strangedays

Hullo chaps! Today I visited the local Public House to watch the final Rugby Union match of 2008, between some London comprehensive school with bad accents, and a nameless squad of Leicester mormons. The game was okay and the cockney Londoners won, but that is not the point of my tale; nor do I aim to harp more than momentarily on the loss of gentlemanly glamour from the Beautiful game. Where have Eton and Rugby gone? Squeezed out by the antipodean beast, I have no doubt...

The point of my post is to regale you, dear reader, with tales of horror and confusion from the confines of the Public House. When I arrived all was still and quiet, a couple of charming old codgers were nursing their Ales, and the landlord - a good Irish chap, though a tad young to be a landlord I do say - was more than willing to arrange a viewing of the aforementioned match. But at about the 20 minute mark, the most unusual couple entered - a fast-talking Irishman and his cockney friend ("mate", I suppose one would say in the local lingo). They sat near me and maintained a mostly unintelligible patois for the next 20 minutes, though at one point I did hear the cockney chap say something to the tune of

If you ain't makin' 100% markup you ain't got a livin'

which could perhaps go some distance to explaining the UK's current inflation problems. He struck me, too, as the type of tradesman who doesn't clean up behind himself after he has fixed you with his beady eye and demanded a 100% markup. Make of that what you will, dear reader. Nonetheless, I ignored him until another dazed-looking Republican came and sat near me - beneath the screen on which the Leicester mormons were slowly having their innards removed - and commenced staring blindly into space. This chap maintained perfect silence for 10 minutes or so, but by unfortunate coincidence our friendly publican (also Irish) was off collecting dirty glasses when the cockney lad (let us call him "Mr. Markup") demanded another drink. Upon discovering the landlord's absence, he volunteered to trouble his neighbours, asking loudly "where's the barman?" Feeling he was talking to the Irish man, I ignored our cockney interloper; but the Irishman stared into space unperturbed, so Mr. Markup demanded again to know the whereabouts of the Publican.

To this second query my Irish neighbour yelled "I dunno" and then added, very loudly, for good measure, "fuck's sake!!!" I think this might have some local meaning, akin to "please could you refrain from bothering me again, good sir?" Why he didn't just say the latter I shall never know. Nonetheless, this seemed to me a most excellent situation. Now I would have rugby and boxing for the price of a mere beer at the local! And sure enough, Mr. Markup took issue with the Irishman's request, and a short argument ensued. I was just bracing myself for a most excellent display of the kind of temper which has made our lower-classes the envy of the world, when Mr. Markup decided to totter off to use the facilities. In passing he staggered up to his Irish cousin, and there ensued the following fascinating conversation (held at very close range):

"arzzzhhh denozullllnag! Zherinovolldagaddzigulll! Arrrrrgadaszzzh!!"
"Ah? Sordizzzzanghaljidddddddad..."
"Aazzzjsssh!"

after which they shook hands and Mr. Markup staggered away to relieve himself. Apparently he had achieved peace in our time! If only they could send this fellow to the Middle East, many more would live in peace... as I did, able to return to the rugby free of the burden of protecting my three-piece from splatters of blood.

After Mr. Markup returned we had a good 5 minutes of peace; unfortunately - depending on one's view of these kinds of entertainments - there soon turned up a rough-looking couple, and a kerfuffle followed in which the pool table had to be moved to the middle of the floor. The couple revealed themselves as a square-featured Latvian chap and his willowy Russian lady-friend, "Magda" (pronounced "Maj-da"). The Latvian man and the Republican began a noisy game of pool, both pretending the other was a "hustler", when in fact it was clear that both of them were jockeying to win money from each other. While the game commenced, "Maj-da" distracted herself and me by dropping multiple objects under my stool, and struggling to find them.

So the time was whiled away ... for another 5 minutes, after which a doughty-looking Chinese chap wandered by, keeping something hidden under his coat and flashing it occasionally. Upon closer inspection, I realised he was attempting to sell copies of famous talkies to the gathered crowd - and some of these talkies were still in the cinema as we speak! I am sure I do not need to impress upon you, dear reader, how shocked I was at this flagrant illegality. I certainly made no effort to purchase any, though I do confess to flicking through his list of titles (purely for research purposes of course) with the aforementioned "Maj-da". And this is how I came to know her name, for as we were looking through them, her beau came over and declared

"I tell you now Maj-da, do not buy any of those movies, for all of them they are shit!"

followed by (in even more declarative tones)

"I tell you! Unless they are porn they are shit! He has some animal porn, it is very good! But everything else, I tell you it is shit!"

And so the man left, deflated, as Maj-da was certainly not going to be purchasing any of his talkies after receiving such damning reviews from her courtier. But the conversation did not end there! For, having left her to her devices for 5 minutes to play billiards, Maj-da's beau returned and demanded of her

"so! Did you buy any giraffe porn? Everything else he had is shit!"

Subsequent to this, a second cockney came to join Mr. Markup, accompanied by a very small vanity dog, which they proceeded to discuss (including its outfit, which apparently included sunglasses, because "these days no-one is cool unless they have sunglasses"), the London comprehensive won the rugby resoundingly, and I decided to return to my mansion before anything strange should occur. I'm not sure what the moral of this story is, dear reader, but I am inclined to think there isn't one. I think there is no morality of any sort to be gleaned from this story...

Disasters at Willseden Gardens

The scene of the disaster, commode tastefully obscured by vintage screens

As our readers are no doubt aware, until the Delightful Miss E completes her intercultural work (and sideline in modelling!) in rural Japan, I am forced to live alone in London. To this end I have secured a small retreat, Willesden Gardens, in North West London. It is not quite up to our usual extravagant means, having only 8 bathrooms and 8 bedrooms, but I find I only use a tiny portion of it - the Western half of the middle floor, to be precise - on account of my busy lifestyle and lack of accoutrements (one does try to live a little more frugally in this era of global warming). It hardly feels like home these days, as it is a temporary letting whose furnishings came supplied. As one can see from the illustration, it is a little gaudily middle eastern for my taste, but it has been designed to fit into the area, which apparently has a rather strong middle eastern influence. The worst thing of course is that it has no ballroom, so I have not been able to properly enter into society; but I am sure these problems will be assuaged once the Delightful Miss E returns to my side, and upon her entry into society I am sure she will do more than her fair share of Entertaining.

However, I digress. The purpose of this diary entry, dear reader, is to comment upon the nature of lettings for the poor put-upon traveller in these hard times. For I had a small disaster in the Southern Bathroom two nights ago, upon which I deign to comment. I had just returned home from a hard days' work, a little run down from a hard day's Inquiry, sick with a budding cold, and was eating my supper when what should I hear but a strange crackling resounding through the spacious confines of the Southern Bathroom. Being of unflappable constitution, I finished my course (a delicious tuna, olive and mint tagine) before I wandered down to the bathroom myself to investigate (one cannot trust the Help with these things - imagine if it had been a party of the Hun, alert to our secret plans and launching an advance raid to secure information?) Fortunately there were no frightening security breaches, but I did discover a veritable torrent of water, flowing through my veneer ceiling panels, between the steam vent and all over my (rather vulgarly modernist) chandelier. Imagine my shock! Whats more, this house is quite modern inside, and is connected to the new City Energy, so the chandelier is powered by Electrocentripetal Energy (as I said, my chandelier is rather overly modernist - modernism is all the rage in Britain these days). The flow of water was so strong as to be a real shower, and I was rather worried at the combination of water and Electrocentripetal power. I immediately unwound the dynamo, as it were, so as to prevent any accidental catastrophe, but before I plunged the room into darkness I could see the scope of the disaster before me.

As one can tell from the photograph above, the Southern Bathroom is floored not with parquet or wood, but with an interlocking mesh of priceless Persian rugs. The water had fallen all over these rugs, destroying them and making them smell like a zoo (lord knows what was in the damn things). Suspecting a leak from some guests upstairs I ran up to investigate their bathrooms, but no evidence of anything serious there... and upon returning, I discovered that the water running over my chandelier was of sufficient impurity as to cause the Electrocentripetal forces to activate themselves, making the chandelier glow by some ghostly inner light. Imagine my surprise! (And imagine the fire risk!) The flow soon abated, however, leaving me with a darkened bathroom and a pile of stinking, worthless rugs of impmrobable cost... imagine my disappointment at this end to my day!

Yesterday I called Mdms Snotworth and Snide, the Real Estate agents in charge of this establishment, and alerted them to the problem. They have sent around a man, who is currently repairing the various broken faucets; but nothing can be done about the priceless rugs, which are to be thrown out and replaced with worthless British carpet tiles. Oh, how I look forward to being reunited with the Delightful Miss E, and moving somewhere a little more salubrious and spacious!

Tommy... at work and at, er, play

Nottlesby's comments on the behaviour of the Hun after dark - or lack of it - will no doubt prove crucial in our planning for The Big Push. Parachutes after dark, spies must cross at the lights, that sort of thing... no doubt the day will come when the German populace will regret not having fixed its judgemental gaze more sternly upon his foreign shame. But for now it has set me thinking upon the difference between the orderly street life he describes, and the welter of confusion and noise that is the London streetscape. In the picture here attached, for example, we see a picturesque group of local larrikins about their (undoubtedly dubious) business.

The British are an unimposing lot generally, and much less inclined to make their judgement of others' behaviour public than are their antipodean cousins. They cleave to this old-fashioned manner despite a continuing proliferation of unsightly public behaviour, from cockney louts arguing with invisible antagonists on their infernal mobile devices, to groups of slouching young men (and Ladies!) wandering down the street drinking cheap alcohol from the bottle. Indeed, until this June there had been no law about drinking on that most famous of British institutions, the London Underground. Here we are in the centre of the civilised world, and yet one can bring a can of cheap lager onto the train and drink it in front of one's betters! (Well, others can - if I do say so modestly, I have no betters once I set foot amongst the hoi polloi, nor do I generally hold with drinking publicly except in parks). From June of course, our new wowser mayor (one of the upper classes no doubt, but such a terrible phillistine) will ban such practice, and I have it on good authority that various-ne'er do-wells are organising a huge cocktail party for the tube to take place this Saturday evening...

Of course, after years of being harassed on the streets of old sydney town for the height of one's top hat or the cut of one's lapel (and by the very lowest class of bravo, I hasten to add), I find all this reserve very refreshing. Sadly it is not accompanied by the full suite of good manners which attend upon the quiet acceptance of the Japanese; nor is it mirrored in the tabloid press, who constantly set themselves to stand in judgement upon every facet of British daily life, damn their eyes. But it pleases me to dress according to the custom I deserve and not to be harangued for not wearing clashing stripes, or whatever the latest foolish fad is amongst the lower orders.

Another amusing aspect of all this good-mannered forebearance is the generally riotous behaviour of the local youths, who are quaintly mannered, shall we say, but rather outrageous at times. I rather think the odd lecture from their elders (or at least their parents) might be in order. No doubt one has read of the recent knife-attacks and the like, which of course I have not witnessed. But certainly groups of vulgar youths are wont to run about being loud and obtrusive. However, they seem mostly harmless, unlike their antipodean equivalents, who brazenly insult their betters. How great the comparison, though, between a great city where the younger members of the populace run rampant, uncommented upon, and Nottlesby's European idyll, where the majority of these little tyks are not only not heard, but not even seen!

Of transport and the like... Ithaca and Niagara Falls

When The Good Doctor and I select a vehicle for long range reconnaissance, we like to have the option of choosing our transport on the basis of certain qualities. An example is fuel efficiency (one in which you can get at least 50 miles/bale of hay), size (something surruptitious), and comfort (no point going through unnecessary hardships or bottom ulcers eh what?).

It appears that no matter which model of stead and coach one specifies in this country (the damnable Americas) you are automatically "upgraded" to a showy large coach which only achieves a moderate mile/hay ratio. Very frustrating when one wants to quickly and cheaply glide across the countryside.

As you can see, I'm not too fussed with the model we were given - and swore blind to The Good Doctor that we shall certainly never be purchasing one such as this when we return home.

Plagued by poor mileage, bad visibility and an interior that looked like a family of orangutans had decided to create a mural from their own faeces, we struggled on our mission to survey the site of Ithaca and the strategies being developed at Cornell University, then on through the picturesque Finger lakes region.


<- Sage Hall at Cornell University









<- The Finger Lakes Region






Thankfully, after a dedicated putsch, we made it through the dreadfully serene landscape into the Canadian/Americo border town of Niagara Falls. With much relief, The Good Doctor and I made our crossing onto soil of the British Empire for a brief recuperation.


As time dictates, I shall write more on our amazement on the way the Canadians had let it all turn rather tacky in Niagara, but shall leave you now with a picture of The Good Doctor and the barrel she secreted away in for her clandestine crossing of the border via the falls. Notice that Withnail appears most unwilling.....

Jerry: At Work and Play

It's a dashed odd thing being adrift among a Foreign Race. It heightens one's powers of observation no end, and provides much material for comment, delight, horror, and amusement. 

I have been in the Teutonic Lands for a little over a month now (and am showing no signs of retreat: it'll be sausages in Berlin at Christmas, I can assure you!) and have been keeping another record of my time here. But I can assure readers of these pages that the German reputation for stolidity remains unchallenged, and the sheer order of things is refreshingly strict. 

Everyone, from the punk on the U-Bahn to the doddery old couple plodding up the road to the same cafe they've had their evening cup at since the Wall came down, knows what's expected of them, and they do their level best to keep the status quo. 

 

The jovial Prussian likes a good glass and an invasion

 as much as the next fellow!

I have it on good authority that Children are of especial interest to the Public German. To wit: it is considered the absolute height of bad form for one's progeny to be roving the streets after dark. And you do not see it. Ever. Apparently people will even comment on it if some poor lout happens to be about. 

In fact, commenting on things is not limited to errant youths, if people see something they don't agree with, or if someone happens to step a foot majorly out of line, the passing throng will castigate the hapless bounder - ostensibly in an attempt to bring him back into marching line with the rest of this bold and ordered society!

The fear of being cast of out the social order plagues Jerry no end. They even have a word for the embarrassment one feels when one is dolt enough to perpetuate a social howler: it's Fremdscham - literally, the shame of being foreign.

No shameful foreigners here? Right ho, carry on then chaps!

It's a strange place, very much an acquired taste, and I absolutely love it!

Fun and Games with The Inquisition

Surely it will not shock our gentle readers when I inform them that here at the offices of The Inquisition we have one of those new-fangled electronic bulletin boards, for posting up crucial jottings about who is interrogating whom &c (coming soon: head of the Liberal Democrats). We also have, to relax us after a hard week of Inquiry, a cafe which transforms into a bar every Thursday. You can imagine my consternation upon discovering that certain habits I had wished to indulge in a little less than usual are encouraged, nay, positively mandatory on a weekly basis here at The Inquisition!

So imagine my further consternation upon reading this on the bulletin board today:

... Sorry for the late notice in telling you, but we plan to have a Wii sports night tomorrow evening in the bar...

One must conclude that the culture here at The Inquisition is truly an inspiration to all of Her Majesty's loyal servants! (And vastly preferable to a culture of pickled cabbage and suggestive vegetables, I am sure!!)

Our Most Upstanding Citizen

Imagine my horror when I clapped eyes on these fellows. There they were, insouciantly thrusting at me from a magazine page, care-as-you-please. I nearly choked on my sauerkraut!

Didn't I know you at Cambridge...

Good morning fellow Adventurers!

Things are going swimmingly here at the Centre of the World (literally - the rain is falling in waves), and after 2 weeks with my nose to the grindstone I really ought to pop up with a report for the big knobs at HQ. I spent the first 2 weeks exploring town and settling into the offices of the Kings Inquisitors, where I spend my days interrogating hapless health databases. My colleagues seem to be a nice bunch, but I have to say I am rather taken aback by the fact that they are all Cambridge graduates! Except for one... who is from Oxford. And the fellows who aren't ex-Cambridge are all straight from the Upper Echelons of the National Broadcaster! Typical conversations in the halls of the Inquisition:

"I say, didn't you study at Cambridge!?"
"Why yes, I did - come to think of it you do look rather familiar, are you another Newnham girl?"
"Spot on dear!! I studied at Newnham too, don't you know! Super! When did you grace the esteemed halls?"
"Oh, back in '97, when Steamramm was the head"
"Oh yes, Steamramm, I remember her. She taught me a lot about... biomechanical engineering."
"Me too, eh. Would you like to adjourn to the bathrooms to discuss her methods?"
"Rather!!!"

&c. I do feel like the incongruous colonial oaf in the company of these esteemed scholars. I choose to see it as a reflection on the quality of classical education offered by the colonial state school system, but in order to fit in I have taken to referring to my old alma mater as "Oxford-on-Torrens". Most of the Inquisitors seem to have been fooled up till now. Benefits of a classical education, I suppose...

A report from the Independent States

Bravo Chaps,

I just disembarked my steamer in Sydney Harbour and have to say that my three week reconnaissance in the independent colony of America was successful, if not tiring!

The climate was mild - bordering on the extreme mild, and the locals completely unaware of my devious mission. I was even able, with the help of local contacts such as our very own agent of the undercovers; Miss T, to procure a vehicle for a long range scout of the greater state of New York and Pennsylvania. We were even so bold as to slip over the border into the Canadian colonies and seek conference there. Sterling work if I do not say so myself!

More will be written in further dispatches as time permits, but one remembrance lingers with me. As I cast my mind back to previous exploits, including the much lauded Canton campaign of '02, I cannot recall more disgusting latrines than those found in New York City. It's enough to curl one's whiskers without the aid of wax!

Notes from Nippon

Hallo chaps! It's Miss Ember here, gusset-typing from the countryside of Nippon and in dire need of some new French knickers (be a dear, Sir S, you are closest to Paris and it surely would be no trouble to get something smuggled in under wraps, perhaps with the latest copy of Vogue thrown in as well? It's quite an ordeal to acquire a copy this end, and requires a schoolgirl's uniform and several days journey on the 7100 to Tokyo).

Bravo Notts for your Big Push forth onto these pages! It's jolly good to know someone's fixing a sharp eye on Jerry's ever-expanding posterior. All is quiet on the Eastern Front. No activity to report, except a commotion last night when a bicycling farmer clattered by my lodgings, swigging sake and singing at the top of his voice some dirty ditty about the dancing girl of Izu and a tanuki (enough to make a maiko blush!). In addition, the frogs (not the Frenchies, the other ones) set up quite a din by the riverside, croaking away despite the wail of babes and the curse of harried mothers from nearby cottages.

Regarding the bromide, Sir S telegraphed me to ask if this group snap was taken in ol' Sydney Town, but I believe it's from the Egypt Tour of '07. Don't you chaps recall - I was madly infatuated with Professor Carter, the Egyptologist, (especially his divine moustache!) and I persuaded some of you to come along? (I recall Sgt M didn't require much prodding, one mention of wines from the Nile Valley, and of course, the famed veil-dancing beauties of the region, and his trunk was hastily packed and moustache briskly waxed to upstanding form!).

In truth, I rather disapprove of this pic because our fashions are *quite* behind the times and if any of the gels from the Follies saw me in that long-skirted get-up, with that distressingly old-fashioned pile of shag on my head, I would be spanked with a hairbrush backstage until my bottom turned purple. If any of you chaps unearth a more recent sepia from your archives, especially one of me looking glamorous, it would be super if you could attach it to these pages.

In other news, the modelling work I did in Hokkaido in the winter is now in print. Golly, it's hard to get by on the meagre scraps dealt out to us from the boys at HQ, sometimes a gel just has to go out there and make a yen or two on her own!

Looking forward to hearing from our London and New York/Sydney correspondents in the coming days!

Who needs hair lacquer, when Hokkaido temperatures freeze one's
fingerwaved do in a jiffy? Still not convinced that the zig-zag pullover is really "me".

What ho!

Hullo chaps, Nottlesby here. Writing from deep behind Jerry. But not too, er, deep, and not too far behind. I've seen fit to remove myself to cooler climes, in the search for Adventure, and Excitement, and Purpose (too many nights lounging about my club smoking Havanas isn't good for the corpuscles, you see). 

So far there's not the deuce of a lot to report from these shores. Things have been a bit slim in the Action department too. I am taking a series of Improving Courses in the hopes of getting the local lingo up to snuff on the Nottlesby lips in the not-too-distant. I've been having rather mixed results to date, but then maybe a couple of saucy dates would be just the homework assignment I need. 

To that end (!), I'll keep making eyes at Pretty Young Things through smoky cafes and on the Underground, and will report details in all their sauce as things develop.

I found a Final Solution for my Saturday today and popped over to Wannsee to check out the infamous Villa and surrounds - and found it most enjoyable. If not a little macabre. The streets are clean, the houses stately and in fine repair, and it was a shock to the system indeed to stand in the very room where the Vile Hun made his insouciant decision to do away with European Jewry, and sundry others they didn't especially like, and then break for luncheon on the terrace. 

I was profoundly disturbed when I left, feeling a mixture of rage at Jerry, and a profound sadness at the evil that could be decided in such a beautiful place (not that Evil needs a particular address).

Brighter times to ensue forthwith.

TTFN.