Two Chaps Talking

Dear Boy,

One of your recent letters - the one where your esteemed pater, albeit momentarily, had his collar felt by the Babylon - has caused me to retire to my library in quiet contemplation. What is exercising the grey matter is the relationship between gentlemanliness and criminality past and present.

It is true that you and I benefitted from an education of Victorian rigour with the declared purpose of saving the brightest of the lower orders from the temptations of drink, crime and armed uprising. Grammar schools naturally maintained the very strictest of attitudes to laxity in morals and constantly exhorted us to emulate the rectitude of our Victorian forbears.

I think it was around the fifth form that burgeoning social awareness led us to realise that noble birth and an expensive education never prevented anyone from committing crime, only from being punished.

In short, a gentleman's honesty seemed restricted to the playing field (except when playing croquet or golf) and in any other sphere he was sharper than a crack-fuelled weasel in a barrel of kittens

Maybe we were children of Thatcherism - a philosophy which, through its unquestioning belief in market forces and supposed classless worship of financial success allowed any successful petit bourgeois to claim a kind of aristocracy - which actually revealled the entire aristocracy to be immoral, money-grubbing, petit bourgeois.

I have decided, therefore, on a new course of action. Our adherence to a strict code of honour has hitherto served us well. We have resolved to be as honest as Bertie Wooster and - largely because we don't know when boat race night is and because knocking off a policeman's helmet these days involves holding him down while you get under the visor, remove the gasmask and undo the chinstrap - we have succeeded.

It is time, I believe, we upped our game. I propose, therefore, that we become gentleman thieves and have purchased a book on the subject. The Victorian Underworld by Donald Thomas is currently winging its way to you via the good offices of Messrs. Amazon.

It appears that Victorian London was home to an elite band of thieves who dressed and acted as gentlefolk the better to rip them off. The men dressed in the highest style (brocade waistcoats, high boots, tight cut coats with cosh pockets and elaborate watch chains are mentioned) and they were accompanied by beautiful women, no less handsome or criminally adept than themselves. Do you see where I'm going here?

They were called the Swell Mob and would have struck terror into the hearts of the ordinary populace if they'd known they were there. By the time most marks realised they'd been robbed they could only remember that the perp had been 'extraordinarily finely dressed and well mannered' or simply exceptionally good looking. Violence was rarely necessary, cunning, wit and brazenness was all.

We were born for this, dear boy. It's got us written all over it. So we have the clothes and the partners ('Dollymop' is the authentic term). All that's left is the equipment. As you'll see from the accompanying cut...

... Mr Thomas recommends , at the very least, the following.

A Little Alderman or sectional jemmy
An American brace or drill
A rimmer
A dark lantern
An oil can
A can of gunpowder
"The whole to be conveyanced in a handbag"

A brief perusal of the web has revealed that the American brace has been superceded by this DeWalt DW983K-2 Heavy Duty Cordless Drill with chrome/vanadium hi-speed twist bits - almost silent in operation and very effective. (According to my researches you go through the centre of the 'Y' in 'Yale' with a 3mm and the pins drop out).

Dark lanterns are a bugger to find these days and can't be adapted to emissions standards in some states. I reckon a couple of these Bushnell 26-1020 Nightvision rigs should suit.

I wondered if we might replace the harness with those rather fetching brocades from Thurston's Braces.

Obviously gunpowder won't be a problem if you have a WalMart nearby - apparently you'll find it between the kids toys and the clusterbombs - which just leaves the Little Alderman.

I confess this had me rather stumped until queried Messrs. Google and found this.

So now we're fully tooled up, where first, Bunny? The Bank of England or the Crown Jewels?

Hey Ho

T

Posted by T at 10:11 PM | Permalink

Mon vieux,

Our great nation was built by men who feared not for their own safety when exploring the wider world. Had they to go where it was a thoroughly perishin’, like our Ernest on the Endurance, or to where there was the distinct risk of a mozzy bite or two, like the presumed Doctor L, or indeed if like the few, duty and honour called them to fly over enemy territory and give Jerry a seeing to, then shirk it they would not.

And it didn’t always go as swimmingly as we might have hoped. Particularly for the few. In thrashing the baddies there was the risk that one of our gallant aircrews would prang the damned kite and have to dash back to Blighty on foot. With the entire continent crawling with the opposition and the place littered with indecipherable Frog signs what were our plucky chaps to do?

Use their Aircrew Escape and Evasion Fly Compass Buttons, obviously.

When combined with maps sewn into their tobacco pouches our heroes could slip back to Albion undetected, perhaps taking out a bridge on the way and stopping for a bit of frottage with a grateful French peasant. Chap needs to stay warm after all.

You and I, old thing, were brought up on a strict diet of these feats of derring-do and so it was with gay abandon that I accepted the instruction, sorry suggestion, by the Trouble that on a recent Saturday one was required to pilot the four seater under the barrier of the Hudson River and into the savage wilds of somewhere called New Jersey, the place where I believe they made that excellent cinematic documentary Deliverance. The operation was to be code named Eye-Key-Ah.

Now it is well known that in this country nothing of any interest whatsoever happens outside the lower two thirds of Manhattan island, or New York as it is called. As a result I find it simplifies things enormously to refer to everywhere else in the entire country as the Mid West. This is nothing new. Indeed when our gallant red-coated chaps finally turned the whole sorry mess over to the red-necked upstarts and their Frog mates it was from Manhattan that we bid them farewell, or something like that. Suffice to say that anywhere more than a quarter-of-a-mile from where I live is devoutly to be avoided, and I live on the West Side.

So you might be wondering why I was so sanguine about the mission in question. Well having survived the slings and arrows of life in the New World I have managed to piece together some survival tips on venturing forth into the great unknown. The sort of details that I have no doubt you might employ if travelling north of Hampstead, as abhorrent as such a contingency would be.

The first rule is of course to ensure a chap is travelling in the proper manner. Cocooning himself in Connolly, Axminster and Walnut and surrounding himself with acres of British designed and built machinery is a good start. As is dressing in a uniform that enables a chap to blend in whilst remaining above the melee. Thorn-proof Harris tweed with a racy over-check and mulberry moleskins are a good start, the key being that everything was made in the British Isles.

Now to sustenance. Trips can be longer than one expects, there can be delays at the turnpike or one’s ship can get stuck in an ice floe. To protect against malnutrition, knowing that the local slop is unfit for human consumption, I always pack a hamper from Fortnum’s. Horrendously expensive but it does give one a certain sense of comfort knowing a chap has a jar of Poachers’ Relish on hand for an emergency. Of course man cannot live on food and water alone so a delivery from one’s vintneress prior to kick off is de rigeur. Not that a chap would dream of taking sauce prior to piloting of course, but if stuck in the aforementioned ice floe warmth will be needed and one can’t always rely on having a warmly complaisant French Peasant to hand. I am told a passable imitation of wine can be had from somewhere called Cally-Forn-Ya but frankly I doubt this.

So with all precautions in place a chap can embark on his life changing voyage into the unknown, or Operation Eye-Key-Ah as in my case, with ne’er a care.

One of the less well known reasons for avoiding everywhere outside New York is the pathological inability of the wider populace to drive motor cars in an orderly fashion. They appear to be given driving licences for merely being able to pronounce the word car. Luckily the sight of one’s imperious British Racing Green gent’s club on wheels tends to command their attention and they pull over to doff their caps accordingly. And quite right too.

Having negotiated a path through these marauding hordes on a previous occasion (can’t give details, need to know basis and all that) I was able to arrive at the target area relatively unscathed and so deposited the Fragrant One as instructed before a giant blue metal edifice, there to do whatever her gentle heart desired. I then withdrew to a secluded copse some miles away to lie in wait for further instructions.

I reclined the seat, selected a recording of the latest test match, whatever that is, and began to doze. But how, one might wonder, could I be so sanguine being so far from civilisation? Easy-peasy, for I had, you see, an escape plan, should it all go pear-shaped.

My tailor would have a fit if I told him to use metal buttons on any part of my attire so Compass Buttons were out of the question but with a little British ingenuity a serviceable compass can be built into a chap’s left cuff link. His right link could then conceivably feature a watch giving accurate GMT, thus allowing him to navigate using the stars. Furthermore the inside of his seven fold tie can easily conceal a lovingly embroidered map of enemy territory with room left for some light reading or romantic poetry.

Thus equipped you can readily imagine the relaxed and restful time I spent waiting for orders from She Who Must Be Obeyed and listening to the sound of leather on willow and gentle ripples of applause from Lord’s. I dipped into the hamper for sustenance, remembering to mop the plate with bread in the style of the D-Day Paras, and passed a very pleasant afternoon. Needless to say I didn’t step outside the club or open the windows. You never can be too careful and some of the locals looked decidedly niffy. The call to action finally came as the sun was setting and I was able to collect The Boss and her purchases and convey them all back to relative civilisation in total safety.

Thus Operation Eye-Key-Ah was a success and I emerged once more unscathed from the wild west.

These trials are no picnic old thing, but like you, I remain undaunted.

Dura lex sed lex,

S

Posted by S at 04:53 PM | Permalink