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

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.

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.

Stagehand: Curtain call, five minutes, ladies…

Doris: He wanted to put it where?

Ethel: Me back passage.

Doris: But, Ethel… That’s tiny.

Ethel: I know, that’s what I said, wouldn’t listen though. He gave it a good try and got covered in oil, the silly goose. Told him, to stick it round front.

Doris: What I don’t get is why ‘e didn’t do that in the first place.

Ethel: Well, ‘e was ‘fraid someone would nick it. Doubt anyone in Lambeth would knows how to drive it any’ow.

Doris: They do like their toys. ‘Ere, can you pass us those nipple tassles – the blue ones. So are you seeing him again?

Ethel: Well I don’t know, seems a bit obsessed with wanting to educate me, gave me a dictionary last night.

Doris: Any good?

Ethel: Not really, it keeps changing subject every other line. Nah, don’t think I will see him again. For one thing ‘e’s got his eye on Gladys over at the Imperial.

Doris: Gladys? Thought she went off to sea with that sailor fellow with the beard.

Ethel: She went off to SEE the sailor with the beard, that didn’t last very long at all. She met him round the back of the music hall expecting for him to take her on the town, and he was expecting her to take him right there and then on the floor – are my feathers straight, love?

Doris: Nah, bend over a second I’ll fix it for ya… (Sigh) – Do you ever ask what it’s all about?

Ethel: What, Doris?

Doris: You know… this.

Ethel: You mean the frilly knickers?

Doris: No, I mean… Surely there must be more to life than gettin’ on stage and whirling our bits for the lord and gentry.

Ethel: Oh Doris… ‘ere, stand up and look in the mirror, will ya. What do you see?

Doris: Me left nipple tassle is wonky.

Ethel: Your bottom, Doris!

Doris: Me bottom?

Ethel: Yes, your bottom.

Doris: What about me bottom?

Ethel: It’s a very pretty bottom.

Doris: I don’t see what me bottom has to do with wondering if there is more to life.

Ethel: You ever asked yourself why you have such a pretty bottom?

Doris: I….

Ethel: It’s becasue God wanted you to have that bottom and you were meant to wiggle it. Not just for the lord and gentry, for everyone.

Doris: It is rather pretty, ain’t it?

Ethel: Yes, yes it is, Doris… The prettiest bottom I have ever seen. Every night when we come to the end of our act and I am standing behind you as you bend down — It, well… It, it makes me smile inside.

Doris: Oh, Ethel, that’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me, I think I’m going to cry.

Ethel: Don’t cry, remember the crowd, they need to see your bottom smiling.

Doris: And so they shall…..

— 00 —

Stagehand: ‘Ere, what did you say to Doris? She’s been a moody moo-ha all day and now she looks like she’s on top of the world.

Ethel: Well, it was what this gentlemen was telling us last night really. To get to the top, you got start at the bottom.

All Rise…

Well, your ‘onour, I arrived on the corner of Brick Lane and Whitechapel ‘igh street at approximately 3am on the morning of November 6th 1927. Across the road, lying on the ground face-down, was a body which I presumed to be that of a reveller who was slightly worse for wear. I called out twice before going over and giving ‘im a slight tap on the ‘ead with me truncheon, to which there was no response. Turning the body over, I identified it to be that of a very pretty young women in ‘er twenties in some sort of Arabian attire, and that she was still breathing. ‘Aving earlier on that evening dealt with a drunken reveller from Lord Brownes’ party, who ‘ad been dressed as a pirate, I plopped her on me bicycle and cycled the six miles to where the party was ‘appening. When I knocked on the door, I was met by Lord Browne ‘imself, who greeted me with the following:

“I say, Merk’s come as a policeman. How superb!”

After a lot of what can only be described as young man’s joviality, which involved having me ‘elmet knocked off and tossed all over the room, I established I was not the gentleman known by the name Merk, but a constable appointed by ‘is Majesty of the realm. ‘E did not recognize the young lady, and neither had any of the other guests remembered seeing ‘er that evening. ‘E did, ‘owever, point out that the jewellery she was wearing was of extremely ‘igh quality and that was no doubt a real diamond in ‘er tiara. I then repeated my attempts to awake the young lady with another tap from me truncheon, with no success. Plopping ‘er back on me bicycle, I cycled three miles to the ‘ouse of Richard Neumann, who I knew to be an expert on jewellery, and who would be up at this early ‘our.

‘E explained to me that what she was wearing was most definitely antique, and that ‘e ‘ad a friend over in Battersea, which was two miles away, who would be able to tell me more. ‘E was also most kind in serving me some kippers. I plopped the lady back on me bicycle, but not before giving ‘er another tap on the ‘ead.

This friend turned out to indeed be most knowledgeable in the field of antiquities, and informed me that the jewellery was of Persian origin and at least three thousand years old – but could offer no more than that.

With all leads exhausted, I plopped her back on me bicycle and began to ‘ead back to Scotland Yard. As I crossed over Battersea Bridge the sun began to come up. I noticed the young lady begin to stir. ‘Er eyes opened to reveal the most beautiful green eyes I ‘ave ever seen. She smiled… oh… a smile that would light a thousand candles… – sorry, your ‘onour, what did I do next? Well, I gave ‘er one with me truncheon.

“I say, what a marvelous cock!”

I was so pleased the Vicar had noticed on this splendid spring day. Last year he had seemed to be obsessed by Lady Watson’s tits, and if we’re being perfectly honest, we would have to admit to agreeing they were a most magnificent pair, and most worthy of the prestigious Best Birds award in the Kensington and Chelsea Annual Ornithology Show 1911. But this was 1912. A whole year had passed. A year in which I had spent a great deal of time preparing and nurturing my Spangling Green Cock.

It was by no means the biggest out there, but I told myself size was not everything. I had spent many hundreds of hours grooming it. In the four weeks leading up to the show, I had carried out a strict regimen of massaging and bathing it at least three times a day – sometimes even before breakfast. As the Vicar placed his hands around it, I hoped that this – this - could be my year.

“Quite fidgety, isn’t it? Sign of a good diet,” he said.

I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow as he paused, and let out a silent sigh of relief as he continued.

“Oh, hasn’t it got tiny legs?”

Why did he have to mention the legs? Like a crystal glass dropped onto a marble floor, I felt my confidence shatter. Last year Duchess Bloemfontein had put on such a staggering display of thigh that, whilst she did not win, it was the talk of the Kings Road for many months after. Sadly, the Spangling Green never has offered much to offer the eye in terms of its limbage. Oh, why hadn’t I choosen a good booby over my cock, which now seemed to shrink in the Vicar’s hands? I lowered my head.

“There’s just one small thing, my dear fellow…”

With my confidence shattered and his use of the word ‘small’, I felt an ice-cold razor rip through my dreams. “Here it comes,” I told myself, as I prepared myself for more woe. Why hadn’t I listened to Asquith when he’d told me the vicar was much more a Brown Trembler man than a cock man, and that even the humble Rough Face Shag was known to bring a smile to his face.

“I don’t quite know how to say this, but…”

Come on, get to it! Raise the cold steel of the gun and blast what hopes I have left. Just say that it’s too small. That Lady Watson’s Agile Tits and the Red Fluffy Back Tit Babblers of the previous year’s winner – Miss Emmerford – had both been big, plentiful and full of bounce. I should have taken more time in my selection. If I had been more patient I would have been standing here proudly, showing off a large Willy Wagtail.

“It’s just….”

Why do you torture me so? God, I ask thee to open the ground and swallow me up.

“The ornithology show was last week. This is the canine show.”

I had wondered why I was surrounded by bitches.

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.