Two Chaps Talking

T san, or Mon Vieux as I prefer,

Tell me Old Top, through your gin soaked reverie, have you noticed a certain shall we say multi-culturalism creeping into my syntax of late? I know I know, a true son of Albion has travelling in his blood and with two years of schoolboy Latin under his belt how could the merest whiff of m-c not creep into his s? True enough, but my current deviation from our mother tongue comes as much from my locale as my heritage.

Fine. But where I find myself this week is a place that acted decidedly un-preux during the Second Little Unpleasantness and continues not to inspire love peace and understanding in our elders and betters. Remember when our honourable and dignified Veterans turned their backs on the visiting Emperor during his ride down The Mall?

Not that my current hosts were alone in playing off a crooked bat. Everyone knows that a certain Austrian with a penchant for looking cross was in the driving seat. But at least the Chippy Bombers said sorry in the end and when all's said and done one has to take a chap at his word. Alas my current hosts haven't yet done the square thing.

One has to be mollified to a certain extent by their owning the second largest car company in America thereby giving the Septics a bloody nose. And it doesn't hurt that they make all those smashing little shiny things that one keeps buying knowing not what they do. But it has to be said, the time has come to demand that they do the right thing and take it on the chin. I mean, for gawd's sake, I gather they're still not coughing up for the nasties they did to the fairer sex from one of their neighbours. As I said, all terribly un-preux.

Anyway, far be it from me to chuck the first brick in these days of dŽtente and all that. No, what I wanted to talk about this Fortnight was something entirely different. At least I think it was. That was before the second bottle of sake. I think. Err.

(Two days later back in the Fragrant Harbour).

Now where was I? Oh yes. You know the hell that is 'Cultural Disease' (as opposed to what they call it - 'Cultural Imperialism' - to which I reply with a hearty yet scornful Tchah!). So we all know this CD spawns such ungodly filth as McDogmeat and Kentucky Fried Rat. Well, if we're honest (and we do try to be don't we? Or else Arkela will find out and we'll be demoted from Sixer to Second or worse) anyway, if we're honest, when one's in a god-forsaken hell hole miles from civilisation and frankly not far off being hung from a low-reaching bough by a sheriff whose family tree doesn't branch out and whose sister married his mother etc. then the one place we might seek solace is one of these CDs that I shall refer to as Star-not-entirely-undrinkable-but-over-priced-and-too-much-Kenny-G-and-what-happened-to-the-old-place-Bucks.

Now don't go getting all in a two-and-eight. I yield to no man in my abhorrence and loathing of all things corporate. And if by throwing my limp and fey corpse before a digger I could prevent just one Nan and Gramps tea room from being bulldozed aside to make way for the above bastardcorp then just try holding me back. But I'm afraid it wouldn't make a jot of difference. Except perhaps a touch of class would be imparted to the digger until I got washed off it. What would one wear I wonder?

Hang on, that's not the point. I shall wrestle myself firmly back in the direction I'd intended. So,

(Ten minutes pass)

Ah right you are. Just remembered my point. You know how I live on an island? Well over here the aforementioned vile and foetid bastard corporate murderers at least have the decency to sell, wait for it,

- sausage rolls.

I know. I know. Incredible. And I don't mean 'sausage rolls' neither (Michael Caine accent crept in. Sorry). They're proper. The kind that our 11 pence a day went on at school. Little sachet of HP, fine Irish linen, bone china and the filigreed silver and you're away my son (sorry, MC again).

And don't go getting all Fire and Knives on me Old Love. They are down-to-earth honest-to-goodness pork bangers in a thoroughly decent pastry. They've not been near a 'microwave' (whatever that may be) and they brighten my journey to the Star Ferry. For which I would give unto half my kingdom on the mornings after a particularly nourishing night out when I feel 'special'.

I think it's the heat. Or the humidity or something. Don't know. Feeling feint. Or do I mean faint, which I did recently, rather spectacularly, in a crowded restaurant. Pretty poor show actually but I'll come to that another time. Must dash. Noon Day Gun about to fire which means it's six o'clock somewhere in the world and I have to go to bloody LA LA land next week.

Cocktails?

Yours in his cups,

S

PS Have you noticed a surfeit of inverted commas, dashes and brackets in this missive? So have I. I shall have to look into it.