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!