Two Chaps Talking

Mon Vieux,

Hmm.

Thing is, when I received orders from The Boss to do my bit in siring a scion of the Empire we were in the Fragrant Harbour and life looked very different. Imagine if you will acres of mahogany so highly polished that you could have your man shave you in its reflection; a harbour view terrace that could’ve housed a eighteen pounder that’d’ve scared the bloody Nasties right back to their own Little Island during the Second Little Unpleasantness; a team of LBFMs that’d’ve tended to one’s slightest whim while twirling any Little Bundles Of Joy Round their little fingers; educational establishments to rival the very finest Grammar Schools that our Sceptre’d Isle has to offer, even our own, and; Full English breakfasts, HP sauce and people who know their gunners from their sundowners at every hostelry and inn. In short, some corner of a foreign field that will be F. E.

Yes well, that’s all well and good, so how, interested parties will want to know, does one find oneself in the Last Vestige of Civilisation in this ‘New’ World?

Long Story Old Cheese, Long Story. And one to which I shall endeavour to do justice as the wounds heal and the weeks pass. For the nonce let’s just say that the Fickle Mistress and I have once more parted brass rags and involved in that pantomime were, in no particular order, the Bride of Chucky, a Dementor, Sir Les Patterson’s idiot nephew, and goose stepping hordes who could teach Jim Jones’ mates a thing or two about voluntary consumption of chemicals that make you do things gentlefolk eschew. Needless to say one came out on top and is a better, richer, wiser man for it. One met new members with whom one broke bread and made merry. Decent chaps to a man. Yes there were cannons to the left of a chap and cannons to the right of a chap. But was not it ever thus?

Come And have A Go if You Think You’re Hard Enough, is how one might have put it as a floppy-haired young boy, dallying in the copse during morning break, reading Sassoon and thinking of dog fights over Kent.

Of course the arrival of She Who Must Now Also Be Obeyed (or given her current lack of hair Mini Me) played a minor part in my decision. When The Boss said ‘Enough of this sport nonsense. Pack your bags you idiot, we’re off’, or something to that effect, it was left to me as Master of the House to decide we were leaving.

In spite of the inclement weather and lack of household staff I won’t say I’m sad to be back. Given the cess pool into which the rest of this country has slid it’s clear that all good people need to come to the aid of the party. As you well know the small corner of this vast land that I choose to call home has little or nothing to do with the rest of the place (given the choice we’d tow it out into the sea and watch it sink). So my tasks here are, like my ties, seven fold.

First, ensure that scion is correctly educated in the ways of Albion, starting with the spelling of colour &cet.
Second, cut a dash about town and remind hoi polloi that proximity to cultural oblivion is no excuse.
Third, spread the gospel of beans on toast and sausage rolls; God’s Own Food.
Fourth, help them actually elect the person they’ve been voting for these past two times.
Fifth, explain irony.
Sixth, explain the off-side rule because let’s face it Beckham’ll never do it.
Seventh, explain irony again as they won’t’ve got it the first time.

Funnily enough, or actually not as it’s only the vintage Bordeaux that I’m getting outside of that’s keeping me smiling, I’m not even in the Safe Island as I write. Indeed I’m as far North as somewhere called Scotland (heard of it? They make whiskey and trouble) is from you. The Boss has had me come here to get Coventry’s Finest. Now I don’t mean to impugn the work of our friendly Midlanders but crikey, we only left it for two years! Is that really such a long time that the bloody thing has the right to go on strike? Getting it tinkered with doesn’t bring out the best in the locals either. The first five ‘garages’ I rang scratched their narrow foreheads down the phone and said ‘we don’t do furrrnn cars here’ or something like that, before going back to watching red necks turn left in a field. For goodness’ sake it’s been more than twenty years since Thatcher gave the company to those Yanks. We’re having a specialist flown in from The City. Perhaps then we can escape. I’ve even acquired a special seat for the Little Geezer. Matches the Connolly hide and everything.

And on that note my Dear Old Pal can I just say that I’m glad to be back, even if all it means is that our missives will once more be flying.

My very fondest to you and your fondest,

Yours in the Woods,

S