Asquith: Rioja. Absolutely without a doubt. You can tell from the aroma.

Browne:Nonsense, it’s further south than that – La Mancha. As I said before, ignore the aromas and look at the colour, that colour screams La Mancha.

Asquith: I say you are wrong old boy, this is going to be the easiest five pounds I’ve won off you all week. Senorita ?

Senorita: Your friend is, how do you say, correct. I am from La Mancha.

Browne: Ha! What did I tell you ? Thank you very much senorita, you can put your clothes back on and leave us now.

Asquith: Brandy?

Browne: Certainly. I say, that was nasty business Archer found himself in this week.

Asquith: Nasty? Bloody shocking If you don’t mind me using the Irish.

Browne: Still, you can understand it somewhat.

Asquith: Not sure, but I do get where you coming from.After all, a modern gentlemen is a rather busy bee.

Browne: A busy bee, in a busy world! Take today for example; Breakfast at the club…

Asquith: Meeting friends for Lunch at Boodles…

Browne: Then In the office for an hour…

Asquith: After work drinks at the club …

Browne: Then there was the Show…

Asquith: Then back to the club, for a nightcap…

Browne: And now back here… And today is not untypical is it ?

Asquith: Not untypical at all. I mean, no show tomorrow, but we’ve got the boxing to go to.

Browne: Then Thursday Freddy’s having his weekly bash at the Cafe Royale, can’t miss out on old Freddy.

Asquith: Friday, it’s off to the country shooting for the weekend.

Browne:Weekend after that it’s the Boat race.

Asquith: End of the month, that new casino is opening in Cannes – that’s a week away.

Browne: Never ending isn’t it? Just when you think you’ve got an evening free or, dare I say, a weekend. Something always pops up. Do you know, I once went five months without seeing my wife, god knows how long it’s been since I last saw my children.

Asquith: Switzerland you sent them to wasn’t it ?

Browne: I think so, I let my wife’s staff deal with that sort of thing. Yours are in Belgium are they not?

Asquith: France actually.

Browne: Do beg your pardon old boy. Ha – you know what just struck me, you could have been five pounds up tonight; I very nearly picked a French one. Funny. So, back to Archer. Do you agree, that the foul hoot Archer found himself in was understandable – even if somewhat…

Asquith: Understandable perhaps, but still pretty shocking. I can’t imagine how I would have reacted.

Browne: Oh good God no, I can’t either. To be there with your pants down…

Asquith: Canon raised…

Browne: Sights set for the breach…

Asquith: And then, for the young women to suddenly realise and scream, ‘Daddy?’

Browne: I guess, if anything, it has taught us all the importance of carrying a picture of one’s oinks on their person.

Asquith: Absolutely

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”?

Allah knows my name…

It’s been three years since I came to the Sudan. When I left home, I was no more than a boy. I was not raised by a father, but by a map awash with pink that hung in our dining room. A map which the man (who claimed to be my father) spent more time and love on than any of us. A map that would not only come to possess him, but my brothers, one by one, as they got older. Until it was finally my turn.

It was no surprise when I came home that day to find our house packed with men in uniforms. Three times before I had watched my brothers go through the same spectacle. As I walked up the drive, I wanted to run there and then, but only my mind could conjure escape. My legs led me blindly to my fate.

‘In the name of the Empire!’ they cheered as they clinked and raised their glasses to toast her. But if the empire is a woman, then she is a cold one. All my time here, I have never heard her sigh, let alone her heart beat.

Whilst the desert sings to me…

All I have seen here in her name is a bloody set of footprints left behind by the men of the 21st Lancers and those who march with us.  From Ferkeh in the south to Khartoum in the north, our trail is marked across the sands like a rotten vein that takes the life from the flesh around it.

Now in Khartoum we sit and wait as Kitchener builds his city. Like most rotten things, we fester in the sun and the stench hangs low and wide above our heads. It is not the smell of boots that have walked a thousand miles, nor of cordite or sweat. It is a stench of the darkness that is yet to come.

You have shown me there is light…

The stench in this place gets stronger every day as more evil pours in by the shipload. They arrive like clockwork, from all corners of this earth. Slave traders, tricksters, opportunists are all here. Some hide behind their European verandas, their cocktails parties and their ideas of respectability. Most hide behind the cold of steel where life is valued at no more than an inch of brass and a ball of lead – those are the ones I prefer, for the aforementioned are blind to their curse.

A month ago, two old European gentlemen came down from Egypt and started to go door-to-door in search of the young and vulnerable. ‘In the name of art!’ they said. I did not see art, but just two twisted old men of ruin.

They would be my third and fourth victims…

This is the stench the place has been plunged into, but there is fresh air to be found away from this pit. The Desert.

The first time I went, I was in an intoxicated rage. My heart yearned for escape and for a quick end to my hell. I cannot remember if I ran or I walked. All I can remember are the faces of those who I passed, who I cursed and bedeviled.  Then I remember just lying there, waiting for the sun and the heat to lift me from this land.

As the sun set, having burned my skin, I cried in disappointment that my chest should still rise and sink, and the blood should still pump through my corpse.  There I stayed through the night, and sung a wordless song of melancholy, till I found myself lifted as the desert made its comfort known to me. I watched as tiny grains of sands were carried by the wind into a dance beautiful and complex. I could not surrender myself there and then, but it would entice me into coming back.

And back I did come. Soon it became a daily pilgrimage, and those who I had first scorned began to open to me, and I to them.

They call me Sarsarun …

It was as if I had been let in on a great secret which only they and I could understand, and they took great joy in my swift metamorphosis. It was they who taught me, not through words but through love, to understand the dance in the sand. They taught me to see and hear with my heart again.

I knew the first part of my transformation was complete when, while walking back from the desert, I went to accost two men from my own platoon who were violating one of the young girls of the village.  They did not recognise me when I called to them to stop, nor did they recognise my face when I was inches away and had brought my sabre to their throats.

They were my first and second victims…

One of these days, I will come to the desert and not return to the barracks. I am no longer that fair-skinned boy from Sussex who was afraid of his father’s scorn. But the desert has yet to make me a man, for I have yet to learn its lesson of peace.

Teach me…

It is to be my greatest work – “The Temptation of St. Anthony”. In this space here the great Saint will be on his knees with his arms up to heaven as he is surrounded in the desert by the most foul trickery the devil can conjure. I shall be using both subtlety and the explicit to depict the temptations; this line here will be the long path that St. Anthony has walked. Over here will be a creature representing sloth and I will draw the viewer’s eyes to the blisters on the Saint’s feet – that is just one of many examples that I will create in this piece.

The work has been commissioned by none other than Prince Albert of Monaco himself, I might add, and a thousand hours alone have been spent on the primary sketches. The canvas I had specially made, due to it size, by sailmakers in La Rochelle, and I have not been able to enter my humble bedroom for three weeks now, as that has been given over to stockpiling the paint needed for my masterpiece.

My greatest preparation has been, however, facing the devil and the demons in my own soul. For forty days and forty nights, I did not leave this building and created my own hell by taking residence on the roof, and existing with nothing but the clothes I wear now and drinking nothing but Absinthe – I know my demons’ names.

Today, I start on working on the Virgin Temptress who will be standing inches away from St.Anthony, offering herself unconditionally to him. In this void here, I will create beauty, temptation and strength. And … ah, here comes the model herself, recommended by my good … well, friend Toulouse-Lautrec

“Bonjour, Madame, are you ready for pure beauty in encapsulation?”

“I’ve heard it called a lot of things in my time, but not that. How do you want me, on top or below?”

“What are you doing?” I cried, as she started to unbutton my flies.

“Oh right, it’s that and not the other – silly me. You would not believe this morning I’ve had. I don’t know If I am coming or going and…”

Mon Dieu! I thought, as I noticed she had teeth befitting the English, but still she did have a certain femme fatale look about her. “Madame, if you wouldn’t mind, we have a lot to do and I want to capture you before I lose the magnificent light coming through the skylight.”

“Right then, who am I am going to be then? Last week I was Arse-Miss”

“Arse-Miss ?”

” Arrrssseee-Miss-I was standing there bow in one hand with a doggie at me feet”

“You mean Artemis, the Greek Goddess of hunting?”

“Yeah, thats the one, Arse-Miss.”

I sighed before continuing, “I am painting the Temptation of St Anthony.”

“Who was he then?”

“He was the father of all monks who had a divine connection with the heavenly and fought a supernatural battle of the mind against temptation from the devil.”

“You’ll have to go a bit slower, I didn’t quite get that all, now his father was a monk and…?”

“Madame, please if you don’t mind …the light. Now if you could just disrobe and I need you to show Temptation…. No, no need to put your hand out… or your leg…. or your hand on your hip… Do you mind if I…?”

“Brrr, your hands are cold.”

“Now Madame, if you can just hold this pose.”

“No problem, you know I was with Bernard last week, and he said Elita if there is one thing you do good, and that is to hold…”

“Madame, please – the light. I really do need to get started.” Finally, I said silently as I began to mix the Tempera with my brush. As any artist will tell you, you can not beat that first stroke to canvas and… Christ, why had this creature begun laughing? “Madame?”

“Up there, that picture behind you?”

“Pandora opening the box? What about it ?” God knows why I asked.

“Yeah, that’s Eloise from the Ruse Des Moulins isn’t it? I’d recognize that bum anywhere! Amount of laughs me and her have had. One time it was the both of us and this Greek gentlemen who wanted us to …”

“MADAME! The light! Please! ”

“Sorry, here I am chatting away and you’re trying to ..”

“MADAME!” Ah, silence at last, but then: “Madame, did you just pass wind?

“Sorry, as I said, been running around all morning. Been on my back, up against a wall, only had had time to gulp my lunch before I came….”

I scowled at her, which seemed to do the trick. Finally my brush was on canvas and I could begin my magic, oh Christ!

“Do you think my left boob is slightly smaller than the right?”

–00–

…It was just shortly after that, that I grabbed my pallet knife and well, I imagine it was the women below me who ran out to the street when the screaming started. I do have to say Gendarme, I am surprised how little time it took you to turn up. Normally there is never a policeman when you need one in this part of town. I have to say, for such a horrid creature, she looks wonderfully peaceful lying there – despite all the blood. Would it be terribly rude of me, if i grabbed my sketchbook? … oh.

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.

Take a look out of the window; do you see those rocks, just to the north of Herm island? Six nautical miles. Even in bad weather, it is a trip of no more than forty minutes. With the current, you could probably swim it in a reasonable time. You would certainly be able to reach the island of Herm in less than thirty.

It was out there on those rocks where my boat, the Elicia, ran aground, and what I am about to tell you happened.

No doubt you have heard rumours about me. I will leave it to you to work out which ones are true and which are not – I hate to disappoint. On this occasion, however, you have the luxury of hearing it from the horse’s mouth.

I have friends in Spain who needed my help. Naturally not everyone is happy with the fact that I run guns – oh come on, do not act shocked that I admit this openly. Apart from a couple of old ladies in St.Malo, it must be one of the worst kept secrets around these parts. It is with the British Royal Navy that I have the most bother. They are always keen to stop me at every opportunity. They have the notion that I emptied out an armoury of theirs in Southampton. Ah – I see from the look on your face that you have heard that story.

Those Royal Navy chaps can put a shiner on a good day so I do my best to avoid them, which normally means moving at night; as indeed it was, when I was returning from my little mercy trip.

The Elicia was a Scottish wooden fishing trawler. The guise of being such a craft, I’m certain has helped many a time.

I was coming up from the south of Herm island, when I got a signal that there was a navy boat in dock. While it was the small hours and I had an empty cargo hold, as I said, the British can put a shiner on a good day. I decided instead to take my boat out of view of the harbour for the following reason: those Brits can be quite observant. While it would not be uncommon for them to see a fishing boat out at that time, it would be odd to see one without its nets out, ready to go, or without a hull full of fish.

A swell was beginning to build up as I went to put the crane arms out for the nets. It then all happened in a flash. There was a guide cable which ran through the pulley on the arm to a gear on the engine which, when engaged, should have pulled the nets along and out onto the arms. What happened however was that, less than a second from engaging the gear, I found myself hanging upside down with the bottom of my left leg oilskin trousers caught in the pulley.

I did not realise immediately, but my foot had been crushed in the pulley. I felt no pain at first, which I put down to adrenaline. I did try to reach up to the crane arm, but the swaying action from the swell made this nigh on impossible. I watched helplessly as the boat came stern-to onto those rocks.

Where the sun should have been rising in the sky, tall black clouds were forming. I knew no one would be venturing out today, and that any hope of being spotted was gone. Before the rain came, a wave, accompanied by a roar, dislodged the Elicia and began to thrash her about between the rocks. I could see through the centre hatch, she was beginning to take on water. It was then that I realised I was either going to be dragged down or be lambasted against the rocks.

On my belt I carry a knife – you will find most fisherman do. Perfect for geting the hook out of a fish, but not much else. I had a notion of trying to save as much as my leg as possible, and tried to haul myself up, to cut my leg above the ankle, but the sea had other ideas.

The first cut was the most painful. I had to muster considerable strength to get the knife to break the skin, and when it was no more than an inch in, a violent wave caused me to rip the knife upwards – that is pain.

I was going to light a cigarette as a distraction. Instead, I ended up biting down on the entire packet as blood, rain and seawater flowed down me.

It felt like great pockets of heat were escaping me, as I forced the knife crudely through the flesh. The tendons, while tough to cut, I do not remember causing me much pain. I was part fascinated and part distracted, as when cutting through one of them I felt the muscles in the back of my leg tighten then let go.

The Elicia was sitting below her water line by the time I got to the bone. The temperature had dropped and the heavens had joined in on my punishment. The packet of cigarettes had now become pulp, but it was a welcome distraction when the acrid nicotine filled my mouth as I began to saw.

I didn’t have to saw far, as a combination of my weight and the swaying did the rest. In the water, and the right way up, I felt my body began to drain. I don’t know how much blood I lost, but I have a vague memory of using my belt as a torniquet while I was in the water.

The next thing I remember was awakening on the beach of Herm, where I was rescued later that day. For those hours I was on the island, I watched the crane arm bob before finally vanishing – a moment I marked by mustering what strength I had left and burying the knife in the sand.

Doctor: Do come in, if you would just like to just remove your trousers and wait behind the screen.

Captain: Right-ho! And it’s ‘Captain’, if you don’t mind.

Doctor: Do excuse me, Captain, we are rather a quiet little community. It’s not often we have a man like yourself come to live. You were in the Royal Flying Corp, I understand?

Captain: That’s right, Doc, No.1 Squadron… the best! Three years on the Western Front, thirty-one confirmed downings, eight crashes and a piece of shrapnel in the leg. I can tap It’s a Long Way to Tipperary just by bending my knee. Tick tick tick… tick… tick…

Doctor: I see. I am curious, Captain… what brings you to our sleepy little village?

Captain: Well I stayed on in Paris after the war, and truth be told, It was becoming a bit much. Needed a break from those French fillies. Two, three I can handle, but four of them on a Friday night, every Friday night, week after week, month after month… Steady on, Doc, hand’s a bit cold there.

Doctor: Now if you wouldn’t mind giving me a cough.

Captain: A cough? How about I give you a roar instead? ROAAARRRRRRR!

Doctor: Ahem. Do you drink much at all?

Captain: Do I? Rather! Hatch, gullet, stomach, in less than 3 seconds – ten times a night. I treat my drink like I want my women to treat me.

Doctor: I see. Erm… you may want to look at cutting down on that.

Captain: Ha! The women or the drink? Good one, Doc!

Doctor: Now excuse me whilst I just go through with this comb.

Captain: I say, that’s a bit ticklish, Doc, reminds of this five foot two, green-eyed little thing from ‘Le Chabanais’ – twenty-five francs and she’s over you top and tails with that tiny little tongue of hers.

Doctor: Right… well I can’t see or feel anything. Have you had any itching?

Captain: Nothing, except an itching for a good ride on that little creature I saw in the post office this morning. ROAARRR!

Doctor: Any unwanted discharge?

Captain: Not since I was fourteen years old and the Spanish mistress accidentally flashed a view of her stockings. I was quite a tent, I can tell you.

Doctor: Any pain or discomfort?

Captain: Well, actually Doc, there is…

Doctor: Really? Please do go on.

Captain: It’s the thought of those Parisian girls who are going to go unfulfilled this weekend. Damn shame. Damn shame.

Doctor: Captain, I cannot see anything wrong, I cannot feel anything wrong. You say you have no discharge or itching and nor are you in any sort of medical pain. What did you say was actually wrong again?

Captain: Nothing

Doctor: Pardon.

Captain: Nothing wrong, old bean, I just wanted to show you my knob. ROAAARRRRRRR!

You only need a little bit of Gentlemen’s Spice for a rise…

“Get your lips tighter around it, you’re dribbling.”

This was the third time in the space of ten minutes I had to draw attention to Miss Rotterlicks’ technique. She looked up to me with those bugged eyes of hers, blessed with all the grace of a grasshopper. As she always did in these scenarios, she began to go faster.

I slammed my baton down on the pedestal. Christ! I curse the day I ever began teaching music at the Rotherham Girls’ Finishing School. For the last two years, I had taught at a private girls’ school in the foothills of the Swiss Alps, surrounded by beauty as we bathed in the delights of Chopin. But, there was an unfortunate misunderstanding. You must see, I was only massaging the young girl’s bare thigh to help her accommodate the cello better. Since then, this was the only school that would take me on.

Where once I had been surrounded by the delicate creatures of Europe’s aristocratic elite, I now found myself amidst the far-from-darling offspring of the city of Sheffield’s steel elite – all three of them. There was a fourth, but she was removed by her father after he misheard me talking about wanting to get my legato.

It was Saturday, the worst day in my now miserable existence, because I had the angels of death for a full four hours. They arrive at 10am, dropped off by their fathers, who constantly try and give me the horn – do they not know there is more to music than the brass band?

The girls below me stared as I got my baton up. Miss Rotterlicks sits in the middle with her clarinet – how she has turned playing this fine instrument into a sideshow at the Moulin Rouge, I do not know. To her right is the large round Miss Lumpington and her double bass – sometimes I have to do a double-take to remind myself which one is made of wood. Finally, on the left, is Miss Teakles, who handles the violin with the grace of a miner attacking the strongest material known to man.

They all constantly fight to be on top, but usually Miss Lumpington’s heavy plucking wins out. I did once volunteer to spend some extra time with her, to lighten her fingering. But this was met with a black eye from her father, when I explained I wanted to work on his daughter’s crotchet.

Sigh… I brought my baton halfway down and gave it a flick, and Miss Rotterlicks resumed her practice of pleasuring the British Navy. With my left hand, I waved in Miss Teakles who fiddled up, then down, then up, down, up, down, and – surprise!  Teakles’ all over the place. Which is the cue for Miss Lumpington to come in with her coma-inducing plucking.

Slurp, clump, clump plunk, slurp, clump, plunk…

“Girls, Triad! You’ve got to be together on this.“

“We’re trying as hard as we can, sir.”

Do you see? Do you see what I have to put up with?

“Softer, girls, this is Scheidt.”

“I don’t think that’s very fair, sir.“

Is it any wonder I spend my day constantly pissed?

My experiment worked and I have my proof that Newton was wrong. I have been exploring ways to pass on my observations and I feel that, after going through this in my head, the following is the best way I can find.

Let us say that today, I walk across Dulwich Common. I pass a gentleman who I have never made the acquaintance of. Neither do we acknowledge each other as we pass.

When I retire that evening, I dream the event that took place on the common in the exact same way. From my observation point, the gentleman I passed now exists in two states.

The first, the past where I passed him.
The second, where I dreamt I passed him.

Now let us theorise a third party, an observer. In the context of the park this may be a nanny who is sitting on a bench whilst her care run around. She witnessed myself passing the gentleman and introduces a third state. It is the state, and the only state, where both I and the gentleman are observed to exist.

We can refer to both the first and third states as being part of the Real. I know it to be real for it is my observation, and because the nanny is the only witness to both me and the gentleman existing in the same space. If I know I exist, then for me to be real, so must too that third state be real. As the second state is a product of my observation in the first state, we can note that for the first and second states to exist, the third state must exist.

Now I will refer to the second state as the unknown state. As the nanny did not see my dream, she did not observe me passing the gentleman in my dream – there is no verifiable evidence, but both I and the nanny in the first and third states have observed the gentleman to exist in that space. We must then conclude, that the gentleman in the second state can both exist and not exist.

I trust you are still with me. These three states, the First Real, the Second Unknown, and the Third Real, comprise the very fabric of our Universe. But that is not to say there are not more states. Imagine that the nanny went home tonight and dreamt about the same event I did. From her point of view, she has the three states, but because I also dreamt it, I now have my 3 states, plus her 3 states. If you will now entertain that the gentleman also dreamt of the event, that becomes 3 plus 3 plus 3.

Each time there is a difference in the event (say I dreamt that the gentleman’s cravat was blue and not red) this causes what I refer to as a new plane of reality, and all the states from the previous plane are repeated. (3+3+3)+(3+3+3). Now think of all the people you may pass in a busy day in London and, as I’m sure you can imagine, the numbers get big very quick – everyone has that first state which is observed by many combinations of third states, which means an infinite number of second states, on an infinite number of planes.

There is an indescribable amount of energy holding this together. I would need a blackboard to run through my hypothesis here, but my final observation is there is no mass or force. Ha! I will have to be fair, however, and give Newton his ‘action’. My experiment has also, unexpectedly, proven that time is irrelevant, which I have yet to understand.

So you see, after I fired my machine up, the iron support I was forced to use (thanks to not getting the funding from the Academy) broke. As I went to stop the machine from falling over, the carrier tube shattered and I was covered in my Huygen fluid, which was the key to this whole experiment. Amusingly, you may say, I now have no mass, nor can I apply any force. My eye-line was fixed in that split-second before I was covered in the fluid. From this viewpoint, I have witnessed my experiment over and over again.

Sometimes the differences are slight; my hair is longer, the room a different colour. Other times it would cause Charles Darwin to spin in his grave. I am sure that by these laws, there eventually must come a state where the ‘me’ doing the experiment, will notice the ‘me’ watching, and act accordingly. Though I do worry about the problem of time.

I cannot see, but I feel as if the walls of my laboratory have long since gone. It was about observation 400 when I felt the wallpaper was getting mouldy. Around 800 to 900 I could have sworn I smelt fresh paint. Long after I stopped counting, I felt at one point there were children in the room with me. And then there was an entire period of cycles where I regularly imagined I could hear sirens, followed by large explosions, until that ended abruptly. Now there is the feeling that I am in an open space. Sometimes I feel as I can taste the dew in my mouth.

I feel quite content, for I am watching the mechanics of the universe. I never get tired or bored and each cycle teaches me something new. I am also happy to fulfil myself with the thought, that one day, I will get back to that Academy, face my critics and physically shove Newton’s Principia where it belongs.