Two Chaps Talking

Mon Vieux,

Though somewhat out of character, except where absolutely necessary, it had been my intention to begin this missive with an apology. It has come to my notice that in recent letters I might have given the impression that The Fickle Mistress of Fashion was in some way disreputable. I might have gone on to suggest that She, her followers, and indeed the places where they congregate were somehow not quite top drawer. Furthermore I might have inadvertently suggested that the industry that has grown up around her skirts is staffed by shall we say those who are not entirely clubbable.

Note the tense of my opening statement. It had been my intention. Well, recent events have clarified my thinking as never before. It is now crystal clear, and I can state unequivocally and without fear of contradiction that the Fickle Mistress is in fact a bloated syphilitic slattern who should be scorned by right (ie left) thinking persons at every turn. Furthermore her followers are lowly types who should be fed outdoors and poked with sticks daily. And as for the places they congregate; let us just say that SH and its ilk are a terrible waste of a perfectly good opportunities for poorly maintained public toilets and rubbish dumps.

And believe it or not those feelings are echoed, or should I say sanctioned, by the OB&C. Crazy I know, but there you go.

Moving on, after a healthy slug of Calvados to wash away the taste, on an entirely unrelated issue let me state for the record that She Who Must Be Obeyed has parted brass rags with her erstwhile provider of weekly stipends and a yah-boo-sucks to them and all who sail in 'em. A pox on their house and may all their shoes be ill-fitting and their hats tight.

And so with new found time on our hands it became obvious that we should decamp to warmer climes; in particular the home of the worm-in-a-bottle.

Having been there before we were assured of a warm reception and with the possible exception of a house band that persisted in trying to play Viva L'Espagna (I kid you not - think Black Lace in Bognor Regis circa '78) all was well.

Thus we come to a singular moment in my life. Have you ever, my dear, wallowed around in the ocean with land a mere spec on the horizon and your only means of transport sailing into the clear blue distance without you on it?

No, nor had I.

You may dimly recall my last sailing exploits in the land of cricket and rum. Fifteen feet I believe I was thrown when the wind turned and the force ten swept in. With my inherent British seamanship I righted that sloop and lived to tell the tale. Accordingly this time I felt, as any Englishman would, that a bigger craft and some proper off-shore racing were in order. So it was that I found myself skipper of a one man J Class (ish) yacht with a top speed of about fifty knots (probably).

Well it was bigger than the last one anyway.

Some miles off-shore as one might have confidently predicted the squalls set in and Fisher-Bight-Dogger became stormy. This time I don't think I touched the water until I was a good twenty-five feet from the upturned hull. So the first order of business was to rescue the cap. With that in place at the correct jaunty angle it occurred to me that my frenzied thrashing had occasioned me to be some distance from my chosen form of conveyance. In fact, as previously stated, it was disappearing at speed into the distance sans yours truly.

Not actually what I was after if I'm completely honest and I won't pretend that I was entirely sanguine. With no help in sight I remembered the motto of the Old Bournemouthians; Pulchuritudus et Salubritus, though how that helped I don't know, and set off in the wake of my craft hoping to catch it before I went the way of thousands of sailors before me, that is down to Davy Jones' locker.

You'll be relieved to know that I didn't in fact drown. When I finally caught my yacht, righted it (singled handedly I might add), and returned to the beach I was greeted by the OB&C with;

'Oh it's you. Fetch me a Pina Colada will you? And do get out of my sun.'

Trying, no?

Day three was a bit of a interesting one too. It began, you see, to rain. And rain it did as though for forty days and forty nights. There may additionally have been a plague of locusts but frankly who'd've known? After three solid days of this tempest the Mem was starting to tire of the whole enterprise (ie Mexico) and trouble was definitely on the horizon. Imagine then, if you will, the level of her displeasure when we awoke on the fourth day to a lagoon surrounding our apartment. A lagoon the like of which hasn't been seen since the Mekong Delta. I was quite sure green faced Green Berets were lurking in their search for Col. Kurtz and we'd be smoking illicit leaves through gun barrels before the day was out.

That was when the Trouble decided to put everyone straight. She may or may not have had a word with him upstairs but within the hour we were ensconced in a super luxury spa resort the like of which mere royalty has no chance of entering. Needless to say she also arranged for the rain to stop and the sun to shine so we passed an idyllic week in an earthly paradise.

Back in Sodom, tanned and rested I had of course to don appropriate apparel and saunter along to a local boite to watch our chaps do battle. Bloody Hell. By the time you get this we shall know if our gallant lads have soared to even greater heights. But in the meantime who'd've thought Ginger and Jug Ears could've been the nation's heroes? Takes you back to times when returning from a successful sortie over the Rhine was what sorted the wheat from the chaff what?

Very nervous. Must plan outfit for the morrow.

Yours in fervent hope. And England's Dreaming,

S

Addendum

Friday 25th June 2004

You may recall, old thing, that some time ago I waxed lyrical about Quantum Physics; it all had to do with driving Land Rovers over hills and the wearing of Italian jackets. Anyway the thrust of it was that super-accurate measurement determines the level, or amount of units, that a group or party has; and the more units that a G or P has then, well, the more it has. Or so I thought.

Recent events have demonstrated that this is in fact a laughable and grotesque error. I now realise that the less units that are measured then the more that a group or party has. Thus if, for instance, Party A has one unit and Party B has one unit initially but then goes on to acquire a further (perfectly legitimate) unit thus giving them two units, then it is Party A that has the most units, even if they actually have only half as many as Party B.

Shocking I know, but when it's made abundantly clear by a citizen of the country that is famous for counting money, particularly Nazi gold, then who amongst us can argue?

So let's hear it for cheese, chocolate and clock making neuters the world over.

Turns out it's not coming home, we are.