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”?