the very heavens above us, I heard the words.

'Put that bottle down and get your coat you idiot, you're drunk and we're going.'

Like a ministering angel the dulcet tones of the OB&C brought me back to the plot and it was with a once more steely grip that I shook Graham Greene's hand and struggled into the greatcoat.

At the subsequent gathering I began ruminating on the rules of engagement at these kinds of bacchanalian orgies. I present these to you Old Top, in the hope that they may be of use should you venture over here, perhaps to sort through my correspondence when that is all that remains of me. (No sense in my various billets-doux falling into the wrong hands eh?)

Anyway, in short, here is what I have learned in regard to Christmas in the Colonies (and ex-).

1. Accept Every Invitation.
Not forgetting to end your acceptance the words 'I'll ring you nearer the time to confirm. Bye' Click. Perfect. You have a mantelpiece crowded with embossed cards from Smythsons and are not required to attend a single one if you get a better offer.

2. Over Dress.
There can be few pleasures more memorable than wearing the full soup and fish to a party where 'festive black tie' [sic] was indicated. One then finds one's self in a room full of various crimes-sartorial but in the enviable position of being able to wilfully mistake every single other male guest for a waiter or bouncer according to need. Fantastic fun.

3. Over Drink.
Surely an oxymoron? Anyway for the uninformed - drink as much as you possibly can as quickly as you can get it down your neck. This should be done at the very beginning of the party. There are many reasons why this makes sound sense so I'll just mention the obvious ones. i) It's probably free. ii) Being drunk is preferable to not. iii) When pie-eyed you have a licence to behave in your normal fashion, which when sober is somewhat frowned upon, not least by the OB&C. iv) You will have to endure some extremely dull people, these people are best insulted when you are sauced. v) At some point it will run out. I could go on but let's move to another point shall we?

4. Forget Trying to Remember What You Said Last Year.
There are those who attend Yule time orgies and make the lamentable mistake of actually remembering whatever nonsense you may have talked during the previous year's gathering. Unfathomable and frankly unforgivable but nonetheless unavoidable. The only defence is outright denial. Maintain, with such force of conviction that Rumpole of the Bailey would envy you, that they are talking through their hats and must have you confused with someone else. It may work or it may not but if you adhere to point 3 this is academic.

5. Forget trying to Remember Names.
It has become perfectly obvious to me that people change their names regularly simply to confuse a Chap. With one's own chequered past one can hardly assume the moral high ground but it does make identifying previous associations rather difficult. Though when a Chap has unerring radar for the right sort this is easily dealt with. Prodigious use of the terms; Old Thing, Darlin', M'dear &cet. solve this problem nicely.

6. Avoid the Mistletoe.
Yes there will be comely maids waiting in the wings for a Chap to stray under the green leaves, there to be ravaged to within an inch of his life. Trouble is it's rarely the prize fillies and more likely to be the prize heifers. The former would meet with the Fragrant One's disapproval, the latter would meet with one's own. All best avoided. After all, they invented the downstairs loo for that kind of thing didn't they?

7. Find a Muse and Identify Her to the OB&C at Kick-Off.
This is an odd one but I can testify to it's success. Through the fog of revelry find a thoroughly presentable frippet and assume her squiring duties for the evening. Ensure that she is introduced to the Trouble early one and is demonstrably not a candidate for frottage. This has the double benefit of giving the OB&C a break from babysitting one and ensuring one is not accosted by anything more dangerous as delirium sets in. That one's vision is clouded by totty is an added bonus.

8. Stay Till the End and Drink Everything.
This is self explanatory and anyone who shirks this responsibility is no gentleman.

I have lived by these rules these last couple of weeks and I am here to tell the tale. But only just. I have been in my boudoir now since 5.00am on Sunday morning and I expect to leave only when the black drays and carriage draw up for my last trip. Scatter my ashes over St James will you Old Love? Remember me to my boot maker, my shirt maker and my tailor. They have served me well and I shall depart in my finest.

Of course there are pluses to slipping out quietly at this time. Not least that it removes the chance of recrimination for not showing one's face at the outlaws on the big day. Not that one will hear a word against them of course. Not at all. But a Chap is duty bound to make sideways comments. After all we didn't grow up on a diet of Sir Les Dawson and Lords Morcambe and Wise for nowt now did we?

Hark, for I can hear the ringing of bells. 'Tis my maker summoning me for my last fitting. There is a cathedral not a cricket ball's throw from here. A non-denominational one at that. Being a non-denom. Chap myself it is where I would like to be remembered. Well there and my club of course, and if any of my old adversaries should stray in, soggy-carpeted SH members or Daily Mail readers, do tell them from me, I forgive them for their egregious sins. Though they may be black-balled from the club with the pearly gates they may hang around outside for scraps.

Better sign off now effendi. I just heard the front door go so she'll have me up and doing the bloody tree or something within minutes.

Joyeux Noel to you and yours,

S.