A pint of ale, my good man!

I say, isn’t this nice, the bastion of England; the English boozer. It’s nice to get away from the stuffiness of one’s clubs once in a while and just sit and enjoy an ale with my fellow country men… none of this “your membership fees are due for renewal” nonsense.

And you there young man, what’s that you are reading?

Karl Marx, eh?

I see…

I see…

Yes, I will watch out young man, thank you for warning me .

Gosh, all this talk about seeing and watching reminds me of a little hoo-hah I had back in the spring. Let me tell you about The Peeping Parisian …

I was in Paris with my good friend Lady Watson, Do you know her at all? Of course you don’t , silly me. Well, I shall continue. It was all terribly, terribly exciting. Lady Watson had been asked to play in the Open Lawn Tennis tournament and I was to be her chaperon – a duty I did not take lightly, I might add.

Paris, as usual, was absolutely charming and the tournament got off to a most stupendous start. Lady Watson was up against the Italian entrant Fiorella Ricci and it was even-stevens right up to the last set, until Lady Watson really gave her one. The second day was a day of nail biting as she was trailing to the Bulgarian, but fought back magnificently in the final three sets to qualify through to the third day – but I digress!

My story begins on that first night, for you see, I was awaiting for Lady Watson outside the changing room chalet enjoying a quick shag, when all of a sudden there was a scream from inside. I immediately dropped my pipe and went to investigate.

No sooner had I stepped one foot inside, when the Countess Tanja and Lady Watson appeared. They told me that some cheeky sod had been peeking through the window as they were getting changed – I do have to say, they were in remarkably good spirits about the whole affair, but to put them and the rest of the young ladies at ease. I volunteered that the next night, I would patrol the chalet.

And patrol I did, with my cane under my arm and my top hat on – obviously the peeper must be a ragamuffin, so I was counting on the fact that a gentlemen being present would be enough of a deterrent.

Imagine my horror when, ten minutes later, I heard a scream come from the changing rooms. The low life blighter had cunningly taken up refuge inside, unseen, hours earlier, hiding himself behind a firescreen and a pile of dirty towels.

That certainly had put the willies up the girls, so I took them all back to the Hotel Bristol where Lady Watson and I were staying and insisted they all had a stiff one. A peeping tom is one thing, but one that hides behind a firescreen, jumps out and then runs off with one’s pantaloons is something else.

It was over these brandies that my artful plan was hatched. Now, as an old Oratorian and as I’m sure every ex public school boy would attest, wearing women’s clothing is de rigueur and that is exactly what I planned to do. The Romanians had been unable to muster up a player this year, so with the aid of one of the Countess wigs, I would take their place. My name was to be Lvantie.

To aide to my disguise, as I no longer have the legs of a pubescent boy, Lady Watson was most kind in helping me prepare. I also came up with a most ingenious way to attach a cricket box to hide ones modesty without the use of straps.

Match day, I was to play in the last game of the afternoon. To even things up, my opponent was an overly balanced Austrian named Greta. It was fair to say we were evenly matched in stature and I don’t mind admitting I lost the game. I consoled myself with the fact that I was not there to win, but to catch a peeper. Having an inclination that the peeper in question might be in the crowd, I did something that would have been unspeakable had I been a real lady. As I went to shake hands with Greta, I scratched my debonair, in the process raising my skirt a good whole three inches and flashing my ankle which was met by a huge gasp from the crowd.

Back at the changing chalet, I entered alone and facing the wall, stripped down to how God made me – except for the wig and the cricket box. Sure enough my ankle flash had done the trick as the moment I had finished removing my brassiere, I heard the window latch go. I kept as still as a statue as the vagabond entered and listened as he approached. Choosing my moment carefully I spun around and shouted:

“Ecce Homo!”

His face was a right royal picture and on the spot he froze. After a quick adjustment to my cricket box which had nearly come off, I shouted:

“I don’t know if you speak Anglais, you pesky peeping tom, but I know one language you will understand.” And with that, I proceeded with a single left-right hook combination. When he got up off the floor, I picked him up, marched him outside and gave him a good kick in his derriere to send him packing.

For the rest of the competition, the girls were safely able to get changed in private. Sadly Lady Watson was knocked off by the German on the fifth day, but it was a jolly good effort and she held her head high.

I say, just noticed the piano over there. Who’s up for a good old sing song of “I’ve got two lovely black eyes”?

That is meant to be his head, right…?

…and the fellow is standing up…?

Hang on… Hang on, if thats his head, those must be his arms and that there must be his Ding Dong!

Not sure I quite get this modern art Hans, but you know me, always one to support the arts. Oh look – free white wine.

What’s this one meant to be ?

Looks more like a bunch of twisted metal to me. You know, it reminds me actually of when old Curtis Seaford got taken down a peg or two and came off his bike. Did I ever tell you about the Right Rollicking Race ?

Well, it was when I was in my first year at Oxford, where I was reading Latin. Curtis Seaford was the sort of fellow who took great delight in telling others, that for his birthday, his parents got him a real live Zulu. He would also at every opportunity, point out that his family had a pure Anglo-Saxon bloodline which he could trace back to Cnut the Great. When I say pure ,the whole family had a somewhat funny look to them. All looked like they could get a bit more sun and though Curtis was only 20, he looked about forty – oh, and he had that webbing between his toes,too, I remember.

There were quite a few students at Oxford from the British Raj and other colonies and Curtis would take great pleasure in putting them down at every opportunity. Now you know me ,Hans, and as long as the cut of one’s jib is ok, then I really don’t give a hoot about one’s background.

Well it was one of those fine English spring afternoons, where the sun is shining, the bandstand is alive and you feel like flying a kite and singing ‘God Save the Queen’.

I and my chum Rajendra had found a couple of old Penny-farthing bicycles and were sitting out in old Tom Quad – the quadrangle outside Christ Church, oiling them up and getting ready to give them a go.

It was a joyful scene and quite a crowd had gathered around with some playful bets being made. A course had been drawn up that would involve us going around the entire town, ending back in Tom Quad.

We were about to get underway for a first test spin when Curtis appeared. He had one of those new at the time Safety bicycles. I won’t repeat exactly what he said, for it was rather rude. Lets just say the Irishman and the Indian accepted his challenge.

Word of the race spread like wildfire, and it seemed that the entire university was now coming to the start line. The playful bets had now become serious money, and I believe Cuthbert Delfont, who was running the book, made enough money that day to take a week-long trip to the South of France and spend the entire time in a brothel.

We lined up by the Mercury fountain and Cuthbert, being one for the dramatics, declared the start would be on the third stroke of the clock striking three. This meant we had to wait twenty minutes at the start, which was spent with Curtis shouting out his racial ideology, which thankfully was met with a lot of boos from the crowd.

When that third stroke came, we all bolted off and a huge cheer went up as we exited the gates of Tom Quad. Do you know what Curtis did the moment were out of sight of the crowd? He bloody well gave me a kick and sent me flying into a nearby bush. Te Iuppiter dique omnes perdant! I cried before getting back onto my bike.

I was some distance behind when we went around the Radcliffe Camera and I could see that Curtis was trying the same trick on Rajendra, though thankfully Rajendra was holding on and I shouted encouragement as loudly as I could.

As we were coming down Cornmarket Street, disaster struck; the small wheel on Rajendra’s bike buckled and he was bought to a depressing halt. What Curtis did next would be his downfall. He stopped to shout a barrage of insults and laughs, which gave me plenty of time to catch up, and catch up I did.

We were neck and neck as we came on to the final straight on St.Aldates, and Curtis had another go at trying to knock one off. But I held tight and pedalled harder than I had ever pedalled before. We were at some speed when we came back through the gates and what happened next was just as if Jupiter had heard my curse. You see Hans, those early safety cycles didn’t have brakes as you and me know or that chain and freewheel business. Instead there were treadles connecting the pedals to the wheel. So if you wanted to slow down, you just simply pedalled slowly. As we came through the gates, I saw both treadles of Curtis’s bike literally “drop off” – the look of terror on his face was ruddy marvellous.

As Curtis flew past the crowd, he wet himself in terror, which resulted in several professors who had come to watch the proceedings, getting a most unwelcome shower. In what I guess was an attempt to slow down, he moved onto the grass which gave me the opportunity to reach the finishing line. There were no cheers as everyone, myself included, watched in silence as Curtis continued on his one way ride of terror and went crashing straight into the ornamental pond. Which was then the cue for the whole crowd to erupt in cheers.

Rajendra made it back just in time to witness the site of a humiliated Curtis, entangled in the frame of his bike, being dragged from the pond by some of the University ground-staff. The next three years at the university must have been very long for him, and it certainly shut him up.

I say, toy soldiers! What fun! What’s this fellow’s name?

Colonel Robert Kekewich? Who’s this chap? General Jan Kemp?. He seems to have a lot more horses, that doesn’t seem fair.

Oh I see, silly me, you are discussing the situation in Southern Africa and that snuff tin is the British Camp.

Mmm, yes I see, yes… Yes it is, somewhat. You know, it reminds me of a decision I had to make once. Did I ever tell you the time I was faced with the Complexing Conundrum?

Well, if we are going to talk tactics, then we need officers’ drinks. You, young sir at the bar, fetch us some gin and tonics, will you?

As you are well aware, I promised my mammy I would never fight for the English, but father insisted (with the exception of Caligula) that all us O’Donnells would do service. I did a year as a mercenary within the Royal Austrian Hungary Imperial Calvary. However, my tale does not stem from here, but a few years later, when I went to visit an old cavalry chum in his hometown of Montespertoli, Italy.

Our regiment had been a right mixed bag of potatoes, mainly made up of Saxons and Hungarians and a group of Italians, including my chum, Marco. He had joined the mercenary core to raise money to start his own vineyard. We kept in touch, and I promised one day I would come out and visit him. Roll on five years, and I happened to find myself in Florence – a day’s ride away – and I decided to pop in.

When I arrived, I was most shocked. Expecting to find a merry hamlet in the glorious Tuscany countryside and wine flowing freely, I instead found a dusty, soulless shell, and not a wine barrel in sight.

I seemed to attract hidden stares from behind closed blinds, which made one feel most awkward – like when you accidentally step in a puddle and have to put up with a wet shoe. I was nearly about to leave, when who should appear… not my friend Marco, but another from my regiment, a Bavarian fellow called Hermann.

After we exchanged hails and hellos, I enquired what he was doing here and why the place was so glum. He said two words which changed the taste in my mouth.

“Capitano Vittore.”

I had the displeasure of serving under him and he was a vile man. The kind who moments before parade, picks up a large handful of mud and wipes it all over your Shabraque.

Turns out he was now the Mayor – Vae Victis! No one was allowed to make any wine in the village except for him, and having tasting a bottle of the stuff, it was as foul as his nature. Next, he had taken everyone’s horses in the village and kept them locked up in a huge barn on his estate. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

He had resurrected Jus primae noctis, the right to take the virginity of the maidens of the estate. It was then Hermann revealed why he was here. Turns out the old Hun had fallen hopelessly in love with Marco’s daughter, Letizia. The Capitano had taken her to his villa and was keeping her locked up. It had nearly ruined Marco, and Hermann was on the point of breaking himself.

If there is one thing I cannot stand, it is a bully, and with all bullies, one must confront them straight on.

I went straight up to his villa, jumped over the wall and barged my way in. I found the Capitano, lying down eating grapes.

“I will not call you ‘sir’, for you do not deserve such a title. You have made my chums Marco and Hermann quite sad. I will not leave here until you learn your lesson and release Letizia into my custody.”

Do you know what he did then? He had the nerve to pass wind, and defiantly at that. Well, I made to walk straight past him so I could find Letizia, but before I got halfway across the room I was stopped by a sabre that flew past and embedded itself in the wall. I turned to see the Captain, now standing. He belched, then called, “En guard!”

For a whole hour it was clash, clash, clash, and our fight took us out onto the balcony. He had grabbed Letizia and was holding his sabre to her throat when he said:

“You have proved to me that you are my equal when it comes to the sabre, but are you my equal when it comes to the mind? You can continue to fight me for the girl, or you can rescue the villagers’ horses.”

There was a small fire pit on the balcony, and he kicked the lit contents over the edge, onto the roof of the barn. It caught instantly.

As you can see, it was quite a complexing conundrum. Would I put the happiness of my chums before an entire village?

Never let your heart rule your head, gentlemen. I rationalised that like most bullies he was full of codswallop, and would not harm the girl. He would, however, allow a stable of other people’s horses to burn, so I jumped down from the balcony and let the horses out.

It was quite a sight – the flames leaping high in the air and all the horses running down to the village. So much so, that this sign of freedom was enough to rally the entire village! Soon there was a mob at the gates and the Capitano Villa was being torn down brick by brick. Letizia, Hermann and Marco were all reunited and I stayed on for the wedding, which was a right hoot!

As for the Capitano? He was locked up in his cellars, and was not let out until he had drunk all of his foul wine. The last I heard of him, he had re-enlisted in the French Foreign Legion and was last seen on a slow boat to Indochina.

Now, let’s say we stop talking about the Boer crisis and have a proper game of toy soldiers.

December 21st 1901

Hello Mammy,

It’s with great sadness that I write to tell you I will not be making it back home for Christmas. It sounds like it is going to be quite a feast and the largest O’Donnell reunion in years. I have even heard that Father has sent a young man over from Argentina in proxy – that must be nice for you, Mammy. Please pass on my apologies to all, I am most disappointed that I will not get to see my new nephew. Do give Drusilla and her husband my warmest congratulations. And how is Titus? Has he grown out of eating flowers?

I ask for your strictest confidence as I tell you my reasons why. I know you brought me up to believe the affairs of men are best left to other men, such as my Uncle Seamus and my younger brothers, Claudius and Galba, but I couldn’t help get involved in this matter.

It began when I was traveling down from Leeds to London and was entertaining a fellow passenger with the time I was on a whaling ship. I told him how I had made the faux pas of bringing brandy instead of rum onto the ship. I cried, “What could possibly be worse?” The fellow sitting opposite me shouted out, “What rot!” Well, I was a little taken back and asked him to explain himself, and by the end of his speech I had to admit that the wrong choice of spirit on a whaling ship was a rather trivial matter.

You see, he explained to me there were some boys and girls who have no mammy and daddies, and they live in this rather sad-looking building. I know this, for when we alighted at Kings Cross he invited me to come and see it with my own eyes. I was most shocked at what I saw, for their accommodation was somewhat basic and a bit rough around the edges. The gentleman from the train explained to me that they relied on charity and really had to work hard to stretch every penny. He also added that he was lobbying Parliament to change this, and that night at my club I ruddy well gave my MP a good clump around the ear. I am also pleased to say that my club now has a swear box set up, with the proceeds going to the orphanage – we have raised the extraordinary sum of twenty pounds so far.

Mammy, I do need to make a confession to you. I have to admit I have been going to the square church as I have been helping out every Sunday at the orphanage, and that is their faith. I’ve been teaching them to play rugby, entertaining them with my tales, and I have tried to get them excited by Ceaser’s Commentarii de Bello Gallico. But we need to make a few more nursery steps first. In the meantime, Hans Christian Anderson seems to be the biggest hoot!

I spoke to Father Kelly about going to the other church and he said Jesus wouldn’t mind in this case – I hope you don’t either, Mammy.

What most got me, though, was Christmas was going to be a most sad affair for them. No presents, no turkey and not even brandy and mince pies. There weren’t even the funds to put up a tree. Well, you know me, Mammy, and I don’t like to be sad.

Again, in the interests of subterfuge, I ask you to keep this to yourself. Even my household staff do not know – which reminds me… I told my cook that there was a bird shortage in Ireland this year, and had him cook up eight large turkeys. I would be most grateful if you could keep up this pretense when you come to visit in the spring.

My man is aware of one disappearing on Sunday mornings, but as far as he is aware I am playing rugby – in which I have the misfortune of constantly losing my balls. I also told him (hee he he!) that I read in The London Paper of pirates in the Irish Sea, and to buy two lots of Christmas presents for all my nephews and nieces, just in case, which amazingly is the same number of orphans – fancy that!

I will leave my house just as if I was coming to you, but I have booked into an hotel in Holyhead, and instead of catching the ferry, I will turn back to London the very next day. I have come up with the cover story that my name is Edward Book, a Latin expert who is on his way to the British Museum to decipher some urgent relics.

Whilst the kids are at the chapel on Christmas morning, I will be busy back at the orphanage setting up the Christmas tree and organising the kitchen, and when they return they are in for a huge surprise. I have also managed to procure a piano, and I intend to give them a riot of a Christmas with enough Christmas pudding to sink the Cutty Sark.

I ask for your secrecy, as I have become known in London circles as something of a debonair cavalier adventurer type, and I feel some might think this sort of thing to be a bit soft. If the family ask, I am in Russia hunting bears.

I will not be alone over the rest of the period as my good friend, Hans, is coming over from Berlin – he has written a play about a young boy in an ancient Greek gymnasium which he wants to show me. I will be at Galba and his wife’s for Boxing Day (they are in on the plan, it was Galba’s idea re the swear box).

Lots of love

Tibs

PS. Please can you telegram my chum, Peter, to put him straight. He does not believe me when I told him that Aunt Ruth has had the same stew on the hob for thirty years.

I say, what a marvellous club you have here. I wonder, how does one become a member?

Oh I see. No, quite understand, a school tie is a school tie after all. What a pity, I do like the way you only have to sign for your drinks. But rules are rules, I suppose, and it has never been said that Tiberius O’Donnell is one to go against conformity. Which reminds me of a little hooyah I had back in October. Did I ever tell you about the foreign-looking fellow?

Well, I will begin – as soon as one of you chaps has been a pal and signed us a scotch.

I had travelled down to a small village called Brixham in Torquay for their annual harvest festival. Why such a long way? I hear you ask. I am not ashamed to admit, it’s for the Reverend Edmund-Davis’ most delicious homemade cider. I always buy two barrels of the stuff every year. One for my household staff – for they deserve it, after all – and I keep one barrel shamelessly all to myself.

I had travelled down by train – roll on the day when one can catch a Zeppelin – and arrived at 7pm. I had booked into a most charming inn called the Bull and Bullock. It was here on my first night that my tale begins, for it was then that I became aware that something was afoot…

I was playing the piano and leading the bar in a good old sing-song of Two Lovely Black Eyes. I noticed this fellow sitting at the bar, all alone, who was not joining in. There was also something not quite right about the cut of his jib…

There were others who were not singing as well, but by the time I broke into Where Did You Get That Hat?, everyone in the pub had joined in, even if it was a simple tap of the glass. But not him.

The next morning I went to the village fête, ready to purchase my cider from the vicar. When I got to his stall, however, I noticed he was not as cheery as he had been in previous years. On enquiring, I found out that his sales were quite low this year, which was a bother as the church roof needed repairing.

I decided that as a good gesture I would double my order this year – I would have ordered more but I don’t think my man could have carried it. I spent the rest of the morning walking round the fête looking for a coconut to toss, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw the foreign-looking fellow loitering with a couple of ragamuffins. You know the sort, the type who doesn’t polish his shoes and never has a flower in his button.

Later that day, whilst enjoying a fine cream tea, I overheard two ladies behind me discussing the price of gin. Something bothered me about their conversation which I could not quite put my finger on.

I went for an afternoon walk along the cliffs, my head filled with thoughts of the man who did not know the words to Where Did You Get That Hat?, and hangs around with undesirables; of the reverend’s cider sales being down; and the two women talking about the price of gin. It then struck me why their conversation lingered in my cranial matter. My Mammy always told me that I should make it my business to always be aware of the price of things. A bottle of gin is normally a florin, two shillings and sixpence. I have heard that one can procure it for as little as two shillings, but the quality is questionable. The ladies in the tea room were talking about one shilling a bottle. It suddenly all began to make sense – smugglers.

That night back at the inn, after leading the patrons in another hearty sing-a-long, I noticed the foreign-looking fellow there again at the bar. At about ten o’ clock he slipped out the side door. Making my excuses, I too slipped out and followed him. Annoyingly, it was halfway through a chorus of The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo.

Keeping my distance, I followed him to the bay of St Mary’s, where I observed him flashing a light out to sea – a signal that I had to do something, and quick. Last summer I had read the Art of War, and I remembered reading that all warfare was based on deception. I ran back to the Bull and Bullock and asked for a lamp and the village constable. This was met with the reply: “We don’t know that one, but if you start singing it, we’ll join in.” Pro di immortales!

I raced back to the cliffs. I stood near a spot where I knew there to be the most frightful rocks in the water, and began flashing. Out at sea I watched a lone light begin to zig-zag as the captain of the ship throwed between the two lights. From my vantage point I could see the foreign-looking fellow looking most bemused. He could not see me. It wasn’t long before there was an almighty crash as the boat ran aground.

By now the local constable had arrived, and the people from the pub had come to see what all the noise was about.

As we all congregated on the beach I said:

“Reverend, I have solved the mystery of your low sales, for it was smugglers. Constable, I believe if you look over there, you will find a foreign-looking fellow hiding. Oh, and people of Brixham, you should be ashamed of yourselves. You would rather save a shilling, than support your local community. Well bully for you, for the vicar’s juices are most pleasant.”

As the constable arrested the foreign fellow, I said, “And you, you scallywag, from what land do you come?”

“The Isle of Wight,” he replied. I knew it!

Ah, my good man! Is the guest room ready for my chum Hans’ arrival tomorrow?

Oh superb! Knowing Hans I’ll bet he’ll be wanting to have a good old wrestle when he arrives. Might be an idea to make some space in here.

Nightcap? What an excellent idea. What’s that rather dusty bottle at the back? Well I’ll be, a bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey. That must be, what, nearly thirteen years old. You know, I got it during that year I spent traveling around the Northern Americas shortly after finishing reading Latin at Oxford. In fact, I can be more precise than that. It was in March 1888. Have I ever told you about the most blasted blizzard?

I insist. Sit down, my good man, blacking the fireplaces can wait.

It had been my father’s idea for me to spend a year in the northern colonies, on one of the rare occasions I met him. Originally he tried to obtain me passage to the Far East, but by luck one of his company boats was heading out that very afternoon, and he pulled every string to make sure I got on it. I didn’t even have time to pack.

I was two months into my trip, and had so far spent my time exploring the eastern seaboard. I was traveling on the midnight train from Boston to New York to enjoy some society, before heading out to the “Wild West”. I was traveling with Teddy Vanderbilt (a most entrepreneurial fellow) who, last I heard, was investing in companies that make spats. Not as safe as my Zeppelin investments, I fear.

We had been awoken at about seven am with a shunt as the train came to an abrupt halt. I had looked out the carriage window, and lo and behold there was snow right up to the window. I awoke Teddy, who reminded me that we were due at Miss Helen Astor’s for cocktail elevenses that very morning. I asked the guard of our location and he informed us we were in Harlem, near 127th Street. According to Teddy, it was only about an hour-and-a-half walk up to Fifth Avenue. We could have breakfast at the Grand Central Hotel and arrive in perfect time. This plan took little thought. To rid us of the burden of our luggage, and so we would arrive in the correct attire, we got dressed in our top hats and tails and set forth.

Sadly, it took a whole hour just to reach 125th. The snow drifts were as large as elephants and the wind was particularly vicious. Everything had come to a complete halt in the snow, but not us! We marched onwards, and in another hour we had made it to 122nd. I feared Teddy was beginning to tire somewhat, and the visbility had become so bad I could no longer see past my nose. But I detest being late. I pushed on and forwards, but as I reached 121st and looked back, Teddy was nowhere to be seen.

“Teddy’s blown off!” I cried

Thankfully my cry was answered by a New York constable , who helped me find Teddy – who, as it turned out, had fallen upside down into a small drift some eight feet away. The constable said we were mad to be out in this weather and we should get off the streets as soon as possible. I asked whether he would be able to get a message to Miss Astor that we would be running late, but he seemed most perplexed – I don’t think he knew who Miss Astor was. He did, however, point us in the direction of a small general store up ahead, which myself and Teddy dragged ourselves to.

Inside was an old-fashioned base burner – much-welcome heat! I called to the old Chinese women behind the counter.

“I can assure you, madam, we are gentlemen, so be not offended as we remove our clothes and dry by your fire.”

She was a real angel and even brought us over some old potato sacks to wear. Teddy passed around his flask of brandy and we sat there for three hours. As I sipped from the silver flask, I was hit by a flash of genius. By Jove! Everything we needed was here in this general store.

“Fear not, Teddy, for we may miss elevenses, but we can still make it to Miss Astor’s!”

Tedy said, “We tried… but it’s just too blasted out there.”

I stood up and put one foot on a nearby crate, before remembering I only had a sack covering my gentlemen’s whistle and there was a lady in the room. Mea culpa!

I continued. “This head may be Irish but my lips are stiff, upper and English! Something you colonists will never know, for it’s a product of draughty stately homes, rugby in all weathers, and knowing how to make tea. To work!”

With that, I took a cast iron off the shelf (one dollar fifteen) and got the old lady to put our tops and tails in order (she charged two dollars). Teddy made himself useful by getting our shoes spit and shined (Tana Dubbin ten cents, brushes twenty cents), and buying two bottles of Overholt rye whiskey for the trip (two dollars). I negotiated a dollar a piece for the eight dogs in the kitchen. I had been quite handy in woodwork at school and was easily able to phantom a sledge from some abandoned wooden crates (two dollars for tools and nails).

We tied our silk handkerchiefs around our faces, and secured our hats with twine (five cents).

“Hike!” I shouted, and the dogs sprang to life. In no time at all we were on 110th, then dashing across Central Park.

We may have missed elevenses, but were bang on time for Martini oneses, and gosh! it was a dry one.

How wonderful to see you at the races, Duchess Bloemfontein, Ladies.

Oh I had a bit of trouble at the gate, seems my invitation to the enclosure must have got lost in the post this year.

No, one of the three things I promised my mammy I would never do:

1) Never trust a man from Tramore
2) Never fight for the English
3) Never bet on the Horses

I’m here because I think they are such magnificent animals -  oh I say free champagne, how superb!

You’re right, our new King does seem a little nervous over there, how long has it been now ?

Do not joke about contacting the dead Ladies, have I ever told you about my dabble with the occult ?

Well, it was in January this year. I had gone to visit my second youngest brother Galba in Hammersmith, who has a very important job in a bank you know.  When I arrived on his doorstep It turned out he was away on business, but his dear wife Nellie, being a most kind and considerate soul, invited me in to join her and the friends who she was entertaining that evening.

It was a delightfully gay affair, the younger Mr. Stockton was there  – Charles , who I am told is of the theatre persuasion, but did not seem that interested when I told him about the time I trod the boards as Agamemon in Oresteia – in the original Greek I might add.

Captain Phillip Cavendish and his lady friend Nina were also there and Nellie’s old school chum Bertha. Nellie and my brother had only moved into this house a few months ago, and there had been some strange goings on, which the servants could not be held accountable for.  Plates had fallen off shelves and chairs that had been pushed in, had mysteriously become… un-pushed in. This could only mean one thing – a ghost.

Nellie and her friends were going to make an attempt to contact the spirit world and they asked me to join them.

We sat around the card table and Bertha laid out an Ouija board. I have come across this device several times on my travels and I asked Bertha whether she was qualified in communicating with the dead. Turns out she had spent the last four years living in France, with the French – that was good enough for me.

Nellie’s housemaid dimmed the gas lights in the room and a single candle on the card table was lit. Bertha then told us we were free to greet the spirits

“What Ho!” I bellowed.

I am now informed this was not the correct way. Bertha asked for silence and told us all to put our hands on the planchette and she continued.

“Something lingers in the room around us.”

I was deeply embarrassed and apologized profusely. Bertha restarted.

“Hear me, hear me spirits – is there anybody there…” , lo and behold the planchette began to move.

Q…U…I…D…

The Latin for who, I was most glad to see we were dealing with an educated  ghost, otherwise it would not of have been in keeping with the area.  The puck moved again , this time

Quid Dicit! – Latin for “who speaks?”. I immediately called out “It is my good brother’s wife’s friend Bertha who calls on you “.  Bertha looked at me, and again I felt this might not be the correct manner. After a moment, Bertha looked up at the ceiling and said.

“And who is it we are speaking too ?

Y….D…X…Y…

The planchette was all over the place and there was a sudden yelp from Nina; the maid instantly turned up the lights.  We all looked at Nina who looked slightly flushed and the top buttons on her dress had come undone. I advised the Captain that our ghost friend may not be a gentleman and he assured me that he would be on his guard. The lights were once again dimmed and Bertha suggested that now we had made contact, we could do away with the board and attempt to speak to the spirits directly.

Bertha asked us all to link our hands in a circle and then she called out

“Spirit, give us a sign that you are still there.”

Barely before Bertha had finished her sentence, Nina let out another yelp and the lights came up.  I suggested to Captain Phillip that it might be an idea to take Nina upstairs, so that she may lie down. The Captain fully agreed and carried this out with some haste. The remaining four of us then rejoined hands, the maid dimmed the lights and Bertha resumed.

“Oh spirit, give us a sign ”

Silence. I looked around the others at the table and they looked at me. I was just about to suggest that Bertha might need to speak up, when the silence was interrupted by a rhythmic creaking noise coming from above, and then the most bizarre thing occurred. Bertha, Nellie, Charles and even the maid all burst out in a fit of the giggles.

I feared that they had been overcome by madness, I remembered what my priest had told me about such matters: they had become possessed. I stood up and said in my loudest voice:

“My name Is Tiberius Patricus O’Donnell. You may have put the willies into them, but I am not afraid of you! Go from whence you came and leave this house alone. Begone!”

The creaking began to speed up, I had obviously rattled its cage.

“Begone! Begone!” I bellowed.

The creaking then seemed to reach a climax and then – silence. I instructed the maid to turn up the lights. I was pleased to see that everything was tickety boo. When the Captain and Nina eventually returned you could tell they had been ruffled by the affair but were thankfully okay.  It was then brandies all round.

So you see ladies, contacting the dead is no laughing matter.

My dear lords and gentlemen. How wonderful it is to be in this room, right next door to the great hall where so many great speakers have spoken.

I say, Lord Percy, that’s a rather fine elephant head you have on the wall there.

It took six of you?

Must have been some impressive fight!

Reminds me of my fight with a vagabond in Berlin. Have I ever told you the story?

Well, before I begin, I hope you don’t mind me saying that cognac in the decanter over there looks a most wonderful colour. Oh really?

You’re too kind. And some snuff too? Well it would be rude not to.

Now let me begin. It was two years ago. I had been in the city of the Berlin visiting no other than Count Von Zeppelin himself, to discuss my investments in his company. We had lunch, along with several other prominent figures of Germany’s engineering industry in the Bristol Hotel on the Prince Albert Strauss. I said it back then, and I’ll say it again now. Those fellows are a wonderfully inventive and ambitious bunch. If we are not careful they will be right on top of us in a few years.

After lunch, finding that I had the afternoon free, I ventured to a part of the city I had not been before, the Schoneberg district. Whilst walking in the Nollendorfplatz – a most delightfully gay square – I saw an absolute ghastly display of manners. Some ruffian had pushed over a lady! I called him out straightaway.

“You, sir, are not a gentlemen!”

He replied, “Mach es dir selber, sie ist Prostituiertees.”

Well, frankly, I didn’t care what denomination she was. I removed my jacket and rolled up my sleeves. A small crowd gathered around us. I warned the hoodlum that I was an Old Oratorian. Those early years, regularly beating off the fag-masters and sixth-formers, was some of the best training a young man could have.

I raised my fists and he did the same. We then began to circle each other and the crowd cheered on.

I made the first move, in with a left, right, right quick jab combination. The punk returned with a most horrendous move.

“What kind of man kicks another in a street fight!” I yelled out, before returning with a right uppercut followed by a quick left cross.

The scruffion stumbled back, the crowd gasped, and in a blink he returned with a sharp jab, landing dead centre on one’s stomach. The air quickly escaped from my lungs and I lent back.

Going back to my school days… In our Latin classes, if we were to, say, fail to get the right pluperfect of a verb, the master would wind us by violently throwing whatever book was in his hand. Thanks to the hardback edition of Kennedy’s Latin primer, us boys soon learnt to take pain.

Whilst many a gentlemen may have required a while to recover, I was able to return swiftly with my right fist, landing it straight on his conker. I could almost see the stars form in front of his eyes. To my surprise however, he came back with a perfect left hook – for which I must give him credit – that caused me to lose my balance somewhat.

This was then followed with a left jab, a straight right, a straight left and a right jab. Or was it actually a right jab, right hook, straight left, straight right? You’ll have to excuse me if I have not remembered all the details correctly.

After receiving this volley of punches, I staggered back, the distance between myself and him seeming to spread as my eyes struggled to refocus.

Another important lesson I had learnt from my school days was no matter what, always stay on your feet. I remember someone – a soft lad by the name of Fosbrey – caught in the showers one time by six of the house prefects. The fella was head over heels in seconds and the next thing they were all on top of him. For the next two weeks, poor old Fosbrey couldn’t sit down and could just about barely walk.

I immediately shook my head to pull back my senses and get back in the fight. The crowd gave an enormous cheer as I landed a right hook on the rascal’s chin. Blood began to drip from his mouth as I came back with another right hook, followed by a left uppercut. The crowd cheered louder.

We were then back to circling each other. I could feel my right eye beginning to swell and my vision gradually dimming. We both caught our breaths and I feared that the vagabond’s next move might not come from the rule book.

The crowd went silent as it became a stand-off. The young woman, for whom I had first intervened, looked at me, and I looked at her. Returning my sight to my opponent, I saw him reach down to his back pocket.

I was not going to give him the chance of pulling out whatever it was he was reaching for. As quick as a flash, I flew forwards with my right arm straight out; in my head, the sounds of my old house dormitory carried me forwards.

CRACK!

My fist landed straight on top of his skull and made such a satisfying sound. His whole body went limp in an instant and he dropped like a rag doll to the ground, accompanied by a huge hurrah! from the crowd.

I recovered my jacket, rolled down my sleeves and began to put my dress back in order. As the bully began to stir, I walked over and said, “I hope you have learnt, sire, that you never push a woman.”

He lifted his head from the pavement and nodded. I continued.

“And never mess with an educated Irishman. For we are the worst kind!”

My dear friends, ladies and gentlemen of this fine establishment, next to the Royal Zoological Society in London – I ask for your patience as I tell you my story. I warn those of a weak disposition, especially those of the fairer sex… you may find the need to cover your ears.

But before I begin, I wonder if one of you could get an old man a dram of whiskey to warm the throat? Thank you.

It was in this very bar some three months ago that I first heard of the “Despicable Beast of Marrakech”.

I had been chatting to a rather interesting businessman by the name of Horatio Pippin who had told me of his recent expedition across French Africa. Whilst he amazed not just myself, but others at the bar with his many tales, it was not until he and I were alone in the smoking room that he told us about the beast.

As sunset comes across the city and night begins to fall, this creature comes out. They say it’s seven foot high with teeth like razors and a thick black coat of fur. Its territory is that of the rooftops of the city, only coming down to feed on cattle and small children!

After listening to Pippin’s tale, I decided at once I must go there and capture this travesty of nature, and bring it to the Royal Zoological Society so they can do what ever it is they do best.

The very next morning I booked my passage on the RMS Silvana from Southampton to Casablanca. I knew from the start this would be a most dangerous trip. As most of you are aware, my money is heavily invested in the Zeppelin industry, so I had to make this journey without my manservant. I was alone…

Arriving in Casablanca eight days later, the heat was unbearable. Ladies, you may wish to cover your ears here. I found myself having to remove my collar and tie and, dare I say, unbuttoning my top two buttons in order to have any hope of surviving the heat. The colonists, however, are a delightful bunch, and I was able to arrange transport with little fuss. The natives though… well, the sooner they learn the King’s tongue, the better.

Moving onto Marrakech, I booked myself into the Hotel Bristol and waited for nightfall.

The concierge was a most helpful fellow. For not only did he find me a guide to take me around the city itself, he also sourced a gramophone and a pressing of Scot Joplin. For it is said in the street that the beast is attracted to music.

The guide informed me that some two days previous, some droppings had been found in a street in the Kasbah area. I decided that this was where I would set up base, on the roof of a small shop nearby.

I sat on the rooftop and waited as night came and the moon illuminated the sky. Lighting my pipe, I realised I had made one fateful error in my planning. The wine I had brought with me was an 1878, not a ’76. How could I have been so careless? I tossed the bottle aside and pulled out my hip flask instead.

A little after 3am I heard the unmistakable sound of an animal breathing. I took from my case the finest Sheffield steel padlocks one can buy, and three metres of chain.

My plan was to calm the beast with Dr. Dean’s Amazing Sleep Remedy. A quart to knock out a man is the usual dose, but here I was not taking any chances. I filled a syringe with a full pint!

The sound of breathing grew louder and nearer. Gordon Bennett! The music seemed to have done its trick! I positioned myself in the corner and readied myself with the syringe.

BANG! It was on the roof with me. In the darkness I could make out its large eyes. It was aware I was there too! I stepped forward and attempted to plunge the syringe in.

Before my arm was out straight, the beast had leapt forward, sending me flying, and unfortunately, the syringe too. I felt around and grabbed the chain – my last chance! I swung at the beast with all my strength. Sadly it resulted in nothing more than the padlock flying off the end.

For a moment we stood perched on this roof, neither of us moving. Silence.

My gaze drifted to the gramophone, which I could just make out in the darkness. From the corner of my eye I could see the beast heading towards the player as the record came to an end. Without the delightful ragtime sounds, I wondered what the beast’s next move would be.

Do please entertain my nonsense here, for I was certain there was a look of sadness on the creature’s face, if indeed such emotions can exist in the animal kingdom. Gathering my courage, I began to move closer, and then whoosh! The creature was gone.

Not before doing me the injustice of breaking the gramophone, I might add.

In the darkness I did my best to retrieve the pieces of the broken player, but alas, could not find the speaker cone. Tired, I headed back to my room at the Bristol. I dreaded having to tell the concierge I would require another player in the morning.

Turned out this most reasonable and helpful fella was now most displeased, and he refused me help in sourcing another.

Without music, I feared I had little chance of catching the creature. Having come so close, I headed back to Casablanca, and then onto the first available ship back to England. Which is why you now find me here.

I have come to ask your assistance in raising funds to take a brass band over with me on my next attempt. Now who is with me?