Sunday, 18 September 2011

Reasons for starting this web blogging thingummy

This is - credit where credit's due and all that - my manservant Prakash's idea. After I received yet another rejection letter from a publisher for my memoirs - "out of step with the times and frankly unbelievable" as the young whipper-snapper put it, Prakash suggested that I could enlighten the multitude and provide a justification for my frequently misunderstood actions by posting it chapter by chapter on the interwebbing. Which strikes me as a jolly splendid idea.

Over the coming weeks and months, therefore, I shall be "posting" - as I believe today's youngsters have it - some rousing anecdotes of adventure, skullduggery and personal enrichment in assorted corners of the British Empire, along with reminiscences of my long and interesting life and some observations about what is wrong with England today, a subject which - were I to do it justice - would end up swamping the whole bally thing.

I mean, you only have to look: When the country is overrun with divorcees - some of them sitting in parliament, no less - Anglican priests are permitted to grow beards and the second-in-line to the throne marries someone whose parents are in trade, one may well ask what chance is there of Britannia regaining her empire and again dominating the world like a thingummy? Names escapes me. Tall chap. 

Where was I? 

Oh yes - memoirs. I have had an adventurous life dealing - firmly but fairly - with the world's unwashed, and see it as a public duty to provide a stirring example to today's slack-trousered adolescents and what-not in order to inspire, enlighten and entertain. 

Colossus. That's the fellow. Carry on!


  1. Now listen here, Gates!

    My daughter Petronella, as knows about these things, has set up a "Goggle Alarm" or somesuch nonsense to tip me off when you eventually break cover, so here we are.

    Anyway, Davey Sutton's complaining about that infernal milking contraption you sent his way. Never got anywhere hear his Jerseys, I'm afraid. Fact is that, through an unfortunate set of circumstances almost entirely beyond my control, the dashed thing got attached to Mrs Sutton. Four of the six teat thingies are fully engaged, and at least one of them you won't want to use again. Possibly more.

    Memoirs and the rest are all very well, and I'm sure I'll enjoy reading your recollections and what have you, but the point is this - what are you going to do about it?



  2. What ho Dacca! Glad you could stop by.

    Sutton should be grateful for a genuine antique - that milking machine is the very one prised loose from Mrs Dunn-Chan after the incident with the Chitrali Devil-Worshippers (about which I shall explain all in good time).

    I warned Sutton not to let his wife anywhere near the thing, what with her being a short-sighted octopus-fancier and all that. Asking for trouble, if you ask me, which you didn't.

    What I'm going to do about it is recommend lard and the ministrations of the village tug-o-war team, as usual.

    Pip pip!

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  4. Sorry about the deletion, old man. Shrapnel wound to the mazzard playing up. Not my own mazzard, obviously.

    Anyway, Mrs Dunn-Chan. Remember her husband, Gussie. Stout fellow, especially after the "chèvre pneumatique" incident in Gawadar. Didn't he sell her on to the Chitralis, in return for a sack of Peshawar Black and some Uighur "boules d'amour"?

    Point well taken about La Sutton. Dunwich stock, that's the trouble.

    Stand by! There's an opening as incumbent here at St Oswald's. The Bishop sent us one of these "priestesses" that abound since the Papist Blair put that Welch druid in charge of the C of E. Poor gal had an accident with the rood screen - fell on her twice, the second time with great force, as it happens - and she's on furlough. Had the local tinkers festoon the vestry with eels, so she won't be hurrying back, either.

    Maj Tarry, my fellow magistrate, and I have decided to apply Lex Despenser (in the Ludlow usage) and appoint our own padre. So tell young Prakash that there's an opening if his cousin Jagdish is interested. I gather the fellow took Holy Orders and what not.

    Here's how!


  5. My pleasure old chap.

    The Chitralis, to their credit, never paid for her - she went as a volunteer having decided she had Chitrali blood. She had, but only on the carpet.

    I'll pass the word on to Jagdish. Oddly enough we're being sent a new curate at Much-Felching-on-the-Wold too shortly. Will keep you posted, but have the Gloucestershire Poursuivants on standby in case he turns out to be another vegetarian. Took the church ladies a week to clean the pulpit after I sent the last one packing.

  6. Dear Daphne,
    That depends. Was your mother stuck in a lift at the Kazenga Club in Mombasa in 1957?
    Pip pip!

  7. Er, I rather suspect Miss Daphne is addressing my good self, Marmo.

    The Pathan incursion into Peshawar in '39 was, according to court testimony, a case of mistaken identity on my part. I was young and feverish, and did not realise that the fell Pathan is native to the town, and so took a wedding party to be a frontal Afghan assault - the music and general aroma, you may recall, bring to mind pitched battle rather than nuptials.

    The bridesmaids proved formidable opponents, and I decided to regroup at Madame Minh's Maison d'Assignation until the initial counter-attack was ready. There I stumbled, quite literally, into Capt Scott - remember him? - who was attached to a selection of saddles and bridles by Iron Zulfika - the monobrowed maitresse of Manipur.

    Seems she wasn't getting much of a response out of the blighter anymore, and I fitted the bill.

    Tout le reste, c'est l'histoire, as Maj Tarry's companion Madame Morvant might put it.

  8. Zulfika. Odd filly. Very strong hands. Rumour had it she was the same Zulfika as had started life as the Ranee of Sarawak's pet orang-hutan. A lady of few words, but copious ginger hair.

    Where was I?

  9. That's the gal! Ended up at the Chinese Ladies' Methodist College in Camberwell, or so Scott told Doc Linstead during one of those unnecessary surgical procedures they were both so fond of. In what capacity I can't say.

    Where's Daphne gone?

    Is anyone there? Hello?

  10. Only me, the scullery maid, but the only bit I understood was the bit about the copious ginger hair.
    I'll be off now to pick at the emery powder lodged under my finger nails.

  11. Dear Miss Blue.
    Poor old Emery, eh what?
    Was it one of his home-made fireworks?

  12. Emery, eh?

    Bit of an off ox. Dressed in ladies' crinolines.

    But he died like a man!

    Can't recall which man, off hand.