Two Chaps Talking

New York City
Saturday 7th February 2004

Mon vieux,

Did you know that the trajectory of an arrow is determined by two points - the forward one being determined by the arrow lying on top of the hand that holds the bow, and the rear one by the nock of the arrow positioned on the string between the index and middle fingers? Indeed, without a middle finger the gap is too great and the flight path of the arrow would be erratic. Troubling, no? Not least if you're grossly outnumbered by hordes of crossbow wielding Frogs. Say, at the battle of Crecy in 1346. But more of this later.

In the meantime I'm afraid it falls to me to pass on some terrible news. The kind of news that'll reduce the club bar to stunned silence, followed by a quiet sob and strong manly grasping of shoulders for support. I have, you see, sinned most egregiously. I have fallen from grace. Fallen in fact into the embrace of the Fickle Mistress.

I could try to excuse myself by saying it was only for a few days. Or that I did little or nothing of any worth (just like the old days). Or indeed that I was only helping out a pal in need. All of this is true and yet I fear I must stand straight like an English longbowman and offer a mea culpa.

There was an invasion over here. Discordant wavering multitudes of denim-clad young things foisting their wares on hapless septics from Iowa or somewhere. A pal was attempting to so foist and asked me to stand around knowingly and draw these hoi poloi into his web. Clearly a chap can't say no to a pal and so for three days I was gainfully employed in the service of the Fickle Mistress.

What does all this have to do with bows and arrows you may ask. Well I'll tell you. Imagine if you will a chap such as oneself smiling brightly and encouraging appallingly dressed farm labourers who own shops in Kansas to peruse one's pal's wares. Roll up, roll up, one might say. Come ye forth one and all. Lovely-jubbly indeed. And come forth they did. Placing orders for my pal's trinkets by the sack full.

All was tickety boo until a foul individual from a temple of tat here in New York turned his nose up at my invitation. Not one for taking such a snub lying down I called after him. Turn again, said I. He didn't and so I was compelled to search around in the pockets of my fine worsted for a suitable gesture. Finding the good old two-fingered salute I offered it to him with bells on. It was while I was sheathing this weapon that a comely young maid took it upon herself to fill me in on the history of this enormously useful signal.

Apparently when the gallant English popped over to France to put it up the Frogs sometime in the Fourteenth Century they took along a smashing new invention called the longbow. English longbowmen trained for years to be able to master this nifty toy and it enabled them to take care of the garlic eaters at four hundred paces and not get so much as a scratch in doing so. It was so successful that the score at Crecy was 4000 French dead to 50 English (mainly from the pox passed on by complaisant local dames).

Understandably perturbed by such a bloody nose the French would react very unsportingly to any of our chaps who fell into their hands. They would in fact cut off their index and middle fingers and send them back to the English unable to draw the bow they had spent their lives mastering.

Hence upon seeing their foes the English would make it clear that they were going to give them a seeing-to by sticking two fingers up at them.

'Look' the gesture said, 'I have my longbow-drawing fingers, and verily you are fucked.'

So my gesture to the tat-merchant had a glorious history as well as a thoroughly modern interpretation. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose, non?

It almost makes one forget the Mistress.

Yours in recovery,

S