Essays
As observed on the Membership page, our monthly meetings usually feature a Turn by one of the Members. These can take many forms, but often manifest themselves as addresses on diverse esoteric subjects. It struck me that it might be nice to preserve these lectures in written format, which is why Ive added this page. Whether Ill be able to persuade any of our talkers to supply me with text remains to be seen. However, another source of Sheridanian outpouring is the monthly Newsletter, which sometimes features articles by Members, so I shall endeavour to add some of those too. Before long well have a body of learning to rival the British Library.
We Didnt Have a Uniform As Such: Fashion in the British Army During the Second World War
The French Invasion of
Pembrokeshire in 1797
Voyaging Through the Strange Seas of Thought: Travel, Nostalgia and the Triumph of the Imagination
Primordial Hat Lore Discovered
In the Land of the Long White Cloud, Part 1
You Mean They Can Make Wine in America?
Flight Lieutenant Gordon Brettel DFC
The Silver Bullet: A Monograph on the Martini
The Eight Kinds of Drunkennesse
The Assassination of Georgi Markov
The New Sheridan Guide to Hangovers
A Journey to Viennas Coffee Houses
Some Interesting Discourses on Strong Drink
Satanism: Separating Fact from Myth
Nina Hamnett, the Queen of Bohemia
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We Didnt Have a Uniform As Such
Fashion in the British Army During the
Second World War
By Sean Longden
(First appeared in Newsletter No. 30)
Every year
thousands of tourists descend on London to witness the pomp and pageantry of
Britains heritage. At the very centre of this are the traditional military
displays of the Changing Of The Guard and the Trooping Of The Colour. These
soldiers of the Guards regiments and the Household Cavalry, with their spotless
tunics, shining boots and faultlessly synchronised drill, are the very picture
of British military tradition. These are the descendants of the men sent all
over the globe to serve the Empire. It was a tradition where ability and
efficiency were sometimes perceived as secondary to appearance. British
military mythology is full of tales of men fighting last-gasp actions,
constantly dogged by a Sergeant Major admonishing them for having a button
missing. Tales abound of officers fighting colonial wars with their
swelteringly hot woollen tunics buttoned to the neck—Mad Dogs and
Englishmen indeed.
Twentieth
century peacetime soldiering had changed little, with a constant struggle to
keep uniforms and barracks spotless. The razor sharp creases, gleaming brass,
shining boots and faultless parade ground drill were the bedrock upon which
discipline was based and gave men pride in their regiment.
New
recruits during World War Two were subjected to the same exacting standards.
Assessing the shock to the civilian soldiers one military chaplain wrote: He
is no longer free to dress as he pleases or to go where he pleases. He can be
ordered to do things against his will. His whole life is regulated without his
wishes being consulted. His personality is merged in that of the group. Little
wonder most of the fighting men would use amendments to their uniform as a way
to express their individuality as soon as the opportunity arose.
Why
is it that the American style of WW2 is still perceived as cool—how
many people in so-called cargo pants realise they are wearing a copy of a WW2
American parachutists trouser?—yet the British Army style of the period
just seems old fashioned? To understand this we must explore the nature of the
British uniform. The basis of all British uniforms of the period was the
Battledress, a two-piece outfit of blouson jacket and loose-fitting trousers
made from rough khaki serge. The battledress remained an unpopular garment and
most of its wearers thought they were the worst dressed army on the
battlefields of Europe. They laughed that the jacket could make them look
pregnant in front and hunchbacked in the rear. Tall thin men found their
trousers needed to be pulled in at the waist, the crotch hanging down towards
their knees, whilst stout men found the trousers too tight across the seat. One
Private recalls: Who invented the battledress? To begin with it looked
slovenly. A soldier is supposed to look smart, but in battledress most of us
looked like out-of-work dustcart attendants. When the Australian and American
servicemen came to Britain they put our lads to shame. If a bloke got one that
fitted perfect when he was standing up it was half way up his back when he bent
to pick anything up, and when he straightened up it stayed there. When this
happened with equipment on it was most uncomfortable and almost impossible to
rectify unless the wearer undid the equipment belt first.
There
were many other styles of headgear for use when the helmet was not needed. The
ludicrous forage caps of the early war years had been replaced in all but a few
regiments. The forage cap had served little purpose apart from annoying drill
instructors when it fell from the heads of new recruits. In its place most
regiments had adopted the General Service Cap, a floppy brown hat not disimilar
in shape and design to the Tam OShanters that remained the basic headgear of
many Scottish and Canadian Scottish regiments. This cap—itchy, misshapen
and sloppy—was the perfect accompaniment to the battledress.
The
general rule was that berets, Tams and caps should always angle to the right.
However there were exceptions. Irish regiments wore theirs to the left. Royal
Armoured Corps men learned to wear their black beret to the rear of their heads
whilst the Yeomanry they served alongside wore theirs to the side. And
paratroops tended to wear their red berets square upon the top of the head. It
was all a matter of tradition, designed to instill a sense of identity and
cohesion.
At
the outbreak of war the British Army looked far different from the way it would
look in 1945. Yet many of these changes would be the result not just of the
experience of war but also of the soldiers desire to express themselves. Right
from the start this was something the army struggled with: serving in France in
1940 General Montgomery had been appalled by his troops appearance. I see men
lounging about in the streets with their tunics open, hats on the back of their
headin all sorts of kit; in the same party some men wore helmets, some soft
caps, some no headgear at all. However Montgomery, the first British General
to wear battledress rather than service dress, did qualify this by saying that
when battle is joined we can think again.
With
the failure of the campaign in France and Belgium in 1940 the British public
went in search of heroes. The first offering was The Few. The RAF pilots of
the Battle of Britain were to capture the public imagination—they flew in
their shirtsleeves and soft shoes, their necks wrapped in coloured scarves,
their hair worn fashionably long. They appeared more like civilians, men who
had strayed straight from a university bar or riverside picnic on to an airfield.
Considering how young many of them were, this was not far from the truth.
It
was to be two more years before another group of men won the publics
heart—the Eighth Army with its long-awaited victory at El Alamein. Again
these mens appearance would have incurred the wrath of every Sergeant Major on
the parade grounds back home. The conditions in the desert prevented the upkeep
of old standards and gradually the look changed. Men wore whatever headgear was
comfortable—tin helmets, solar topees, forage caps, bush hats, woollen
cap comforters and even Arab headdress. The days could be blistering and the
nights perishing. Pullovers, unacceptable back home, became de rigeur, their
waistbands visible in the gap between battledress blouse and trousers. Clothes
were worn to taste in the Eighth Army. Soldiers often sported a combination of
tropical khaki drill and battledress, some men in long trousers, others in
shorts. Some men wore leather boots, others suede. Many officers took to
wearing civilian clothing—mufti, as they called it— purchased on
visits to Cairo or Alexandria, that they found better suited to local
conditions. One officer recalled that when captured by the Italians in 1941 he
wore: no badges of rank, but a golf jacket, a pink shirt into which was tucked
a yellow silk scarf, a pair of green corduroy trousers and an expensive pair of
suede boots.
This
was the look made famous in Jons Two Types cartoon which featured two of
this new breed, men who sported large moustaches and carried fly whisks. It was
in the desert that Montgomery himself adopted the individual style that was
soon to become his trademark. His black tank mans beret with its two badges
and his customary civilian trousers were to become instantly recognisable to
troops and public alike.
These
were the men who won the battles that finally turned the tide of war. Not the
spotless Guardsmen of postcards and advertisements, but the unkempt men of the
less fashionable regiments. And these were the men who continued the campaign
through Sicily and Italy where their style underwent more permutations. In the
searing Sicilian sun some soldiers adopted the wide-brimmed straw hats favoured
by the locals. The unconventional appearance of one Eighth Army soldier finally
caused Montgomery to act: I saw a lorry coming towards me with a soldier
wearing a silk top hat. As the lorry passed me, the driver leant out from his
cab and took off his hat to me with a sweeping and gallant gesture. I just
roared with laughter. However, while I was not particular about dress so long
as soldiers fought well and we won our battles, I at once decided there were
limits. When I got back to my headquarters I issued the only order I ever
issued about dress in the Eighth Army; it read: Top hats will not be worn in
the Eighth Army.
The
general public back home agreed with Monty that you had to have a victory
before you could have the parade. By 1944 the soldiers in England preparing for
the invasion of the Continent, learning from returning Eighth Army veterans,
were aware that, once battle was joined, the barrack room standards would slip
and comfort would become the overriding issue. From 1944 the hard fighting of
the Normandy campaign did indeed bring changes. As Alexander Baron wrote to his
family on the first anniversary of D-Day: If you wanted to dress like a comic
opera pirate you could.
In
the heat of summer the soldiers had to change their clothing to make it more
comfortable. The warm serge of the battledress was the first thing to go. It
was too heavy and rubbed at their necks. At first they unbuttoned their blouses
and rolled back the cuffs, then the soldiers removed them, strapped them into
their webbing, and fought in their shirtsleeves. The ever-busy gunners of the
artillery stood for hours under the scorching sun, reacting to fire orders,
laying down barrages. For comfort they stripped off their jackets and
shirts—in extreme cases working in bathing trunks—yet all the while
with their heads protected by their helmets.
The
relaxation of the standards of discipline over uniforms allowed men to express
themselves with small details. They picked up umbrellas from the ruins of
villages and marched en masse sheltering under the canopies. Whole units picked roses—the
traditional English symbol—from bushes lining the roads of France to
decorate their hats. Why this desire to stand out? It is said that the troops
were bound first to their own unit rather than to the army as a whole. It was
also a way of saying that despite being soldiers they were still civilians at
heart. By appearing casual men were attempting to feel casual, as one sergeant
explained: The psychological advantages of going into battle with your tunic
collar turned up and one hand in your pocket, when possible, cannot be overemphasised.
These
stylistic gestures were just the start of a movement. They were young men, with
the same fashion interests as men of their age across the world. In the glare
of Normandy sunglasses became popular and throughout the campaign scarves were widely
worn by the soldiers. For some it was decoration and for others just comfort.
Scarves prevented the heavy serge of the blouse from chafing the neck. They
could act as facemasks against smoke or dust or could mop up sweat. For the
most basic neckwear the soldiers tore strips from their camouflage face veils.
Or they might pick up table-cloths from the wreckage of houses and cafs, tear
coloured silk from parachutes abandoned after airborne operations or simply
take womens headscarves from local houses. Operation Varsity, the airborne
drop to the east of the Rhine, left plenty of variously coloured parachutes
littering the fields. In the days that followed there was a craze among
soldiers for having the brightest silk scarf. In the final days of the war a
German pilot reported how he parachuted into a field to be met by British
infantrymen who ignored him and set about cutting up his parachute.
Even
when men retained regulation issue uniform it was not to say they all looked
alike. There were still opportunities for personal expression without breaking
the rules. Vehicle crews noted how one man might wear battledress, another a
tank suit, a third a leather jerkin and so on.
But
while most riflemen could only make minor adjustments to their uniforms some of
their infantry colleagues were dressing up to a degree few could have expected
before they arrived on the continent. The top hat described by Montgomery was
not unique. Out of the line many men took to wearing all manner of
headgear—straw sunhats, fur hats, bowlers, trilbys—but it was the
top hat that really caught the imagination of the soldiers, who were amused by
the upper-class connotations. In the moments before the start of Operation
Market Garden General Horrocks noticed a complete carrier crew, waiting for the
advance to begin, all sporting tall black hats. During the battles around
Oosterbeek, outside Arnhem, one NCO kept his men entertained by walking around
in a stovepipe hat that he claimed made him impervious to shellfire.
Somehow
the high ups in the army misjudged the mood of the men. While the soldiers
were fighting well—succeeding in their tasks and advancing slowly towards
Germany—the Provost Corps were being told to check up on headgear. With
hundreds of men wearing comical civilian hats the MPs were being instructed to
make sure berets and caps were being correctly worn on top of heads, rather
than hanging off the side or the back. Judging by film and photographs of the
time, it was an order they would never be able to enforce. The MPs themselves
were known regularly to ignore regulations by breaking their service caps to
change the look.
Hairstyles
were also influenced by war. The extremes of the short back and sides so
favoured by Sergeant Majors was slowly replaced by more relaxed styles. In
preparation for their leading role in the D-Day landings some men adopted
unusual hairstyles. Crew cuts became popular and some of the more adventurous,
such as some paratroopers of the 6th Airborne Division, shaved the sides of
their heads for the Mohican look. One East Yorkshire Regiment soldier was
even seen to have his hair shaved just leaving the three dots and a dash to
denote the V for Victory morse sign; others shaved their hair into diamonds
or square patterns. Haircuts were used by some men as a distinctive mark of
their esprit de corps. One tank commander noted how the crews of the recovery
vehicles in his squadron all went without headwear to show off their shaven
heads.
With
the escalation of the fighting in France in the months following D-Day there
were to be few opportunities for the front line soldiers to get haircuts or
wash their hair and the appearance of most soldiers deteriorated. It would only
be once the fighting had died down and leave to the towns and cities of Belgium
and France had been initiated that the soldiers could use their 48 hours of
freedom to get a professional haircut. Once newly coiffured the soldiers would
then go to photographic studios to have their portraits taken to be sent home
to their families.
The
only problem was that continental hairdressers seemed to have a very different
idea of how mens hair should be treated than the barbers back at home. They
left hair longer than regulation length and used oils and waxes to shape it in
a way few soldiers had previously encountered. Men with their hair treated in
this way initially found themselves the subject of ridicule. Their mates
laughed, calling them poofs and comparing them to the pampered poodles
carried by French women. But, despite the teasing, hairstyles began to change:
the shaven sides and backs disappeared and the tops got longer and wavier. Soon
off-duty soldiers were pushing their general service caps back as far as
possible to show off ever-growing quiffs, a change that would be realised more
fully in the post-war years.
Another
fad was for German belts. These were taken from corpses, picked up from
abandoned positions or removed from prisoners. As one man later told me, he had
turned over a dead German whose body was still warm, just to remove his belt.
He later realised this was a bizarre action for a quiet, young bank clerk. Why
was a leather belt with a German eagle and the words Gott Mitt Uns so
important to him? The answer was fashion. Others decorated their belts with
badges taken from the corpses of defeated enemies, like personal battle
honours—each marking a unit he had defeated. Such displays were a way of
binding units together, even if just one eight-man section. Though most
soldiers took pleasure in dressing down whenever they could, when they came
into contact with civilians they wanted to be as smart as possible. The
soldiers going on leave were irritated that they had to go into Brussels
dressed in baggy khaki serge uniforms. Even after pressing out the creases they
realised battledress wouldnt compete with the GIs uniforms—the
Americans went on leave dressed in smart trousers, skirted jackets, shoes and a
collared shirt with tie. The British felt they looked like binmen in comparison
and feared the Yanks would pull all the good looking birds. Even the officers
of 21st Army Group couldnt compare to the average American riflemen.
In
an attempt to redress the balance the soldiers defied regulations and contrived
to get ties to wear whilst on leave. Such was the disquiet among the troops
that the rules were changed to correspond with the changes being unofficially
made. From late 1944 other ranks were permitted to leave open the top button of
their battledress blouse and to wear collars and ties when off duty. For men going
on leave it made a welcome change to appear smart and, ideally, impress the
local women. The only problem was that few had access to either collared shirts
or ties. Once more the soldiers had to improvise and when MPs began to check
they discovered men were wearing unauthorised patterns.
Many
had managed to acquire officers pattern shirts and ties. Others traded with
their American allies, for whom ties were an integral part of the uniform. Some
British units shared a collared shirt and tie, given to each man in turn as he
went on leave. When it came time for John Mercer to visit Brussels he was
fortunate: One of my mates was a tailors cutter. He sat down on his haunches
and altered my shirt, and several other shirts, making us collars and ties.
Some
men took their trousers into local tailors workshops and had them altered to
give a better fit around the waist and seat and for the legs to be less
baggy—similar to the GIs trousers. However, some senior officers were
not keen. The Commanding Officer of the 1/5th Queens Regiment, part of the 7th
Armoured Division, ordered checks to be carried out on his men. Between the
15th and 17th January 1945 full kit inspections were ordered with prizes of 48
hour leave passes and free NAAFI issue for the best turned-out men. Tailors
tickets, indicating unofficial alterations, were just one criteria of the
inspections. Officers were also instructed to check uniforms for the correct
number of buttons on shirts, that socks were correctly darned, there were no
oil stains on battledress, boots were laced properly and that trousers hung in
the correct manner. The timing of these checks seems strange since on the 17th
the battalion took 68 casualties—men who would not have been spared by
having the correct number of shirt buttons.
The
tank and armoured yeomanry regiments had a lax attitude towards clothing. They
were military revolutionaries, men who were looking forward to a new kind of
war, not back at the battles of two hundred years before. This seemed to have
been passed down to the men of the tank crews, many of whom displayed little
more than a passing knowledge of the accepted dress codes. The officers of the
Royal Tank Regiment considered themselves the elite of mobile armoured warfare,
feeling they were more professional than the recently armoured Guards regiments
or the dashing figures of the newly armoured cavalry regiments. The cavalrymen
thought likewise. They were an elite; they may have traded their horses for
tanks and armoured cars but many were still determined to show their fighting
abilities with the reckless abandon that had characterised cavalry warfare
through history.
Hand
in hand with this came a sartorial style that seemed a direct heir of the
cavaliers of the English Civil War. Of all the men making stylistic amendments
to their uniforms the tank officers were to display more abandon than most.
Unlike infantry officers, who needed to blend in with the other ranks to avoid
observation by the enemy, tank commanders were already conspicuous since they were
usually visible to the enemy as they needed to sit on the rims of their
turrets. There was no point in being disguised and so they dressed as they felt
most comfortable. The loading of landing craft in preparation for D-Day was
given an almost holiday atmosphere when one Guards officer supervised the
loading of his tanks dressed in grey flannels and a white shirt. This was the
spirit carried throughout the armoured units. In many regiments it became de
rigueur to dress in the Eighth Army Style of scarves, cords and desert boots.
Not all were actually veterans of the North African campaign but they liked to
appear confident, experienced soldiers.
One
tank commander described his regiment: The officers look as though they are
dressed for a fancy dress ball. One has a leather jerkin. Another is wearing
denim overalls. One has a cricket sweater on. Others are in full battledress.
One or two are in shirtsleeves. Trousers range from sloppy corduroys to sloppy
serge. Other items of clothing seen in use in Normandy included a fur-lined
leather jacket and even a Harlequins rugby shirt. Our tank commander recalled
one of his officers being reprimanded for his appearance: He was wearing
German jackboots, riding breeches and a coloured scarf in a remote outpost in
Holland when the Brigadier unexpectedly appeared. Brig. Scott, a strict
disciplinarian but respected leader, bawled him out—shouting, Get some
bloody proper uniform on and try to look like an officer!
While
the situation was different in the infantry, many officers there still adopted
deliberately relaxed images, as if a direct challenge to the perceived precise
military bearing of the German officer class. The monocle-wearing Prussian
officer with high-collared jacket, shaven head and duelling scars had long been
a comic figure in British eyes, from the First World War to the stereotype
perpetuated by Hollywood in the 1920s and 1930s in characters played by George
Sanders and Eric Von Stroheim.
With
service dress put aside for the duration of the war officers, like their men,
wore battledress. They were allowed to wear either issue battledress or have an
individual suit made by a tailor. If they chose to wear the issue battledress
blouse they were allowed to have the collar altered so that the jacket lining
was not visible. Instead it could be reshaped and lined with fabric to give the
appearance of jacket lapels. Tailor-made garments often had a similar
appearance but were obviously better fitting. Photographs of senior officers
show a wide variety of styles, some wearing the most basic Economy Issue
blouses, without alterations, some wearing tailored jackets with various collar
and lapel sizes. Some favoured small neat lapels, others preferred wider, open
collars. Men like Brigadier Roscoe Harvey favoured a modern image—he wore
a battledress blouse with a zipped front giving it the appearance of a civilian
blouson jacket. Others like Major General Thomas, commander of the 43rd
Division, resembled a cross between a Great War general and the villain in a
Victorian melodrama—he wore riding boots, breeches and a long leather
coat.
Not
all the officers had the luxury of such alterations. Many did not have the
financial backing of the traditional officer class and couldnt afford the
luxury of tailor-made uniforms. This new breed of officer, many from the
working classes or the lower middle classes of 1930s suburbia, instead wore
exactly the same outfit as the riflemen of their platoons. This in itself was
an expression—a challenge to the old ways of the army. Ken Hardy, a young
subaltern serving in the Hallams, was one of those infantry officers who
enjoyed the anonymity of dressing to merge in with his platoon. He recalled: I
knew about dressing down before I went out to Normandy. I never carried a pistol,
I never carried a map and I never carried binoculars. If I did they were
underneath my jacket. But I carried a rifle from the word go. I mean, you want
to live! We all realised you had to dress accordingly. The senior officers
accepted this. They didnt do likewise, but they realised us platoon commanders
werent going to live very long if we didnt dress like privates. It stood me
in hellish good stead. This was a revolt against the old, decorative ways of
the gentlemen soldiers and was a reflection of what was to come in the post-war
years—both in fashion and throughout society.
Still,
there were some infantry officers who dressed to stand out. Though few, they
made an indelible impression in the minds of the men. Peter Young, commanding
No 3 Commando, was seen wearing an Arab headdress during the fighting in
Normandy. In the final anarchic weeks of the war the SAS were let off the leash
in northern Germany to cause chaos and confusion behind the enemy lines. One
officer led his jeep patrols wearing a top hat and corduroy trousers. Others
took to wearing two revolvers on their belts, giving them the appearance of
Western gunslingers. At his briefing for Operation Market Garden General
Horrocks noted how few of his officers wore regular uniforms. Steel helmets
were nowhere to be seen and berets of various hues were the order of the day.
Royal Armoured Corps officers seemed all to be wearing corduroys or brightly
coloured slacks. Many artillery officers were wearing riding breeches or
jodhpurs. Ties seemed to have been abandoned in favour of polka dot scarves of
various colours. Horrocks himself was dressed in a high-necked woolly jumper
and airborne camouflaged smock.
With
the onset of winter the soldiers needed more protection than that offered by
their battledress, leather jerkins and greatcoats. The problem for the
infantrymen was that these brown doublebreasted coats were too cumbersome for
use much of the time. They were ideal for wearing when sleeping curled up in
the bottom of a slit trench or standing on guard duty, but unsuited to battle.
Some soldiers found the solution was to cut off the bottom of the coat, just
keeping it as long as the skirt of a jacket. This innovation kept the upper
body warm whilst allowing the legs to move unimpeded. The only problem with
this was the wearer would also have to endure the shortened coat at night, when
it was not large enough to snuggle down in. Instead most infantrymen preferred
the wool-lined leather jerkins. These kept the body warm without restricting the
movement of the arms.
Fortunately
with the lines static for much of the winter the infantry were able to acquire
all manner of clothing to ward off the cold. Necessity once more became the
mother of invention as the British and Canadian soldiers utilised whatever they
could beg, borrow or steal. Some cut the sleeves from greatcoats and sewed them
on to leather jerkins to make warm jackets. In time some official supplies were
made available. All manner of winter clothing was issued—duffle coats,
Wellington boots, fur-lined RAF boots, sea boot socks and even rabbit fur
waistcoats. The soldiers may no longer have all looked like soldiers but at
least they were warm. It was the look of the British working man translated
into a military setting. I call it the farmhand with a flourish
look—Wellingtons, woollen jumpers, caps at all angles, gauntlets, scarves
and jerkins.
While
many of the troops spent the winter wearing Wellingtons some found a convenient
local alternative—in Holland and Belgium some off-duty soldiers took to
wearing wooden-soled clogs. They claimed the felt lining made the clogs warmer
and more comfortable than issue boots. One soldier was seen wearing the clogs
of a Belgian miner, part wooden, part leather, topped with anklets made from
the felt linings of mortar bomb cases.
The
British army began to lose its cohesive look. Veterans looked on in wonder at
new arrivals in polished boots rather than Wellingtons. Officers couldnt
believe that map cases or holsters still existed. Soldiers joked that they
could spot an inexperienced man by his greatcoat—which had obviously
never been slept in. Once again, the fashions of the front line were really a
badge of identity.
This
identity began to find expression in increasingly comic behaviour. A veteran
infantryman of the 7th Armoured Division remembered the behaviour of his
comrades: If you were going down the road and there was a house that had been
knocked about a bit, youd go in and come out with a saucepan on your head. Or
theyd pick up a womans handbag and wear knickers and a brassiere over their
uniform. That was a lovely spell-breaker, especially if youve had a rough
time. It keeps you sane. Remember we were just kids. We didnt think as we did
when we were in civvy street. We were children, with no minds. So anything like
that was marvellous.
As
the British and Canadian armies charged across northern Germany in the last
days of the war little did they realise they were enjoying their last days of
stylistic freedom. With the war nearing its end the senior officers began to
look forward to the peace and plan for the role of their men in occupying the
defeated Reich. Discipline would be the order of the day and they wanted their
men to look like a conquering army, not a gang of tramps. In the first days of
May 1945, as the 7th Armoured Division approached Hamburg, the men got the
first taste of the new regime. Orders were given to them: No item of
unauthorised clothing will be worn and it is the duty of all offrs & NCOs
to enforce this order rigidly. The story was the same throughout 21st Army
Group. The officers of the 9th RTR looked on aghast as their crews paraded in a
curious mixture of uniforms, that had been altered to meet individual tastes,
and looted civilian clothing. They were soon told to discard them. Harry Free
of the 43rd Reconnaissance Regiment noticed the sudden change: On active
service I was something of a rebel—whilst on recce duties I never wore a
hard hat, wore a black leather jacket, air gauntlets, gumboots, a yellow
neckerchief and a beret. I was never challenged by senior officers, they seemed
to be very lax No-one had to tell us when the war ended—it was on
parade, all brasses polished, marching here, there and everywhere—a very
strict dress code enforced!
In
the first weeks after the surrender of Germany the soldiers had to get used to
all the old standards. The long-neglected tins of blanco, brasso and boot
polish were dug out from the bottom of packs. Buttons and brasses shone again.
Belts and webbing changed colour. Sergeant Majors could once again see their
faces in toe caps. Hats returned to regulation angles. Collars were turned
down, scarves packed away, hands kept out of pockets. Now they were ready for
the victory parades.
Of
course, these new standards could not be kept up forever. In the months
following the parades and victory celebrations a certain malaise crept into
many of those charged with occupying Germany. Those men who had seen their only
military role as being to defeat the Nazis were anxious to be demobbed. Those
who had already got their demob date, and knew they had but days to go, let
their standards slip. One man later wrote of his behaviour: We slouched across
our corner of a foreign field with hats on or off according to our fancy,
collars undone, boots unpolished, hands in pockets, with many mouths drooping
with our free allowance of fags. We could not have looked much like an
all-conquering army.
Those
who were not getting out so quickly also made modifications to their
uniforms—to make them smarter. Tailors were engaged, paid in cigarettes,
to make uniforms more flattering. Battledress blouses were brought in on the
body to hang better. Triangles of
cloth inserted at the bottom of trouser legs to create a flare.
The
look of this army survived. After being forced to wear hats and have their hair
cut for years, men returned to civvy street and abandoned headwear. The quiffs
that emerged from beneath berets and caps in the last year of the war became
the general look of the 1950s.
The
casual dress of the Two Types officers emerged into the post-war world,
denting the control the suit had over the wardrobes of the British male. Sports
jackets and flannels became the look of the demobbed officer. Old suit jackets
that had outlived their matching trousers were resurrected to be worn with
contrasting cloths. It was not just the class system that had been levelled: it
seemed everybody had adapted the newly casual style upon demob.
For
years it seemed the farmhand look favoured in so many units never disappeared
from society. In my childhood every dustman, market trader and coalman seemed
to be wearing a leather jerkin, maybe an ancient battered beret and a pair of
Wellingtons or hobnailed army boots.
Army
service had left its mark on every part of society. A couple of years ago I saw
the last remnants of those days when I spotted a pensioner mowing his lawn in a
battered leather jerkin and black beret—obviously his gardening clothes
ever since demob. With him the fashions of the young men of WW2 will die. The
individual flourishes of fashion—worn under the most trying of
circumstances—by young men who wanted to express their status as
civilians first rather than soldiers are forgotten by a society which instead
remembers the fashions that came from across the Atlantic.
Sean
Longden is the author of Dunkirk: The Men They Left Behind (Constable), To
the Victor the Spoils (Arris), about the reality of the behaviour of British
troops in Europe after D-Day, and Hitlers British Slaves (Arris), about the
treatment of Allied POWs in Germany.
—{}—
An Account of the French Invasion of Pembrokeshire in
1797
As set down by Ensign
Polyethyls Great, Great, Great, Great, Great Uncle
(First appeared in Newsletter No. 29)
Rev Arthur Hill Richardson,
St Gwyndafs Rectory,
Llanwnda,
Pembrokeshire
Written this day of our Lord 20th January 1841
My Dearest Descendents,
I
believe that the time may come (in about five generations) when an eyewitness
account of the evils and foolishnesses of the French might be a fitting topic
to educate the idle English drinkers in a Fitzrovian pub. I set down my account
to ensure that all may have a proper understanding of what happened.
I
write this day that I, the perpetual curate of Manorowen, become the vicar of
this little chapel, St Gwyndafs church, Llanwnda. This house of worship with
such a history—where Giraldus Cambrensis once held the living to which I
have now been appointed. My writings may never achieve his greatness, but if
they can contribute something as a testament to the failure of the French
Atheist ambitions then I will be a worthy successor.
At
the time of the invasion I was a youth. My parents were living as Organists in
the Cathedral City of St Davids (and a remarkably small city it is, quite the
smallest in Britain). Then as now the Pencaer Peninsula, and the nearby town of
Fishguard, is very quiet; a rural corner of the furthest reaches of West Wales.
There is nothing beyond the headland but the savagery of Ireland. The harbour
of Fishguard is good, but very small. The area has no major towns, no industry;
it is on no trade routes. The town relies on herring fishing and small-scale
agriculture. In generations to come perhaps the pretty little cottages that
edge the harbour might be available for holiday lets at very reasonable prices,
but for now they are occupied by boat builders, farmers, fishermen and any
suggestion that any of them is involved in smuggling is gross calumny.
Similarly every ship that is wrecked on the sharp jagged rocks of our coastline
is driven there purely by accident or storm. Other coasts might have their
wreckers but my parishioners are law-abiding folk. A suggestion to the contrary
will limit your abilities to buy any of the brandy with which the area is so
well supplied.
The
town of Fishguards one proud boast was its guns. In September 1779 a French-American-Irish
Pirate bombarded the town, intending to hold the fishing fleet to ransom. One
local fisherman had a cannon mounted upon his vessel (purely to aid his Herring
fishing, and in no way an indication of smuggling). A few rounds from the
Welshmans cannon were enough to persuade the Pirate to sail away in search of
easier targets.
The
shock of the bombardment meant that letters were sent to the Privy Council
asking for proper defences to be built. The town provided the land and built
the gun emplacement and the Privy Council provided the eight 9-pounder guns and
three Woolwich pensioners to man them. The fort was completed by 1785. However
neither town nor Privy Council had supplied the necessary Powder. The town
requested some from the Privy Council; the Council wrote back saying that the
town should buy some. Letters were exchanged, but little was bought. As a
result on the day of the events that follow Messrs Mitchell, Benson and Rhodes,
our retired gunners, had only three rounds of ammunition and 16 cartridges with
which to defend the town.
So
our thoughts now turn to the invaders—and why they should choose to land
at Fishguard.
The
French, as we are all well aware, are a depraved lot. They started as Papists
and then turned Atheist—so it was only proper that we had been at war
with them since 1793. They had revolted, killed their King, and were so crazed
by blood and terror that they believed all the world wanted to follow their
example. They had involved themselves in Americas revolt, and their pernicious
influence was trying to break into Ireland. They even believed that the simple
farmers of Wales were longing to revolt against the natural order of
society—their reasoning based simply on a few malcontents who were toying
with nonconformist Methodism.
So
the French planned a three-pronged attack. One force was to sail to Ireland,
another to Newcastle and a third to Bristol. The three attacks were to support
each other and lead the local people into revolt.
The
Irish invasion force set sail in December 1796. Led by the Irish traitor Wolfe
Tone, they made it as far as Bantry Bay. Unfortunately the only person with any
brains behind the expedition, General Hoche, had not told anyone else the
plans, so when his ship was swept out into the Atlantic by storms, the plans
went with him. Those ships with Wolfe Tone that did reach Bantry Bay did not
know what to do and were astonished to discover that there were no cheering
armies of Irish supporters. Unable to cope with the adverse winds, the whole
fleet decided to return to France without landing.
Meanwhile
the Newcastle invasion force was being boarded on to a fleet of flat-bottomed
river barges, with the intention of sailing from France to Newcastle. There the
5,000 soldiers were to destroy local collieries and shipping. Even those of you
not familiar with maritime matters may guess that a flat-bottomed river barge
is not an appropriate vessel for the
winter
storms of the North Sea. The force sailed as far as the Low Countries before
abandoning the project.
What
is curious is that the orders for the Bristol invasion fleet were not now
rewritten.
It
was still despatched to support the Irish and Newcastle invasion
fleets—which had already limped back to France. Why? I suppose General
Hoche had lost interest in the scheme and so did nothing to make the fleets
success any more likely.
Even
more curiously, the ships in the fleet were brand new, the latest,
best—and therefore valuable—vessels, straight from the builders
dock yards. After the failure of the Irish and Newcastle invasions I am baffled
why a man as intelligent as General Hoche would risk ships as valuable as Le
Vengeance and La Resistance, two of the largest French frigates, the latter on
her maiden voyage. Even the corvette La Constance and the lugger Vautour were
new. The ships were commanded by Commodore Castagnier, a man who followed his
orders precisely—regardless of the changed circumstances.
The
French army that was to invade Bristol was led by another Irish-American, a
septuagenarian called Colonel William Tate, from South Carolina. He had fought
against Britain in the American War of Independence. However, after that war he
became embroiled in French plans to capture New Orleans and fell foul of the
American authorities. In 1795 he fled to Paris, whence he persuaded General Hoche
to let him lead the invasion. Thus he gained command of the Lgion Noir, named
after the colour of their jackets.
The
Lgion Noir consisted of 600 grenadier soldiers and 800 convicts. These 1,400
men were armed with only 100 rounds each for the entire invasion. These French
troops were led by yet more Irish officers, including one Lieutenant Barry St
Leger, who had already had a picturesque life. Born in Ireland, sent to America
as a child, returning to Ireland as a teenager, only to be shipwrecked and lose
all his goods, picked up by pirates, taken to France, jailed, recognised as a
fellow Irish-American by Tate and included in his invasion.
This
motley collection sailed out of Brest on 16th February 1797, flying Russian
colours in an attempted ruse de guerre. The convict soldiers were so little
trusted by their officers that they were kept in the bowels of the ships still
in their ankle chains. (When eventually these men ended up in Pembrokeshire
jails their new jailers were astonished to find that they already had calluses
and cuts from being kept in chains.)
If the soldiers subsequent claims can be believed then they were not
told where they were headed.
In
fact the plan was to destroy Bristol—Englands second largest city, a
world-class harbour filled with ships, opinionated sailors, men who know how to
deal with irritating Frenchmen. After destroying this seat of naval power the
1,400 ill-armed and untrained men were to march to Chester and Liverpool,
avoiding Cardiff, there to meet up with the (now non-existent) Newcastle
invasion force.
As
they sailed they revealed themselves to be French, not Russian, by sinking some
merchant ships off Ilfracombe, thus ensuring that the alarm was raised and
messages sent to the Royal Navy.
At
this point they decided that the winds were bad for Bristol so they changed the
plan and sailed for Cardigan Bay instead.
On
Wednesday, 22nd February 1797 they arrived off the coast of North
Pembrokeshire. By now all ashore knew they were French. A retired sea captain
had walked along the coast keeping watch on them. A customs ship had spotted
the fleet and retreated into shallow waters to avoid them. A Pembrokeshire
Merchant Ship had been seized and the crew taken prisoner.
The
first ship attempted to sail into Fishguard Harbour, giving our retired
Woolwich gunners the opportunity to dine out on the story for the rest of their
lives. They fired a single blank round at the ship—and it fled.
So
the French troops were forced to land at Carreg Wastad Point. If you visit the
spot you will see that there is no beach, no gentle slope, no landing place.
Just jagged cliffs plunging straight into the rock-strewn sea.
During
the landing one launch overturned, drowning eight men, and the artillery was
lost. This left 1,400 men—with no horses, transport, artillery, spare
ammunition or food—wandering a barren headland. Indeed the reader should
remember that in this part of Wales the people do not even speak English, and
the invaders had not thought to bring any Welsh translators.
The
French established themselves on a prominent rocky outcrop and started to wave
their Revolutionary Flag, in the belief that the locals would flock to them.
Why they thought that a Pembrokeshire farmer would know enough of French
politics to recognise the meaning of the flag remains unanswered.
Unsurprisingly the Welsh instead guided their flocks of sheep and poultry away
from the hungry newcomers, preferring to head inland towards safety.
Thus
started the days of rape and pillage. Forage parties were sent to maraud. Every
farm, hovel and barn was raided and two farmers were killed trying to protect
their livestock. Even this sacred chapel was sacked. Farmer Williams wife was
raped and shot and his sheep were eaten. The French seized Trehowel Farm from
Farmer Mortimer, to be their headquarters. However, the discipline of their
troops was undermined by the fact that, in preparation for a wedding, the farm
was stocked to the beams with drink. In fact almost every farm had some alcohol
as a Portuguese wine ship, on its way to Liverpool, had recently accidentally,
legally and entirely without any local encouragement wrecked itself on our
coast.
Beer,
wine, port and plentiful food hurriedly cooked had the usual impact on the
bellies of convicts who had been starving in chains. The army fell ill.
Meanwhile
the fleet concluded that they had completed their task in successfully landing
the army. So they sailed away, leaving the men on shore watching their only
means of escape depart. While this may have been in the original
orders—to allow the fleet to sail to support the Irish Invasion—no
one had thought to warn the troops. Now enough of their morale and discipline
vanished for mutinous men to start threatening their officers.
Perhaps
it was at this point that Commander Tate realised all was not going
well—as the Welsh response was now beginning to gather strength. In the
field now known as Parc Y French, five untrained farmers killed two French soldiers.
Tate watched the scene from the rocks and knew that his invasion was going to
be short-lived. Welshmen were now gathering from all across Pembrokeshire,
armed with anything they could lay their hands on. A Customs ship at Milford
Haven sent their press-gang men and their guns. The lead was stripped from the
roof of St Davids Cathedral to be melted into shot.
And
then there was Jemima Fawr. Fishguards cobbler, she would then have been in
her forties, and a person very capable of getting her way. Armed only with a
pitchfork and her opinions, she single-handedly rounded up 12 French soldiers,
imprisoning them in St Marys Church (where now she is buried).
During
all this commotion the brave lads of the militia and yeomanry were far from
inactive. Their leader, Colonel Knox, was enjoying himself at a dinner dance
when first news of the French ships arrived. He was not well loved by the local
people. His father was a newcomer who had come with his money and had tried to
throw his influence around, without succeeding in winning friends. The elder
Knox had paid for the local militia force, Fishguard Fencibles, so his son was
given the Colonelcy. Colonel Knox was 28 years old with no combat experience.
His
first thought was to gather his men at the Fort. Initial reports suggested
there were 800 French, which meant his 150 Fencibles were utterly outnumbered.
Any thoughts of an immediate attack were quashed.
Meanwhile,
across the county, militia forces were gathering. Lord Cawdors Castlemartin
Troop of the Pembroke Yeomanry Cavalry was fortunately already assembled for a
funeral on the following day. They marched at once to the rescue. As soon as
dark fell Lieutenant Colonel Colby of the Pembrokeshire Militia left his troops
on the march and galloped through the night to Fishguard to get an accurate
situation report. Finding Colonel Knox holed up in the fort and the French
marauding through the farmlands he advised ringing the area with troops (at a
safe distance) to give an appearance of strength, and to keep a watch on the
French. Having given his military advice to the novice Knox, Colby once again
galloped through the night, back to his advancing troop column.
Col
Knox and his Fishguard Fencibles were left in the fort as more reports arrived
establishing accurate numbers of the enemy as 1,400. Totally outnumbered, he
concluded that the only thing to do was retreat, to meet up with the advancing
reinforcements. In a life-changing decision Col Knox marched his men away from
Fishguard leaving the town entirely undefended. (His order to spike the forts
guns was angrily rejected by the gunners.)
The
two forces met at Trefgarne Rocks, and promptly argued over who had command and
took precedence. The novice Col Knox thought that just because the French had
landed in his area that meant that he took command, despite the greater
experience of Colonels Colby and Cawdor. Cawdor won the debate and restarted
the march, but he did not forget Knoxs presumption.
The
British troops approached the area after nightfall. Col Colby led his
Pembrokeshire Yeomanry with the intention of launching a night attack on the
unsuspecting French. Unfortunately the French, led by the young Irishman St
Leger, were very much expecting it. Perhaps you have not had the experience of
trying to make hundreds of men walk silently through the night. I can assure
you that their kit rattles, someone coughs, boots tramp, and all hope of
secrecy and surprise evaporates. The French realised the British were coming
and prepared their defensive line, and in the dark of the night the British
could hear that the French were active and expecting them—so the night
attack was called off. That was the only military manoeuvring of the invasion
and yet, as a result, the Pembrokeshire Yeomanry will be granted the Battle
Honour Fishguard; the only battle honour to be granted to a regiment on
British soil.
The
next morning Tate wrote this letter:
To the Officer commanding His
Britannic Majestys Troops. 5th. year of the Republic. The Circumstances under
which the Body of the French Troops under my Command were landed at this Place
renders it unnecessary to attempt any military operations, as they would tend
only to Bloodshed and Pillage. We therefore desire to enter into a Negotiation
upon Principles of Humanity for a surrender. If you are influenced by similar
Considerations you may signify the same and, in the meantime, Hostilities shall
cease. Health and Respect, Tate.
In
an act of phenomenal bluff, Cawdor replied:
Sir, The Superiority of the
Force under my command, which is hourly increasing, must prevent my treating
upon any Terms short of your surrendering your whole Force Prisoners of War. I
enter fully into your Wish of preventing an unnecessary Effusion of Blood,
which your speedy Surrender can alone prevent, and which will entitle you to
that Consideration it is ever the Wish of British Troops to show an Enemy whose
numbers are inferior.
Cawdor
had at best 660 Fencibles, Militia and Naval men, with no more on the way. Yet
his claims of superiority of numbers might have been believable to the French
due to the growing crowd of Welsh men and women who were gathering, armed with
pitchforks, determined to see off the foreigners. When Tates force
surrendered, on Goodwick Sands, to a local militia force on February 24th,
1797, the surrounding hills were packed with people. This gave rise to the
legend that the scarlet cloaks of the Welsh women looked from a distance like
British soldiers and thus fooled the French into believing they were
outnumbered.
The
aftermath of the Invasion saw many unexpected consequences. Firstly the King
sacked his French chef. Secondly, when news broke in London of a French
invasion fleet the immediate result was a panic run on the bank. The
withdrawals of gold coins stretched the Bank of England to its limit. As a
consequence, just over a week later the Bank issued the very first promissory
pound note as paper currency in the form that we know it today. The oldest
surviving note held by the Bank is dated 6th March 1797.
The
Royal Navy sailed out to hunt for the invasion fleet, and found the four new
French ships off the coast of Ireland, where they were still supporting the
non-existent invasion. Once captured La Resistance was renamed HMS Fishguard.
The
French soldiers were reintroduced to their old friends, ankle chains, and
thrown into every available prison in Pembrokeshire, before being packed off to
Portsmouths prison hulks. A few managed to escape, in the process seducing two
Pembrokeshire maidens and stealing Lord Cawdors yacht.
Here
in Pembrokeshire the most amusing result of the French fiasco was that it broke
the reputation of the whelp Knox. Cawdor remembered the insult of Knoxs
failure to acknowledge his superiority. And the gunners remembered their fury
at being ordered to spike their beloved guns. As a result letters were sent.
Cawdor induced his fellow officers to sign a letter threatening resignation if
Knox was not sacked. Only Colby, the man who had galloped through the night to
speak to Knox, stood by him.
Knox
repeatedly requested a court martial in order to present his case and try to
clear his name, but the Duke of York preferred that the matter should be hushed
up. Officially Knox and all the other officers had received the Kings thanks,
so it was thought best not to look into the matter further. The only option
left available to Knox was to challenge Cawdor to a duel. Although I know that
they did meet, I am sorry to report that no one knows what happened at that
duel. Did they talk? Did they fight? Your guess is as good as mine, but
certainly neither was injured at the meeting. But Knox ended a broken man, an
object of public ridicule, debt-ridden and living with a woman of easy virtue
in London. Thus should end all men who retreat before the French.
Here
I end my tale, recounting events that happened many years ago, when I was a
young man. Events that engulfed this remote area; saw this historic chapel
desecrated; and which will still be remembered for years to come—at least
every time you open your wallet to pay for a drink using paper money, not gold.
I
am and remain your humble Servant and fond Ancestor,
Rev
Richardson
—{}—
By Torquil Arbuthnot
(First appeared in Newsletter No. 28)
The New Sheridan Club is delighted to announce that it has agreed reciprocal arrangements with the Drones Club.
The postal address is Dover Street, Mayfair, W1. The windows of its smoking room overlook the street and command the portico and front steps of the Demosthenes Club opposite. Members are kindly requested not to fire brazil nuts from catapults at Demosthenes members sporting top hats.
The Drones membership is unclear though may be judged with some accuracy at between 140 and 150. A member, a Mr Bertie Wooster, lets us into this secret when he comments on the universal popularity of the annual Darts Sweepstake. They roll up in dense crowds to buy tickets at 10/-. The winner stands to scoop in 56/10/-. This would indicate 113 entrants. Allowing for absentees the total roll may be estimated at around 145. Of these, fifty-three members have been identified. In informal nomenclature and shorn of titles, as befitting the general atmos, they are:
Alistair Bingham-Reeves
Biscuit Biskerton
Monty Bodkin
Jimmy Bowles
Tubby Bridgnorth
Freddie Bullivant
Monty Byng
Hugo Carmody
Freddie Chalk-Marshall
Stilton Cheesewright
Berry Conway
Looney Coote
Nelson Cork
Algie Crufts
Ronnie Devereux
Dudley Finch
Gussie Fink-Nottle
Ronnie Fish
Freddie Fitch-Fitch
Boko Fittleworth
Reggie Foljambe
Aubrey Fothergill
Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps
Tuppy Glossop
Percy Gorringe
Reggie Havershot
Bingo Little
Algie Martyn
Archie Mulliner
Mervyn Mulliner
Freddie Oaker
Horace Pendlebury-Davenport
Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright
Oofy Prosser
Rupert Psmith
Dogface Rainsby
Tuppy Rogers
Freddie Rooke
Bill Rowcester
Oofy Simpson
Stiffy Stiffham
Archie Studd
Reggie Tennyson
Freddie Threepwood
Pongo Twistleton-Twistleton
Hugo Walderwick
Capt. J. G. Walkinshaw
Freddie Widgeon
Ambrose Wiffin
Percy Wimbolt
Dick Wimple
Bertie Wooster
Algie Wymondham
Oofy Simpson for a brief while ranked as the Clubs richest property but (though Looney Coote and Bertie Wooster are stagnant with the stuff) Oofy Prosser is the undisputed Club millionaire.
In the dining-room, bread rolls are the accepted point dappui. The Drones is one of those clubs where they display the cold dishes on a central table, and Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright once hit the game pie six times with six consecutive bread rolls from a seat at the far window. In the smoking-room, lump sugar is the tactical missile.
Members are also pretty keen on the joke goods element. The plate lifter has had a notable vogue. The dribble glass is a favourite ice-breaker. The surprise salt shaker has had several successes. They still speak, too, of Catsmeat Potter-Pirbrights emotion when the bread roll he picked up squeaked loudly and a mouse ran out of it. Strong men had to rally round with brandy.
The annual incursion of outsize uncles, visiting the metrop for the Eton and Harrow Match and descending on their nephews for luncheon at the Drones (where they make for the bar like bison for a water-hole) gave Freddie Widgeon the idea for the Fat Uncles Sweepstake.
Among the Clubs staff are Bates (hall porter); McGarry (a barman) and Robinson (a cloakroom waiter).
—{}—
Voyaging Through the
Strange Seas of Thought
Travel, Nostalgia and the Triumph of the Imagination
By Des Esseintes
(First
appeared in Newsletter No. 28)
To explain
the import of this somewhat theoretical essay to those more intrepid chaps and chappesses
who were doubtless hoping for—nay, expecting—something altogether
more dogged, buchaneering (sic) and, not to put too fine a point on it, English—I must perforce
utter, however briefly, a few mundanities. I was first asked to help deliver a
talk to the assembled eager Chappist throng as long ago as 2006, after I played
the part of an enthusiastic Leda to the more experienced rowing deities of
Senior Sub and Mr Fischer-Pryce (n Beckwith) during a re-enactment of Mr
Jeromes fictional memoir. I was unable to take part, much to my reluctance and
the open joy of the huddled masses. When Mr Hartley asked me to give an
illustrated exposition of my forthcoming trip to the Raj, therefore, I was
especially eager not to let him down. January was agreed as a suitable time,
and I planned a thrilling and almost entirely fictitious account involving
daring escapes from corpulent fakirs, ravenous tigers and that voluptuous
harbinger of Death, the votaress of Vishnu (formerly of 27 Manor Gardens,
Chippenham).
However,
as Mr Wodehouse has put it so perfectly, Its always just when a fellow is
feeling particularly braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind
him with the bit of lead piping. Having accepted a j*b which in many ways was
splendid (monthly salary equivalent to more than twice the annual Indian wage,
no taxes of any kind, free travel, free food, a free fine two-bedroomed flat
with marble floors in a beautiful park with a rather fine—and
free—steam-room on the ground floor, all in return for a nugatory amount
of pacing up and down in front of impressionable youngsters declaiming
demonstrable falsehoods in the name of Academe), I was less than joyous when I
was informed that the visa requirements had been changed, seven months after I
signed my contract and a mere six weeks before I was due to travel. Naturally,
I was not told of this in advance—only once I had waited for weeks until
it was too late to change my flight. All sorts of dreadfully tiresome and dull
situations then transpired which meant that the w*rk collapsed, leaving me
having to find new employment and accommodation with no notice. After quite a
few months of the sorts of social etiquette posers rarely covered in Noblesse
Oblige or Debretts Modern Manners, I found myself settled again. Into this
hard-won tranquillity I must confess that Mr Hartleys nuanced reminder of my
solemn oath made in years of plenty came as something of a depth charge.
Nevertheless,
a promise made is a promise kept—or ought to be, I felt—and so I
summoned up my little all whilst putting in the hours at my new Mammon and
conjured up something approximating to the following. I cannot say that every
prospect will please, but it may at least lead my readers, in the words of my
old tutor, to disagree. Violently—and that, surely, is something.
To
travel is to be disappointed; to arrive, doubly so. According to the much
lamented Sir John Mandeville, author of the astonishingly fertile Travels of
Sir John Mandeville:
In Ind and about Ind be more than 5,000 isles good and great that men dwell
in, without those that be uninhabitable, and without other small isles. In
every isle is great plenty of cities, and of towns, and of folk without number.
For men of Ind have this condition of kind, that they never go out of their own
country, and therefore is there great multitude of people.
Wise,
sound chaps.
Mandeville
wrote his enormously underrated book in 1356, and it should be in every library
in the land. The whole book is gemlike in its simplicity. It anticipates
Huysmans and Wilde; it chides—but how gently and implicitly—the
lauded Victorian Age of the Explorer.
For
Sir John Mandeville, author of the first and greatest travel guide of all
time, never left France.
The
world of this mighty explorer is a fine one indeed for the chap whose
explorations have disappointed him. For included in this factual
account—he even claims that his book was personally edited and vetted by
the Pope—are monsters, wonders and riches aplenty:
And beyond these isles there is another isle that is clept Pytan. The
folk of that country ne till not, ne labour not the earth, for they eat no
manner thing. And they be of good colour and of fair shape, after their
greatness. But the small be as dwarfs, but not so little as be the Pigmies.
These men live by the smell of wild apples. And when they go any far way, they
bear the apples with them; for if they had lost the savour of the apples, they
should die anon. They ne be not full reasonable, but they be simple and
bestial.
After
that is another isle, where the folk be all skinned rough hair, as a rough
beast, save only the face and the palm of the hand. These folk go as well under
the water of the sea, as they do above the land all dry. And they eat both
flesh and fish all raw. In this isle is a great river that is well a two mile
and an half of breadth that is clept Beaumare.
And
from that river a fifteen journeys in length, going by the deserts of the
tother side of the river—whoso might go it, for I was not there, but it
was told us of them of the country, that within those deserts were the trees of
the sun and of the moon, that spake to King Alexander, and warned him of his
death. And men say that the folk that keep those trees, and eat of the fruit
and of the balm that groweth there, live well four hundred year or five hundred
year, by virtue of the fruit and of the balm. For men say that balm groweth
there in great plenty and nowhere else, save only at Babylon, as I have told
you before. We would have gone toward the trees full gladly if we had might.
But I trow that 100,000 men of arms might not pass those deserts safely, for
the great multitude of wild beasts and of great dragons and of great serpents
that there be, that slay and devour all that come anent them. In that country be
many white elephants without number, and of unicorns and of lions of many
manners, and many of such beasts that I have told before, and of many other
hideous beasts without number.
Mandeville,
like Petronius Arbiter before him and Beau Brummel after him, takes great
delight in the lavish (not to say lascivious) lifestyle of his hosts:
And the hall of the palace is full nobly arrayed, and full marvellously
attired on all parts in all things that men apparel with any hall. And first,
at the chief of the hall is the emperors throne, full high, where he sitteth
at the meat. And that is of fine precious stones, bordered all about with pured
gold and precious stones, and great pearls. And the grees that he goeth up to
the table be of precious stones mingled with gold.
And
at the left side of the emperors siege is the siege of his first wife, one
degree lower than the emperor; and it is of jasper, bordered with gold and
precious stones. And the siege of his second wife is also another siege, more
lower than his first wife; and it is also of jasper, bordered with gold, as
that other is. And the siege of the third wife is also more low, by a degree,
than the second wife. For he hath always three wives with him, where that ever
he be.
And
after his wives, on the same side, sit the ladies of his lineage yet lower,
after that they be of estate. And all those that be married have a counterfeit
made like a mans foot upon their heads, a cubit long, all wrought with great
pearls, fine and orient, and above made with peacocks feathers and of other
shining feathers; and that stands upon their heads like a crest, in token that
they be under mans foot and under subjection of man. And they that be
unmarried have none such.
And
the emperor hath his table alone by himself, that is of gold and of precious
stones, or of crystal bordered with gold, and full of precious stones or of
amethysts, or of lignum aloes that cometh out of paradise, or of ivory bound or
bordered with gold. And every one of his wives hath also her table by herself.
And his eldest son and the other lords also, and the ladies, and all that sit
with the emperor have tables alone by themselves, full rich. And there ne is no
table but that it is worth an huge treasure of goods.
Also
above the emperors table and the other tables, and above a great part in the
hall, is a vine made of fine gold. And it spreadeth all about the hall. And it
hath many clusters of grapes, some white, some green, some yellow and some red
and some black, all of precious stones. The white be of crystal and of beryl
and of iris; the yellow be of topazes; the red be of rubies and of grenaz and
of alabrandines; the green be of emeralds, of perydoz and of chrysolites; and
the black be of onyx and garantez. And they be all so properly made that it
seemeth a very vine bearing kindly grapes.
You will
readily imagine that, thus primed, I was tremendously excited about entering
this
fantastic (in every sense of the word) country. Yet this India, O my Best
Beloved, no longer exists.
Would
it not be fair to say that the India of gun-toting Mumbai gangsters holding
sway at the aerodrome, of presumptuous officials demanding buff-coloured
documents no Englishman with a sense of dignity possesses—the one that,
in its dull way, has the presumption to exist in the real world—is a
pearl that has lost its lustre?
And
yet even the real India once had a rare beauty. But this beauty was never quite
what the imagination would like it to be. By way of illustration, many readers
will recall the glorious shot, as I believe cinematographers like to term it,
in Mr David Leans A Passage to India, of the Gateway to India, with the sparkling
ocean behind it and the fiercely disciplined fighting men of the British Army
holding sway in front. The description of how this came together, however,
given by Mr Leans biographer (Mr Kevin Brownlow), is disquieting:
The
most intricate model was for the matte shot at the beginning where you get the Gateway
of India. That was a triple matte shot. The sea had to be matted at the back,
because thats now a dry-dock area, then the Gateway itself and then the square
in front of it where you see the British troops. That is not an open space, but
a garden with a statue and parked cars. That part of the matte, with the
troops, was shot in Delhi, the Viceroy coming through it in Bombay.
Astute
readers, their eyes and wits undimmed by tears of gin, will have spotted that
the glorious imagination of India is here doubly confounded. First, nostalgia
remembers the glorious past when the sea did indeed
come right
up to the Gateway itself. But second, and more worryingly, the square in front
of the Gateway never was an open space. We are dealing with a place that has
not so much lost its lustre as never quite possessed it in the first place.
We
may, in disappointment, veer to the opposite extremity and denounce the modern
world as a place of ugliness and despair. It is true that over 60 per cent of
the 21 million inhabitants of Mumbai live in slums, in often desperate
poverty. But the Untouchables of the time of the Raj and the Mughal Emperors
before it were at least as miserable and downtrodden as now. Travel was, in
many ways, more elegant and pleasing to the discerning explorer in the past
than now. There is no doubt that the nine day voyage via Imperial Airways,
stopping for supplies and refreshments in Paris, Brinois, Athens, Alexandria
and Baghdad (then still conjuring images of the Thousand and One Nights rather
than suicide bombs and shattered Mesopotamian relics) before heading on to
Delhi and Calcutta, would have been a more exciting voyage than that suffered
now by the indignant chap, forced to remove his Oxfords by a gum-chewing
factotum at the erstwhile village of Heath Row.
Yet
even in what we now like to think of as the great days of travel, when below
the great Imperial Airways roaring above floated the elegant palaces of the
Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company, minor difficulties would
always present themselves. A waiter might spill ones Martini—a wave
might distress ones coiffure—a houris embrace might remind one
irresistibly of the clumsier advances of the memsahib.
In short,
there never has been a golden age of travel. There is no precious metal in
travelling.
I
met, during my brief travels in the Raj, many fine specimens of man and
womanhood. Yet they had lost something—and so have we. In our correct and
noble urge to avoid the objectification of The Other as an exotic and
thrilling experience and to attempt to understand our fellow creatures as our
equals—a fine aim—we gloss over the glories of the differences
which once made us delight to travel. This applies equally to travels in the
past, of course: many a potentially interesting documentary on the Egyptians or
the Hittites has been ruined by reconstructions in which every effort has been
made to ascribe viewpoints, hairstyles and attitudes to dental hygiene unique
to North West Europe and the USA post-1990 to the inhabitants of Third Dynasty
Egypt. In our effort to remove the opera-glass of disdain we have substituted a
well-meaning monocle which flattens all difference.
The
phrase an uncertain world is bandied around so frequently it has become a
clich. In fact, the world has never been more certain, in the worst sense of
the word, than now. Unlike our ancestors we know that angels are not about to
deliver us from the sins of the world—that the gods will not descend from
Mount Olympus intent upon ravishing us—we know that all life holds in
store for us is routine, monotonous and regular. Yet the only solutions to this
uncertainty seem to be proffered by banks and life insurance companies, few
of whose employees tend to be philosophical giants. There is, in fact, only one
solution to the limited vagaries of our padded cell of a world.
We
must turn to the final member of our triumvirate—the Imagination. Using
this faculty we can design and live in a world fitted to our desires as snugly
as a well-cut merkin. We can live in the past, the future, a glorified (or even
a more sordid version of the) present; we can wade through distinguished
embolisms on a mountain of Jurassic tricycles or dance a solemn fandango with a
lunatic King of the Perch-Folk. I wish to make it clear that this resort to
Fancy is not my own invention—it has a noble history. Apart from the
noble Sir John Mandeville, we have Xavier de Maistres delightful Voyage autour
de ma chambre:
Dailleurs de quelle ressource cette manire de voyager nest-elle pas
pour les malades? Ils nauront point craindre lintemprie de lair et des
saisons. Pour les poltrons, ils seront labri des voleurs; ils ne
rencontreront ni prcipices ni fondrires. Des milliers de personnes qui avant
moi navaient point os, dautres qui navaient pu, dautres enfin qui
navaient pas song voyager, vont sy rsoudre mon exemple. LՐtre le plus
indolent hsiterait-il se mettre en route avec moi pour se procurer un
plaisir qui ne lui cotera ni peine ni argent?
(At any rate, in what way is this method of travelling not suitable for
the sick? They will have no reason to fear the intemperacy of the air and the
different seasons. The cowardly will be sheltered from thieves—they will
encounter neither precipice nor pot-hole. Thousands of people who before me did
not dare, others who were not able to and others, finally, who had not thought
about travelling, will resolve to follow my example. Would the most indolent
being hesitate to place himself alongside me in order to procure a pleasure
which will cost him neither pain nor fortune?)
The
biographer of my namesake, M. Huysmans, writes uncharacteristically well of a
particularly apposite episode:
In his sedentary life, only two countries had ever attracted him:
Holland and England.
He
had satisfied the first of his desires. Unable to keep away, one fine day he
had left Paris and visited the towns of the Low Lands, one by one.
In
short, nothing but cruel disillusions had resulted from this trip. He had
fancied a Holland after the works of Teniers and Steen, of Rembrandt and
Ostade, in his usual way imagining rich, unique and incomparable Ghettos, had
thought of amazing kermesses, continual debauches in the country sides, intent
for a view of that patriarchal simplicity, that jovial lusty spirit celebrated
by the old masters.
Certainly,
Haarlem and Amsterdam had enraptured him. The unwashed people, seen in their
country farms, really resembled those types painted by Van Ostade, with their
uncouth children and their old fat women, embossed with huge breasts and
enormous bellies. But of the unrestrained joys, the drunken family carousals,
not a whit. He had to admit that the Dutch paintings at the Louvre had misled
him. They had simply served as a springing board for his dreams. He had rushed
forward on a false track and had wandered into capricious visions, unable to
discover in the land itself, anything of that real and magical country which he
had hoped to behold, seeing nothing at all, on the plots of ground strewn with
barrels, of the dances of petticoated and stockinged peasants crying for very
joy, stamping their feet out of sheer happiness and laughing loudly.
Decidedly
nothing of all this was visible. Holland was a country just like any other
country, and what was more, a country in no wise primitive, not at all simple,
for the Protestant religion with its formal hypocricies and solemn rigidness
held sway here.
The
memory of that disen-chantment returned to him. Once more he glanced at his
watch: ten minutes still separated him from the trains departure. It is about
time to ask for the bill and leave, he told himself.
He
felt an extreme heaviness in his stomach and through his body. Come! he
addressed himself, let us drink and screw up our courage. He filled a glass
of brandy, while asking for the reckoning. An individual in black suit and with
a napkin under one arm, a sort of majordomo with a bald and sharp head, a
greying beard without moustaches, came forward. A pencil rested behind his ear
and he assumed an attitude like a singer, one foot in front of the other; he
drew a note book from his pocket, and without glancing at his paper, his eyes
fixed on the ceiling, near a chandelier, wrote while counting. There you are!
he said, tearing the sheet from his note book and giving it to Des Esseintes
who looked at him with curiosity, as though he were a rare animal. What a
surprising John Bull, he thought, contemplating this phlegmatic person who had,
because of his shaved mouth, the appearance of a wheelsman of an American ship.
At
this moment, the tavern door opened. Several persons entered bringing with them
an odor of wet dog to which was blent the smell of coal wafted by the wind
through the opened door. Des Esseintes was incapable of moving a limb. A soft
warm languor prevented him from even stretching out his hand to light a cigar.
He told himself: Come now, let us get up, we must take ourselves off.
Immediate objections thwarted his orders. What is the use of moving, when one
can travel on a chair so magnificently? Was he not even now in London, whose
aromas and atmosphere and inhabitants, whose food and utensils surrounded him?
For what could he hope, if not new disillusion-ments, as had happened to him in
Holland?
He
had but sufficient time to race to the station. An overwhelming aversion for
the trip, an imperious need of remaining tranquil, seized him with a more and
more obvious and stubborn strength. Pensively, he let the minutes pass, thus
cutting off all retreat, and he said to himself, Now it would be necessary to
rush to the gate and crowd into the baggage room! What ennui! What a bore that
would be! Then he repeated to himself once more, In fine, I have experienced
and seen all I wished to experience and see. I have been filled with English
life since my departure. I would be mad indeed to go and, by an awkward trip,
lose those imperishable sensations. How stupid of me to have sought to disown
my old ideas, to have doubted the efficacy of the docile phantasmagories of my
brain, like a very fool to have thought of the necessity, of the curiosity, of
the interest of an excursion!
Well!
he exclaimed, consulting his watch, it is now time to return home.
Mr Wilde,
Huysmans sometimes over-enthusiastic disciple, puts the philosophical argument
for the superiority of the Fantastic over the Actual very clearly in the
following passage:
People tell us that Art makes us love Nature more than we loved her
before; that
it reveals her secrets to us; and that after a careful study of Corot and
Constable we see things in her that had escaped our observation. My own
experience is that the more we study Art, the less we care for Nature. What Art
really reveals to us is Natures lack of design, her curious crudities, her
extraordinary monotony, her absolutely unfinished condition. Nature has good
intentions, of course, but, as Aristotle once said, she cannot carry them out.
When I look at a landscape I cannot help seeing all its defects. It is
fortunate for us, however, that Nature is so imperfect, as otherwise we should
have no art at all. Art is our spirited protest, our gallant attempt to teach
Nature her proper place. As for the infinite variety of Nature, that is a pure
myth. It is not to be found in Nature herself. It resides in the imagination,
or fancy, or cultivated blindness of the man who looks at her.
And, lest
my auditors, already weary of my intemperate volubility, feel that my examples
are drawn solely from authors of a more ancient era, here is Mr Douglas
Adams—noted Babbagophiliac: The Guide is definitive. Reality is
frequently inaccurate.
So
what are our conclusions? Although countless more illustrations of the central
premise might have been adduced—the fact that we spend most of our time
when we do travel reading books or watching films, the inexplicable desire of
Englishmen who go abroad for a lengthy period to desire traditional meals in
an unsuitable climate—the catechism is simple.
1.
The purpose of life is to find ones place in the universe.
2.
That place is rarely Abroad, and still more rarely Outside, unless the one of 1
is singularly easily-pleased.
3.
Let us therefore remain at Home in Britain; Indoors, behind a nobly sported oak
which resists the infamous siren calls of the foreign; and using as our simple
yet universal passport a beaker full of the warm South, let us set sail on what
Wordsworth called the strange seas of thought.
(Disclaimer:
None of the above is true. No responsibility is assumed by the author for any
outbreaks of especial indolence amongst readers. The true opinions of the
author must remain his own.)
—{}—
By Clayton Hartley
(First
appeared in Newsletter No. 26, December 2008)
A Greenwich
man has just completed an epic and hugely worthwhile journey around the world
on a penny-farthing. Joff Summerfield, 39, who used to run a market stall, took
two and a half years to cross 23 countries.
The
last person to achieve this feat was American Thomas Stevens in 1886. It
doesnt look as if penny-farthing technology has come on much since then, but
then Mr Summerfield, who is a former Formula One engineer, made his bicycle
himself, repairing it as he went along.
In
fact, although he averaged one decent fall a fortnight, he only had one major
prang, when he was hit by a lorry in New Zealand and fractured his wrist. He
just strapped it up and carried on. Other setbacks included being robbed while
camping in Prague and dealing with low oxygen levels at high altitude in Tibet.
In
fact Tibet, across the border of which he sneaked his bicycle under cover of
darkness one night, was Mr Summerfields favourite country, despite
encountering a landslide there, plus the absence of tarmac and the gruelling
labour of the high passes—the penny-farthing has a hard saddle and no
gears.
Id
like to be able to say that Mr Summerfield conducted his feat in tweed
plus-fours but he instead chose to sport modern synthetic clothing. It is
heartening to report, however, that he does seem to have worn a pith helmet for
the whole journey. Mr Summerfield necessarily travelled light, with just a
change of clothes, a stove, a tent and a sleeping bag. He had just 5 a day
spending money.
He
also took some 3,000 daguerreotypes, which you may inspect here. The best man-made
site was the Taj Mahal, he reports, and the best natural one was the Grand
Canyon. He also stopped off to take part in the World Penny-Farthing
Championships in Tasmania.
Mr
Summerfield, who previously crossed America in a Morris Minor, plans to write a
book about his adventures.
If
Mr Summerfields journey has inspired you, you may like to know that he builds
penny-farthings commercially. Its the only thing I ride. Ill be riding
it again in a couple of days.
Interesting
penny-farthing fact
While
holidaying in Copenhagen I discovered this nugget. While Denmark has plenty of
history (mostly revolving around them, the Swedes and the Norwegians taking it
in turn to take over each others countries) there is only one really important
historical fact: among the many things built by King Christian IV (who
bankrupted the country in the process) was a combined church, library and
observatory for the university. The latter is at the top of a 114-foot tower.
Instead of stairs, the tower has a spiral ramp inside, allegedly so that
Christian could be driven to the top in his carriage rather than having to
walk. (In fact Peter the Great once rode up on a horse, hotly pursued by the
angry Tsarina in a coach and four. Quite what he was planning to do when he got
to the top I dont know.)
Anyway,
in 1888 this spiral ramp was finally put to good use: they had a penny-farthing
race up it. The winner covered the 680-foot course in three minutes.
—{}—
a short story
By Bernard Shapiro
(First
appeared in Newsletter No. 25)
Time up the
Maungawha Valley dripped.
Not
that it wasnt wet, which it was in a deluged sort of way, but it was the
manner in which time settled on things and covered everything in a lather of
moss or mould. Days felt longer, silences louder, storms slower to pass. Even
the bush seemed older.
Mr
Longridge was 27 but looked forty. Hed been scrub cutting and odd-jobbing
since his father had passed on the house, and itd left its mark on him, inside
and out.
He was
lonely.
Maybe
it was nigh to find a woman to share the chores and time with or better yet a
mate to yarn to. He padded off the veranda of the cob hut and set to picking up
dead fern fronds behind the stable, which he then heaped in a pile. His mate Mr
Allen lived three miles up Calf Creek above the gorge, and by the time he saw
the rising smoke and arrived the porkd be hung, the wood stacked and the
strong mead dragged from under the copper. He lit his signal fire and set about
the chores while an overcast day ate the heavy grey plumes.
Just
on dark he was smoking his pipe on the front steps, watching it hose down and
listening to the water tank overflowing when Allen led his horse out of the bush
edge.
Mr
Longridge! Allen waved, smeared with mud.
You
old codger! Theres clothes, fire and a meal inside. Come on—warm
yourself up while I see to Betty!
On
the chiselled rimu bench by stinking pig tallow candles and heady mead Mr Allen
let fly with some news.
Theyve
got wire going up in the next valley, I see.
Fencing
us are they?
Telephones,
Mr Longridge! Or Im a blind Kaka.
TELEPHONES!
Well good lord! Here?!
Well,
no, smiled Allen, the Westmead is putting them in, but sure as hot tea
theyre coming.
Longridge threw a faggot of manuka into the clay
fireplace and swung the billy off the hook. As he poured the tea, thoughts were
racing.
Yknow...
Westmead Saddle isnt much of a hurdle. Im reckoning we could get a wire over
there, if youd be for it!
Its
a big job though, rounded Allen. Well need the help of the rest of the
valley—and thatll take some doing! My brothers in the Westmead as I
speak, Mr Waynesbridge is a good days ride away and Im struck if I know where
that Maori familys taken off to now!
What
we need is a good fire to bring em in! grinned Longridge.
What
we need, laughed Allen, is a telephone!
In
the morning the river was too high to get the horses across. The next it rained
wildly from the South and on the third there wasnt any water coming down the
river at all! Neither of them were eager to brave the gorge until it flooded
itself clear and Allen had things to do so they agreed on the fire option to
round up their neighbours.
Using
the horses as drays they teamed a rotten matai off its perch, down the scrubby
slope and into the gorge with the intention that the dam-burst would sort
things out in good time. The trunk was lit with great trepidation but they
retired homewards with a pig, shot from the saddle.
That
night it blew Nor-East and shook the tin in its fury.
Mr
Allen! called Longridge from his bedroom over the racket.
Yeah?
Well
have to think of another method; theres no way anyone will see the smoke with
this wind. Its blowing the wrong way!
Well
fix up your roof too! yelled Allen from the couch, covering his head with a
jacket.
At
some stage Longridge must have dropped off to sleep, despite the howling wind,
for he woke with a feeling that something wasnt quite right. Outside, the sky
glowed with dawns early warning of rain and he glanced at the clock on the
tallboy.
Ten
past two.
He
lurched upright.
HELL!
Whats
up? Allen called out.
FIRE!!
They
dragged on their gear, tore out the door and gawped at the clouds, racing low
on the ridges. To the West the sky danced aflame, sending ghastly shadows
merrily skipping back and forth along the clearing.
Grab
the horses! Ill get the shovels and sacks! Longridge yelled over the
storm.
Bugger
all good itll do! Allen replied, already running.
By
the time they were up by the fire, half the district had got involved. Mr
Waynesbridge and his five eldest sons arrived right behind them with a WHAT
THE BLOODY HELL have you two BEEN PLAYING AT!; the mysterious Whetu brothers
complete with extended families were beating madly with wet sacks and a few
folks from Westmead had arrived to help below.
The
whole valleys filled with smoke and one of the works boyss got a CAT
bulldozing a fire break along the ridge, shouted a sooty-faced chap in a grimy
set of overalls. Weve been sent over to lend a hand.
You
not from Westmead then? yelled Allen shovelling dirt over some embers.
Nup.
Work for the Post Office in Westport—chucking some telephone cable in for
the locals.
Longridge and Allen looked at each other and got on with the
spadework.
It
was ten in the morning by the time the weather changed to the North again and
someone from up there started emptying every chamber pot in Heaven. The fire
fizzled to a standstill against the ploughed firebreak and with no strong winds
to fan it about, it chucked in the towel and gave up the fight.
Mr
Longridge offered up his home to the knackered locals and fire-fighters for
cups of tea, refreshments and a place to crash, and while they were there the
constable from Westmead dropped in for a chat.
Hear
it was you boys started that fire last night? he asked, getting out his notebook.
Ah,
yeah, blushed Longridge. Um.
Allen
jumped in to the rescue.
Yeh,
we were trying to burn off a log jam what had dammed the river below us here.
Afraid it was going to kill somebody when it burst. Didnt reckon on the
weather turning the way it did and it really got away on us!
Luckily
for the pair of them the heavy rain had finally overloaded the dam while
everyone was fighting the fire. The constable received a couple of hasty
accounts from Mr Waynesbridges lads that theyd found the river dry on arrival
and so, with a stern warning to all present, left them to it. Longridge turned
to Allen.
Pfft—quick
thinking there, Mr Allen!
Cheers!
Now wheres that Post Office bloke...
Two
weeks later a cable had been draped through the charred tangle of bush and the
Westmead gossipers were working overtime on whether the fire had been a
deliberate act of The Joneses from over there.
But
the Maungawha had its phones!
True,
they were pre-War genny models you had to wind and it was a party line but
the novelty of being linked to the outside world in a valley without roads
hadnt worn off. The Post Office workmen had muttered about the lack of access
to the rest of the valley from Longridges home. A promise hung in the air that
perhaps it was about time someone from the works dozed a few roads in the
district. Time indeed seemed to be catching up with the area.
It
was a big day at Longridges cottage, when the entire population of Maungawha
Valley turned up to have the party line explained and the first call received.
Down the line some Minister in Wellington congratulated them and spoke a few
words of encouragement; long distance. If, at all, the Ministers enthusiasm
waned a little at having to repeat his speech several times to different but no
less captivated listeners, no-one noticed and afterwards everyone sat around
the hangi feeling well-fed and smug.
But
things very quickly turned to custard.
Next
morning at 6am Mr Waynesbridge decided hed finally order some white pine shingles
for his roof. He was an early riser and having been isolated for thirty odd
years he could be forgiven his assumption that an operator would cheerfully
connect him to the local sawmill, and so he energetically wound the bakelite
genny handle on his phone. As a result 6 people fell out of bed! Babies wailed,
bells shrilled, lamps were lit, curses flew and every phone in the valley was
charged at in panic and disarray.
Hello!
What!
Operator?
Who??
WHAT?
Who
is this!!
OPERATOR!!
WHO??
WHAT??
Eventually
it all got sorted out, ruffled feathers soothed and after a few terse minutes
the inhabitants exchanged their first proper greetings and pleased, if not
droopy comments were made that the phones worked perfectly well thankyou. Life,
tattered and chewed, resumed its faltered pace.
Then
the first private call arrived.
A
distant relation of Allens had read in the Press that it was now possible to
telephone the remote valley and decided to call during dinner time. In fact
three families were sitting down together, pipes were lit, smoke hung lazily
drifting in the evening leaves and birds were chiming good morrow across the
still air.
The phones
rang one short and one long.
A
table overturned, laden with food; several people tripped over chairs; Mr
Allen, in fright, fled into the bush; someone stood on a dog, who turned and
bit the offender; a fight broke out amongst the Waynesbridge sons; and Mr
Longridge fell off his roof!
Hello?
Hello!
Kia-ora?
Robert?
What??
This
is Mr Waynesbridge!
Who?
Na,
man! He wants Mr Allen!
Who
is this?!
What?
Who?!
Its
your cousin Dave!
WHO??
I
dont HAVE a cousin Dave!!
No,
no! You mean Mr Allen, eh.
Im
not even RELATED to him!
Who?!
Mr
Allen!
Who
IS this?!!
Youre
Mr Allens cousin!
IM
NOT BLOODY RELATED!!
Not
you! HIM!
Me?
Who?
AWWW!!!
Mr
Longridge picked up the phone.
Hello.
Hey,
Mr Longridge! Some cousin of Mr Allens on the line! CLICK
Bloody
useless CLICK
Hang
on chum, Ill get him for you.
By
the time Longridge found Allen up Calf Creek, three hours later, no-one was on
the line and a great feeling of malcontent was beginning to grow over the whole
telephone issue. As it was, Mr Allen wouldnt set foot within a stones throw
of his phone after that, and Longridge kindly removed it for him.
Id
like to say that everything worked out for the locals and that they adapted to
meet the challenge of modern technology, but one month after the telephone arrived
in the Maungawha Valley the lines suddenly went dead.
Through
the misty rain a plume of smoke rose above Mr Longridges land and Mr Allen,
leading his horse muddily out of the bush edge, found him on his veranda.
Mr
Longridge! He waved.
Mr
Allen! You old, drowned bush rat
Together,
they smoked their pipes and watched the pyre of wood and bakelite crackle and
hiss in the rain.
—{}—
Primordial Hat Lore Discovered
By Clayton Hartley
(First appeared in Newsletter No. 24)
While idly sloping around the Archaeology and Anthropology Museum in Cambridge I came across a cabinet displaying some Mongolian hats. I though that the accompanying text panel provided some food for thought, so I here transcribe it:
Mongol Hats
In the Mongol cultural region mens hats are functional as well as indicators of status and identity. In the past social position was indicated by the kind of hat worn. Noble titles and rank were also indicated by different coloured buttons attached to the hat.
During the socialist period in Mongolia (c.1921–89) hats such as trilbies and berets became popular among men while women tended to wear Russian-style headscarves.
Today different Mongol groups, such as the Buriad, Halh and Oirat, wear costumes and hats as markers of ethnic identity on ceremonial occasions in the Peoples Republic of China and the Russian Federation.
The hats displayed here are mainly worn on formal occasions. Cowboy hats are more common as everyday wear. They provide shade from the glare of the sun but also indicate wealth and power, as younger men tend to wear baseball caps. Different styles of hat continue to distinguish higher-ranking monks from novices.
Hats and their Owners
Beyond indicating status and identity hats are literally held to be extensions of their owners. Through long use a mans hat holds on to some part of him. Like a mans belt, a hat is sometimes considered to be a vessel of the sns (soul).
Hats should be treated with the utmost respect. One must not step over, or put on, someone elses hat. Nor should one sit on or cover a mans hat. This would be to disrespect the hats owner and may even cause him harm.
Ways of caring for hats are varied. When indoors a man will usually place his hat in a high position so that it will not be damaged. During wrestling matches a contestants hat is carried by a special attendant-trainer, who stands near him, carefully holding his hat.
—{}—
In the Land of the Long
White Cloud
By Oliver Lane
part one
(First appeared in Newsletter No.24)
On getting into this mess in the first place
Being a bit of an idiot, I decided some months ago that I would forgo any chance of seeing the Sun this summer, and so spent the last few months Sailing, Flying, and Driving in some of the coldest and most miserable places in the world. Quite satisfied that stories of adventure on the High Seas, battling with pirates and the locals would provide far too much excitement for the more delicate readers of this gentle periodical, the Editor charged me with writing of my recent time in the colonies, and here is my feeble attempt.
Dr Leavingsoon (a.k.a. Bernard Shapiro) is a well-known name to denizens of the ethereal Sheridan Club, but significantly less so to those who solely attend the events and monthly meetings—perhaps being the most remote member of the Sheridan Club in the world he has very little opportunity to drop in for a sneaky gin on a Wednesday evening. Although I originally got into contact with Leavingsoon for the purposes of a much larger expedition to Egypt, to be conducted by several members of the Sheridan Club and various other men martial next year, it was soon suggested that some members of the British half of the Expedition might wish to travel to New Zealand. Being the only one with the money, spare time or indeed inclination I soon found myself on some hellish flight bound south, with a suitcase full of warm clothes and a long journey on starvation rations ahead of me.
It took me very nearly the full journey to come to terms with the fact that I had parted with a small fortune for the pleasure of having a small no smoking sign illuminated just above my head for almost thirty hours, and to be fed food in such small portions that it would make even todays fashion-conscious foodie blush. But this was nothing compared to what I had to endure upon disembarking.
On being initiated into NZ
Convinced that alcohol was the best way to get me accustomed to New Zealand time and cure me of jet lag, Bernard dragged me to his local hostelry of choice, The Twisted Hop. A pleasant pub with a microbrewery, it sold ales good enough (in my opinion) to rival Britains best CAMRA-approved tipples. But the truth was in fact too horrible to contemplate: after Id imbibed a few ales and announced that I rather needed to make a trip to the boys room, that unspeakable fiend Leavingsoon produced a pair of manacles and, after a short but charged scuffle, I found myself attached to a table and the key in the fountain. Or so I thought. After excruciating minutes of my needing to conduct business elsewhere, the key was produced with a magicians flourish by another member of the party—completely unknown to Leavingsoon. I was left with a dilemma: end my own personal torment or get my own back on Leavingsoon? I soon had him splashing about in the fountain. By the time he had thought to look back to complain that he was all wet, I had scarpered off to the loo. What was to come next is too much to recall in a periodical such as this, but suffice to say it involved alcohol, a homosexual Maori and an Aikido black belt.
On the Driving Experience
Without even having been given the chance to recover from the previous nights excesses, or indeed unpack, I found the need to distil my entire existence into one kitbag, throw it into the back of Bernards jeep and go for a little drive. This little drive was in fact to be a five-day epic, spanning the whole of the south island and covering terrain that would make me want never to leave the magical place. In the course of the week, I had the pleasure of travelling through (and often pitching camp in) great mountain ranges, barren plains, dense rain forest and bone-dry desert. The first day was very much a taste of things to come; for our first lunch break we stopped to investigate a machine-gun nest from the Second World War and, while bored, Bernard burned off half of his moustache with black powder.
Taking a road tour in a 1942 Willys Jeep is a unique experience, especially one so laden as Bernards. As they are open-sided vehicles (and the NZ winter is bitterly cold at the best of times) Bernard had ingeniously rigged up side skirts to shelter us from the wind. Although providing much-needed comfort, this had the unforeseen disadvantages of making embarking and disembarking nigh on impossible—and a hilarious sight for anyone nearby—and also acting as a giant sail for any cross winds we might encounter. The Jeep was further laden with the equipment we would need: Jerry cans (lighting up for the first time in a Jeep that stinks of petrol is a memorable experience), a bell tent slung over the bonnet, a long chimney for the Great War wood burner lashed to the side like a piece of artillery, webbing packs hanging off the sides (and tin mugs hanging off them) and all manner of other adventurous paraphernalia. All in all, we looked quite a sight and drew looks wherever we drove.
On the Camping Experience
Waking up on the first morning was what I would like to call an emotional experience. Having suffered from a mild case of the cant be funks (a terrible blight that was to crop up time and time again), we purchased and cooked Pot Noodles for our dinner. I wont insult the intelligence of the reader by elaborating on the effect of salt on the freezing point of water, or in fact how much salt there is in your typical Pot Noodle, but upon waking after a bitterly cold night and finding the leftovers from last nights scran completely frozen, one is terribly grateful for still having use of all bodily extremities. We both slept that night in our uniforms, wool trousers, jumpers, greatcoats and all, along with two sleeping bags and a wool blanket and still found ourselves frozen near solid. This was to be the order for every night to follow.
That aside, the camping was truly a magical experience. The evenings were warmed by liberal applications of Hendricks Gin, which I had smuggled into New Zealand at Leavingsoons request, and by sharing lots of bawdy stories. To make good time we needed to drive for a gruelling twelve hours a day, meaning we would pitch camp at night. This meant that, apart from what we could shine a torch at, I never knew where we really were until waking the next morning. The view that would greet me each day when I stuck my head out of the tent was worth the trip in itself. What can compare with waking up with the excitement of a child upon Christmas morning, dying to know what is outside and being met by a view so sublime as to inspire even the least artistic of men? Just imagine – finding that you have camped on a white pebble beach, overlooking a milky blue glacial lake framed by vast mist-shrouded mountains! It is true to say that such experiences never, ever leave you, and of this I really am terribly glad!
To be continued...
I would like to take the opportunity to wish Bernard and
his lovely wife Amy the very best of luck: for as I write they are at any moment
expecting their first child. Two better people I have never known and on behalf
of the entire club I wish them both very well indeed.
—{}—
You Mean They Can Make Wine in America?
By Lainie Petersen
(First appeared in Newsletter No. 23)
It may come as a shock to some of our club members, but it is true: Americans have been known to eschew cold fizzy lager for wine on occasion. In fact, we produce quite a bit of it right here in the Former Colonies. It is also true, however, that much of our wine (particularly that which seems to be featured on the websites of UK stockists) is not very interesting. Still, there are some truly wonderful wines (as well as the merely tasty) produced in America, and some of them are even available in the UK. In what will be a monthly column here in the NSC Newsletter, I will be introducing club members to some of my favourites, all of which are available in the UK. But for now, here are some basics about American wines.
Varietal vs Terroir
American wines are more likely to be identified by their grape (and in the case of blends) by their colour than where they are produced. On American wine labels, for example, one will often see an identification of the type of grapes used in the production of the wine featured more prominently than any other information. (Incidentally, the location identified on an American wine label refers to where the wine was bottled, not where the grapes were grown.) When Americans order or discuss wine, they typically will speak of it in terms of its varietal (i.e. an American ordering a glass of wine will ask for Pinot Noir or Chardonnay rather than Burgundy or a white Burgundy, respectively). If an American requests, say, a glass of Burgundy, Bordeaux, or Chablis, this can mean one of two things: the American knows a thing or two about terroir or the American is completely ignorant of wine and is only ordering this way because this is what they have seen done in the movies.
Fortunately, however, Americans are becoming progressively more sophisticated about wine and are developing a keen interest not only in grape varietals, but in terroir as well. Movies such as Sideways, plus the interest in good food and cooking in general, have helped this interest along. One of the more exciting developments in American wine has been the proliferation of small vineyards across the country, including some in the southern part of my own state of Illinois. It is becoming more and more common for Americans to inquire after their wines pedigree, because they have discovered that terroir does indeed influence a wines character and that certain growing regions do produce better wines than others.
American Wine Regions
Winemaking has spread throughout the Former Colonies: one can now purchase wine made in New York, Michigan, Illinois, and numerous other states. However, much of our wine (and certainly the most widely distributed wine) is grown and made on the West Coast: California, Oregon, and Washington. Here is a quick introduction to these winemaking areas (as well as my personal opinions of each):
California: California is our pre-eminent wine-making state, accounting for 90 per cent of American wine production. As such, the wine produced in California ranges from truly awful (think White Zinfandel) to truly sublime. I find that ordinary California wines tend to be just that: ordinary, dull, and unmemorable (though they also arent particularly offensive: I reserve that designation for some of the French and Argentinean swill I have had the misfortune of sampling). Good California wines are both sunny and unctuous, much like the state itself.
Oregon: Oregon ranks third among American states in number of vineyards (behind California and Washington). However, as far as I am concerned, Oregon simply makes the best wines that America has to offer. Oregonian wines, particularly those from the Willamette Valley, are extraordinarily balanced, reminding me of good French wines. Oregon wines are subtle and relaxed: Quite nice for sipping as well as pairing with foods when one wants the food to take center stage.
Washington (the state of Washington, not our nations capital): Washington is second to California in wine production, and boasts of over eighty grape varietals in its vineyards, most of which are located in its Columbia Valley. However, I am less fond of its offerings than those of Oregon. Washington wines can indeed be delicious, but I have found a certain dusty quality in many of them.
American Wine Varietals
There are many grape types in the United States, but some of the most popular are:
Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, and Chardonnay: These are probably the best-known, and most available (particularly by the glass in bars and restaurants), varietals in the United States. Unfortunately, the popularity of these grapes also means that their wines can be incredibly pedestrian. Even worse is the fact that many Americans just dont know any better, and think that over-oaked/rancid-butter-tasting chardonnay, uninspired merlot, and heavy-handed cabernet are what wine should taste like. This is a sad thing, because I have also had some incredibly delicious wines made from all three of these grapes. Check trusted ratings sources before buying any of these American-made wines, particularly those produced in California.
Sauvignon Blanc (Fume Blanc) is a crisp white wine that is excellent for sipping on its own, and matches well with goat cheese and lighter types of fish. It also matches well with some notoriously difficult-to-pair foods (especially asparagus and sushi). Most of it is grown in California, and is of generally good quality.
Pinot Gris (Pinot Blanc) and Pinot Noir grapes flourish in Oregon, and make some truly memorable wines. Pinot Gris from Oregon, in particular, tends to have a lovely spicy quality that may seem odd in a white wine, but adds a warmth and character unmatched by most other whites. Pinot Noir, on the other hand, is a notoriously fussy grape that is often badly handled elsewhere; but again, I have found Oregon Pinot Noirs to be restrained, subtle, and elegant: exactly the sort of treatment that this grape requires.
Syrah is an ancient grape that is increasing in popularity in the United States: it produces very powerful, full-bodied wines that match well with our splendid beef. California is the main producer of Syrah here in America, and California Syrahs are predictably rich, warm and sunny in character (try one with a particularly good hamburgerits divine!).
Zinfandel is my favourite red variety, and is also a confusing and touchy subject in the American wine world. Confusing, because a lot of Americans understand Zinfandel to be synonymous with White Zinfandel. White Zinfandel is a (usually) insipid pink wine for those who dont know any better. Proper Zinfandel, on the other hand, is a powerful, luscious red that stands up well to grilled meats, though dry Zinfandel can be a strangely good match for sushi. Zinfandel has a high sugar content, and its alcohol level can nudge upwards to 15 per cent (which can result in some really lovely dessert wines). In any case, when offered, ordering, or speaking about this wine to an American, it is wise to remember the confusion between white and real Zinfandel in order to avoid mutual embarrassment.
The touchy aspect of Zinfandel is the result of the (relatively recent) debunking of the notion that Zinfandel is a native American grape. (Genetic testing has revealed, that it is identical to the Italian Primativo grape.) This has led to hurt feelings among some in the American wine community, so it is best to tread lightly in this matter. Again, California leads the pack in its production: if you ever have the opportunity to try Turley Zinfandels, do so. They are magnificent.
Rieslings and Gewrztraminers are the two exceptions to my general indifference toward Washington wines. Because of their tendency toward sweetness, many American Rieslings and Gewrztraminers can take on a sticky or utterly flat/sweet character that reminds one of spiked Kool-Aid. On the other hand, truly good examples of each varietal make wonderful pairings with Asian foods, and those from Washington not only tend to be well-crafted, but are typically bargains to boot.
Finding American Wines in the UK
Finding decent American wines in the UK can indeed
be a challenge, but here are a couple of suggestions:
● If you encounter an American wine that you like, look up the winemakers website. Somewhere on the site (usually in the footer) you will find a link that reads something along the lines of For the Trade: Click on it, and there should be a list of the winemakers distributors. If there is one in the UK, you can either contact them and ask which shops stock the wines or ask your local stockist to order some for you via that distributorship.
● An important advantage of loyally patronizing small specialty shops is the earned privilege of being able to speak to the proprietor about special orders and stocking what you require. Of course some specialty wine shops will likely have several excellent American wines on offer, while others may well be quite eager to hear your suggestions, particularly if you can provide them with information on the UK distributor.
In any case, I do appreciate the members of the New Sheridan Club indulging this Former Colonials enthusiasm for her countrys viniculture. I hope that these columns prove both useful and aid in the appreciation of some of the truly fine wines my country produces. Until then, I wish everyone a fine transition into Fall, with the expectation of the sorts of rich, hearty foods (and wines to match) that we all desire with such glee. Bon appetit!
—{}—
(First
appeared in Newsletter No. 22)
In honour
of our summer party theme [Mad Dogs and Englishmen], here are some of the
great mans bons mots:
You ask
my advice about acting? Speak clearly, dont bump into the furniture and if you
must have motivation, think of your pay packet on Friday.
Im an
enormously talented man, and theres no use pretending that Im not.
Told a
particularly stupid acquaintance had blown his brains out: He must have been
an incredibly good shot.
On drama
critics: I have always been very fond of them I think it is so frightfully
clever of them to go night after night to the theatre and know so little about
it.
Asked how
he would describe the style of his colourful tropical paintings: Erratic.
Actually, its known by my friends as Touch and Gauguin.
Watching
Queen Elizabeths coronation parade, friends wondered aloud who the little man
sharing a carriage with the 400 pound Queen of Tonga might be. According to
David Niven, Coward replied: Her lunch.
Wit
ought to be a glorious treat like caviar; never spread it about like
marmalade.
People
are wrong when they say opera is not like it used to be. It is what it used to
be. That is whats wrong with it.
Extraordinary how potent cheap music is.
Time has
convinced me of one thing: Television is for appearing on—not for looking
at.
I am not
a heavy drinker. I can sometimes go for hours without touching a drop.
I dont
believe in astrology. The only stars I can blame for my failures are those that
walk about the stage.
I have a
memory like an elephant. In fact, elephants often consult me.
I like
long walks, especially when they are taken by people who annoy me.
I love
criticism just so long as its unqualified praise.
Theres
always something fishy about the French.
—{}—
By Torquil Arbuthnot
(First appeared in Newsletter No. 22, August 2008)
So what was the world like a hundred years ago? This handy crib will fill you in on all the gen that really matters.
On 1st January 1908 Harry Bensley left for his would-be trip around the world pushing a pram and wearing an iron mask, beginning from Trafalgar Square. Bensley was the subject of an extraordinary wager between John Pierpont Morgan and Hugh Cecil Lowther, 5th Earl of Lonsdale, that a man could walk around the world without being identified. Bensley supposedly spent the next six and half years on the road, claiming to have got as far as China and Japan before the outbreak of World War I rendered the wager somewhat invalid. However, there is no proof that he made it further than Bexleyheath in Kent.
On 12th January a long-distance radio message was sent from the Eiffel Tower for the first time; doubtless a notification of surrender.
Australia regained The Ashes with a 308 run victory over England. So, no change there.
The first around-the-world car race, the New York to Paris race, took place in 1908. Starting in Times Square on 12th February, the competitors drove across the USA (often riding with special balloon tyres on railway tracks where no roads existed) to Alaska where they took a steamer to Vladivostok via Japan. From there they simply drove through Siberia and Manchuria on to the winning post in Paris. The winner, an American team in a Thomas Flyer, arrived in Paris on 30th July.
The opening ceremony of the London Olympics was held on 27th April at the White City Stadium.
Great Britain topped the medal tally with 56 golds. Britain won the gold medal in the tug-of-war, when the City of London Police beat the Liverpool Police
The Tunguska event, also known as the Russian explosion, occurred near the Podkamennaya Tunguska River in Krasnoyarsk Krai, Siberia, on 30th June. The explosion is estimated to have been about a thousand times more powerful than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima. Although theories abound as to the cause of the explosion (antimatter, black hole, UFO crash) the explosion was most likely caused by the air burst of a large meteoroid or comet fragment at an altitude of 3 to 6 miles above the Earths surface.
In November Western bandits Messrs Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid were supposedly killed in Bolivia, after being surrounded by a large group of soldiers.
Among those pupped in 1908 were: Simone de Beauvoir (famous for sitting in cafs smoking); Stephane Grappelli (famous for scratching away in the Hot Club de France); the English explorer Vivian Fuchs (famous for generating headlines such as Fuchs Off to the South Pole); John Mills (famous for being plucky); Rex Harrison (famous for being one of the finest screen cads); Ian Fleming (famous for writing Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang and some spy novels); Don Ameche (famous for his pencil moustache); and Sir Donald Bradman (famous for having a test average of 99.94).
The Nobel Prize for literature was won by some German
philosopher called Rudolf Christoph Eucken, of whom no one has ever heard,
before or since.
—{}—
By Torquil Arbuthnot
(Originally appeared in Newsletter No.21)
Carl Gustaf von Rosen was born in Sweden in 1909, the son of the explorer Eric von Rosen. He was also nephew of Hermann Grings wife, Carin, which partly explains his early fascination with aeroplanes.
He began flying with a flying circus, but when Mussolini invaded Abyssinia, von Rosen went out there to fly relief missions. When Finland was invaded by Russia in 1940 von Rosen volunteered to fly for the Finns, carrying out bomber raids. He even bought the Finns three aeroplanes with money borrowed from a relative. When Germany invaded the Netherlands, von Rosen (who had a Dutch wife) applied to join the RAF but was turned down because of his being related to Gring, head of the Luftwaffe. So he joined KLM as a civilian pilot, flying the dangerous Lisbon-London route.
At the end of the war he returned to Ethiopia, to help train their air force. He left them to become UN Secretary Dag Hammarskjlds personal pilot. Hammarskjld was killed when his aeroplane crashed in mysterious circumstances during the Congo crisis in 1961. Von Rosen had called in sick that day and a reserve pilot took his place.
In 1967 the south-eastern part of Nigeria attempted to break away and form a separate republic, Biafra. The Nigerians resisted this by force (aided by Britain and Russia) and the Nigerian Civil War (also known as the Biafran War) ran between 1967 and 1970. Biafra had no air force of its own so relied on mercenaries to fly both relief and military missions for them. They used the nearby islands of So Tom as an air base, and it was from there that von Rosen first started flying relief missions into Biafra.
The Nigerian Air Force would try to shoot down these relief flights, to von Rosens disgust, and he decided to do something about it. Von Rosen was familiar with a Swedish military trainer called the MFI-9, which was robust enough to be able to carry significant loads of ordnance suspended from hard points on the wings. A number of MFI-9Bs had been constructed in hopes of a sale to the Swedish Air Force, but when the sale fell through, the aircraft became available at a low price. In the spring of 1969 Von Rosen imported five of them to Gabon and transformed them into attack aircraft by painting them green (Volkswagen car paint) and fitting anti-armour rockets under the wings. He rechristened them MiniCoins (an acronym for "Miniature Counter-Insurrection"). Needless to say, the French Secret Service, eager to meddle in something that would annoy the British, helped him purchase and arm the MiniCoins.
Their first attack (flown by two Swedish and three Biafran pilots, led by von Rosen) was on 22nd March 1969 when they attacked Port Harcourt airport. Their second attack was two weeks before my sixth birthday when they launched a dawn attack on Benin airport. At the time my family was living in Benin, only a mile or two from the airport. The Biafran War was in full swing and Benin was only a few miles from the front line. Most expatriates had chosen to stay. I remember being woken up by the sound of the explosions as von Rosen attacked the Mig-17 and Ilyushin Il-28 bombers that Id often seen parked on the tarmac at Benin airport. About twenty minutes after theyd attacked and flown back to Gabon, the gallant anti-aircraft crew at Benin airport scuttled back from the forest where theyd fled at the first sign of trouble, and began firing blindly into the dawn sky. This went on for a good half hour. Id been watching the flashes of the rockets and the gunfire from my bedroom window, but was pulled away by my parents. To this day I still think them spoilsports for not letting me watch it all. We had emergency suitcases always waiting in the hallway in case things got sticky for the expatriates, so waited downstairs next to them until things settled own again.
In all von Rosen flew over 25 attacks in the MiniCoins, destroying several aeroplanes on the ground, and putting an important powerplant in Ugheli out of action for six months.
In 1977 von Rosen was back in Africa again, flying relief sorties for the Ethiopians during the Ogaden War against Somalia. He was killed on the ground in July 1977 when Somali guerrillas attacked the camp where he was billeted.
—{}—
Flight Lieutenant Gordon Brettel
DFC
By Derrick W.Croisdale
(Originally appeared in Newsletter No.20)
Gordon Brettell was born in Pyford, Surrey, in 1915. His father was lance-corporal in the Honorable Artillery Company but his principal occupation was a stockbroker; they were a well-off family. Brettell was educated privately, first at Sunningdale Preparatory School and then at Cheltenham College until he was 18. At 15, he almost died of mastoids but recovered, much to everyones surprise.
It was only the first of many brushes with death in the 29 years of his life.
At Cheltenham he was a good all-rounder. He took part in debating competitions, rowed, played hockey, rugby and cricket and was captain of his house boxing team (not a great boxer but pretty tough was the college assessment). He also sang in a college quartet. In his teens he took his younger brother to a fairground where there was a wall of death, a cylindrical structure around the inside of which performers rode motorcycles on the vertical wall. At the end of the performance the audience was asked if anyone would like to have a go. Young Gordon immediately volunteered and amazed everyone by not only riding the motorbike conventionally but repeating his performance sitting on the handlebars.
He went up to Clare College, Cambridge, in 1934 and graduated three years later with a BA. At Cambridge he became secretary to the university Automobile Club and became passionately interested in car racing. This was to be his main interest up to the outbreak of the Second World War. After graduating he became a freelance author writing for boys magazines and racing car journals. His favourite vehicle was an Austin Seven Ulster which he raced frequently at Brooklands. On one occasion his brakes failed halfway through a race but he pressed on and won by a comfortable margin. Another time he misjudged his speed negotiating one of the steeply banked bends and spun off the top, crashing to the ground. He sustained six bone fractures but was racing again within a month.
On the day Germany invaded Poland, Gordon immediately went to the RAF Recruitment Office and enlisted for service as a pilot. Pending his call-up he worked at Vickers Ltd, Weybridge, on the production of the Wellington bomber. He was called up on 20th January 1940 and did his training at No.5 Service Flying Training School, RAF Bassingbourne. During his training he managed to wangle a flight for his younger brother serving in the Royal Artillery. They flew in a Miles Magister and beat up their parents home in Chertsey, Surrey. His brother recalls that they dived at over 140mph—upon landing, Gordon apologised for not having dived faster, but the wings were supposed to come off at 140mph.
On 17th February 1941, Gordon got his wings and was commissioned Pilot Officer. His active service was mainly at Biggin Hill with squadrons 92, 124 and 111 flying Spitfires Mk VB. On 4th September he was severely wounded in the head in an action over France. Gordon wrote a detailed account of this action at the request of the Medical Officer who attended him. It was later published in the Sunday Pictorial and Readers Digest under the title There Were Too Many Huns, using the pen name Pilot Officer Stanley Hope. In the action he was pounced upon by ten ME109s; he managed to damage one enemy aircraft before being compelled to make good his escape by diving down to sea level where the Spitfire was slightly faster than the ME109F. His head wounds caused him to lose consciousness from time to time and blood obscured his vision. He expressed relief that he didnt have a date that night so he wouldnt let anyone down if he didnt make it back. But make it back he did, and made a respectable landing. The surgeon who operated on him gave him the pieces of metal he removed from his skull as a memento. A later citation for his DFC states that after his injury he resumed operational flying with renewed zest.
Gordon has been described variously as a careful planner, impetuous, a ladies man, a gentleman and a gentle man who never lost his temper, modest and—by an American pilot who evaded capture after a later catastrophe for which Brettell was arguably to blame—a great guy. Perhaps it was all these qualities that led to his court martial on 14th April 1942. Two weeks previously there had been an Officers Mess party to which a number of WAAFs (Womens Auxiliary Air Force) had been invited. Gordon befriended one of the WAAFs who, late in the evening, said she would have to leave because transport was waiting to take them back to their airfield. Gordon must have exercised his charm because he persuaded her to stay the night and also promised to get her back in time for morning parade. He was court martialled because, true to his word, he got her back—in his Spitfire. Dispensing with parachutes, he flew sitting on the WAAFs lap. The official record states, Tried by General Court Martial at Biggin Hill on 14.4.42 under Sections 39A(1)(b) and 40 Air Force Act; that When on active service was likely to cause damage to aircraft by improperly and without authority carrying a passenger, neglected to wear his parachute harness contrary to Regulations. Guilty. Sentence: severe reprimand.
On 2nd August he was posted to 133 Squadron as a flight commander. The squadron was in action almost every day. The busiest was on 19th August in support of the combined operation at Dieppe. Gordon was at readiness from four oclock in the morning and took part in all four missions flown that day, finally touching down at nearly nine oclock in the evening in bad visibility. The air fighting had been fierce but the squadron acquitted itself exceedingly well, destroying or damaging 16 enemy aircraft without any loss. In this action Gordon shot down a FW190.
No.133 Squadron was one of three Eagle squadrons in the RAF, comprised mostly of American volunteer pilots. The squadron had been formed in August 1941 under Squadron Leader George A. Brown, who famously addressed the young Americans: Gentlemen, no Englishman is more appreciative than I to see you American volunteers over here to assist us in our fight. It is going to get a lot tougher as time goes by, so take a good look around this room—because a year from now most of you will be dead. The young pilots were dumbstruck. In fact, in the following 13 months, 23 pilots were killed, 13 in action and 10 in accidents.
An emotional day was 19th August 1942, the date of the first raid by B17s of the United States Army Air Force (USAAF) on enemy-occupied Europe. No.133 Squadron was given the honour of escorting the 12 B17s in a raid on railway yards in Rouen, which they did without loss. The main hazard was the trigger-happy air gunners in the B17s, who couldnt tell the difference between Spitfires and ME109s. After being shot at on the return journey the squadron dived to sea level and left the B17s to go home alone.
At the beginning of September, the RAF began to re-equip the squadron in readiness for the transfer to the USAAF. To deal with the transfer formalities, the American Squadron Leader Carroll McColpin was summoned to London for a few days. His place was taken by Gordon Brettell.
On 26th September the squadron was to escort a group of B17s to Morlaix in Brittany. There was heavy cloud, but navigation was not going to be a problem as the squadron would be vectored by RAF Exeter. When they reached the rendezvous point there was no sign of the bombers, so they were ordered to circle and wait. In fact the B17s had left 20 minutes early but had not bothered telling the RAF. Moreover, an unexpected 100mph wind at the operational height was rapidly carrying the squadron towards Brittany. By the time RAF Exeter realised what was happening, the Spitfires were out of radio contact.
Brettell made two inexplicable decisions. The first was to keep circling after radio contact was lost. Eventually they did spot some B17s heading north, but by this time fuel was running low so he decided to abort and head for Bolt Head. His second odd decision was to take the whole squadron down out of the clouds to get bearings, when one plane would have done. They spotted the coastline and a large port that they took to be Plymouth. In fact it was Brest, the most heavily defended port on the Atlantic coast. In seconds, 11 of the 12 Spitfires were lost, either shot down or forced to crash-land or bale out from lack of fuel. Four pilots were killed, six were captured. One baled out, evaded capture and eventually made it back to England, having been jailed in Spain for a while. The twelfth plane had aborted earlier with engine trouble and crash landed near Kingsbridge.
Brettells plane was hit by two cannon shells that reduced the port wing to a skeleton. Unable to bale out, he hit the ground at 200mph. He later spoke well of the German soldiers who extricated him from the wreckage and administered morphia. He was well treated in hospital but delayed telling his parents about his injuries in case they were worried. By the time he was on the mend, however, he wrote, describing that he had four broken ribs, three broken vertebrae, left shoulder blade broken, right sholder blade dislocated, a sprained knee, a large cut on my head, a very squashed-in chest, a ricked neck, two marvellous black eyes, a broken tooth. I also gathered that I had a fractured skull, but I think I must have misunderstood this because my head never felt the least bad These ailments, though not individually serious, do look slightly formidable when lined up in a row. Less than a month after the crash, he said that all he felt was a little, rapidly vanishing stiffness.
Three days after he was shot down, Gordon was awarded the DFC, citing his 111 sorties over enemy-occupied territory and his great keenness to engage the enemy. Meanwhile, Brettell himself was headed for Stalag Luft III, a POW camp for Allied airmen 100 miles south-east of Berlin.
He became a regular escapee. On one occasion he and a Belgian prisoner were making for the Baltic Sea, hoping to sail for Sweden. It was winter and they came upon a wide frozen river. Unsure if it would hold their weight they crawled across on hands and knees, testing the strength of the ice as best they could. Eventually reaching the far side, exhausted and cold, they sat down for a rest. Almost at once they heard a rumbling—and a column of German army vehicles came driving down the middle of the river.
With each escape, Gorden was recaptured after a few days and sentenced to two weeks solitary confinement in the cooler. On one occasion he apologised to the Luftwaffe Commandant, Colonel Friedrich-Wilhelm von Lindeiner-Wildau, a professional and honourable soldier, for the trouble he might be causing him. The Colonel silenced him by striking the table with his fist and announcing that it was the duty of an officer to escape!
Gordon became a member of the forgery team which prepared documents for would-be escapees. He was an enthusiastic supporter of the planned escape by tunnel which would become known as the Great Escape. The entrance to the tunnel, codenamed Harry, was in the room Gordon shared with half a dozen other POWs. When the time was ripe for the escape, a ballot was held to determine who would be in the first batch to escape through the tunnel. Gordon was one of those selected.
On the night of 24th March 1944, 81 prisoners escaped through the tunnel. Gordon and two others were free for two nights but were recaptured after being reported by a suspicious railway booking clerk as they were making good progress for the Baltic.
Hitler was furious about the escape and ordered 50 of the escapees to be shot. Gordon was one of those selected and he was killed by Gestapo Captain Reinholt Bruchardt on 29th March on the outskirts of Danzig. The camp Commandant was arrested and charged with negligence. At his trial he was asked what he would have done if Hitler had ordered him to shoot the prisoners. He replied that he would rather have shot himself. He was sentenced to two years imprisonment. Not so fortunate were three German electricians: they were executed for allowing large quantities of wire to fall into the POWs hands.
The cremated remains of the 50 escapees were returned to Stalag Luft III. Colonel von Lindeiner, while awaiting his trial, paid for materials and tools to enable the POWs to build a stone memorial. This was completed towards the end of 1944 and on 4th December a remarkable ceremony was held. Attending were senior German officers, 15 POW officers representing the nations of the dead, members of the Swiss Legation, an Anglican and a Roman Catholic priest and a guard of honour of German soldiers. A POW bugler sounded The Last Post and the guard of honour fired a volley of shots. In the middle of a savagely-fought war, it was an act of great nobility and courage by the Germans who took part.
For his part in the escape, Gordon Brettell was mentioned in dispatches.
Derrick W. Croisdale, 2008
—{}—
The Silver Bullet: A
Monograph on the Martini
By David Bridgman-Smith
(Originally appeared in Newsletter No.18)
1. Introduction
American journalist H.L. Mencken once suggested that there is only one American invention as perfect as the sonnet; the Martini.
Today, there are various drinks masquerading as the Martini, such as those that claim to taste of Key Lime Pie or Black Forest Gateau. In light of this, here is a quick definition.
A Martini is a cocktail traditionally made from gin and vermouth, which is served in stemmed glassware. It is typically garnished with a lemon twist or an olive. Although originally made with gin, it has recently become commonplace to replace this with vodka.
The dryness of a Martini is a reference to the amount of vermouth it contains: the less vermouth the Martini proportionally contains, the dryer it is.
How to chill a Martini glass when there is no room in the freezer: Before you begin preparing the drink, fill the glass with clean ice and then top up with clean, chilled, still water (preferably bottled). Once the drink is ready to pour, dispose of the ice and water from the glass and shake it to ensure that no drops of water remain. Strain the drink and serve. It may seem a minor detail, but in my experience it really makes a difference.
2. History
Like a great many things, the exact origins of the Martini are somewhat hard to determine; however, there are two accounts of how the drink began that seem to be, from research, the most widely cited.
Story No.1: Julio Richelieu, Martinez
In 1870, a miner entered Julio Richelieus saloon in Ferry Street, Martinez. Walking up to the bar, the miner dropped a tobacco sack of gold nuggets on the bar weight-scale and requested that Richelieu fill a bottle with whiskey for him. Having received his full bottle of whiskey and feeling somewhat short-changed, the miner asked for something more. Richelieu mixed a drink, dropped in an olive in the glass and declared it The Martinez Cocktail.
Story No. 2: Jerry Thomas, San Francisco
This is a similar story to the first, although it takes place at the other end of the journey. In this story, it was famous bartender Professor Jerry Thomas, well known for mixing The Blue Blazer, who invented the Martini. Thomas had travelled to San Francisco in 1849 arriving at the height of the Gold Rush. Thomas then returned to New York and subsequently moved back to San Francisco, where he set up a bar in the Occidental Hotel in Montgomery Street. A traveller on his way to Martinez, California entered the hotel bar, threw down a gold nugget and asked for something special. To which Thomas
replied: Very well, here is a drink I have invented especially for your trip, we shall call
it the Martinez.
Whether Thomas invented the original Martini is unclear. Nevertheless, it was thought for a long time that Thomas provided the first published recipe of the Martini in the 1887 edition of his bartenders guide. However, even then there are some reports of a recipe for The Martinez being published three years earlier in O.H. Byrons The Modern Bartenders Guide.
In addition to these two accounts, here are a number of other claims for the origin of the Martini:
Bartender Martini di Arma di Tuggia at the Knickerbocker Hotel, New York is said to have made the drink for John D. Rockefeller and is claimed to have created the first incarnatation of the modern Martini in 1912.
There are reports dating from 1763 of German musician J.P.A. Martini drinking Geneva and dry white wine.
The Oxford English Dictionary has claimed the drink was named after the Martini & Rossi drinks company founded in Turin, Italy in 1890.
Some believe there to be a link between the Martini and the Martini-Henry Rifle used by the British Army, as both the firearm and the drink had a kick.
Regardless of the inconclusive exact origin of the Martini, it seems that the original drink has undergone something of a transformation in order to become the drink we know today.
The timeline and appropriate dryness ratios below (gin:vermouth) are taken from The Martini Book by gin company W.A. Gilbey Ltd. The writers themselves suggest that every thirty years the Martini gets one part dryer.
1860 1:1 Martinez
At this time the drink was known interchangeably as the Martinez, Martine and Martini.
From O.H. Byrons The Modern Bartenders Guide (1884)
Martinez
2 dashes of curaao
2 dashes Angostura bitters
Half a wine glass of gin
Half a wine glass of Italian vermouth
Byron suggests that the Martini is: the same as Manhattan, only you substitute gin for whisky.
1890 2:1 The Original Martini
The book Louis Mixed Drinks (1906) contains two recipes for the Martini; the one below is possibly the first published recipe of the Dry Martini.
Dry Martini Cocktail
2 dashes of orange bitters
1 dash of curaao
1 liqueur glass of French vermouth
2 liqueur glasses of dry gin
Fill mixing glass with ice, stir well, strain into a cocktail glass and squeeze a small piece of lemon peel on top.
1920 3:1 The Prohibition Martini
From 1915, drinks became colder as refrigerators began to replace ice boxes. A 1920s New York drama critic, George Jean Nathan, is reported to have rigged up a series of strings and pulleys from his front door latch to his refrigerator. When he turned his key to enter, the cocktail shaker in the refrigerator was gently agitated and the Martini ready for consumption by the time he reached the fridge door.
1950 4:1 The Martini
It became a fashion to have Martinis of ever increasing dryness and a very dry Martini became the mark of an individual with refined taste; this led to a number of inspired methods of vermouth management, including the invention of specialist devices.
In 1966, an experiment in Chicago involving 3,426 people was conducted with the purpose of classifying tastes in Martinis. Each individual dialled a drink of their chosen strength into a machine known as the Martini-Matic. This led to the following results:
Profession Preferred
Strength (gin : vermouth)
Teachers, Factory and
Office Workers 3:1
Salesmen, Buyers
& Engineers 4:1
Advertising Agents 5:1
Publishers 7:1
Source: Gourmet Magazine (1968)
It was also in the 1960s that devices to control minute amounts of vermouth accurately, such as the Martini Spike, came on to the market—further indicating a preference for the very dry Martini.
3. How To Keep Your Martini Dry
As the preference for dryer Martinis progressed, so did investigation into the problem of how to make a drink with the minimal vermouth. This resulted in various creative solutions:
The popular In & Out Method, used by many bartenders today. It involves filling the mixing glass or shaker with ice, pouring in vermouth and then straining it away, resulting in vermouth-coated ice. Another method involves rinsing the cocktail glass or shaker with vermouth.
It is also possible to introduce the vermouth to the Martini with the use of garnishes, such as olives or lemon rinds, which have been steeped in vermouth.
In addition, a number of gadgets have been invented with the aim of achieving maximal dryness:
Martini Spike
This was produced in the 1960s by Gorhams and resembles a silver-plated syringe (as depicted on the front cover of this issue of the Newsletter), neatly packaged in a velvet-lined box. The increments on the side allow the user to add an exact amount, in cubic centimetres, of vermouth to their drink.
Martini Dropper
A long, thin pipette designed to fit into the top of a bottle of vermouth. The bulb of the dropper often resembled an olive and the device was produced by a firm called Invento. This device allowed the user to add a mere drop of vermouth to the mix. Whilst not having the precision of the Gorham Spike, it does allow for a much smaller amount of vermouth to be added.
Martini Stones
Invented by Fred Pool, these are small marble stones that are soaked in vermouth and then added to the mixing glass or shaker along with the gin. The vermouth-soaked stones produce a very dry drink. According to their inventor, the stone also neutralizes the acidity of the vermouth, thus improving the taste.
The Atomizer
This is popular when using the Diamond method of mixing (see below). Essentially, the inside of the chilled glass is sprayed with vermouth from a perfume atomizer before chilled gin is poured in. A variation is to spray a mist of vermouth over the top of the finished drink. Alternatively, it can be sprayed into the mixing glass or shaker before mixing.
The Martini Tester
Another invention related to the dryness of a Martini, but not actually used to measure or dispense vermouth, was the Gilbey Martini Tester. This was produced in the mid 1960s by Gilbey and originally sold for $1.95. The tester was designed to measure how dry a specific Martini is and is described as being a must for every Master of Martini. The author is currently working on making a working reproduction of this device.
As well as these more practical methods, there have been, in the history of the cocktail, some more eccentric and elaborate practices:
Whisper the word vermouth over the drink
Expose the drink to the written word vermouth
Wave a vermouth bottle over the drink
Allow a single beam of sunlight to pass through the vermouth bottle and onto the bottle of gin or finished drink
A bartenders tip is to add a drop of vodka to an otherwise all-gin Martini to create an even dryer taste.
4. Shaken vs Stirred
Possibly one of the most controversial topics in cocktail making is the question of how to mix your Martini: do you stir or do you shake? In an attempt to assess the various arguments, let us first look at the different methods.
The Shaking Method
Mix the ingredients and ice in a cocktail shaker by shaking it vigorously until condensation or frosting appears on the outside of the shaker. Traditionally if a Martini is shaken, a stainless steel Manhattan shaker is used.
The Stirring Method
Mix the ingredients with ice using a long, thin spoon or mixing rod by whirling it around until the ingredients are cold. A mixing glass or glass pitcher is usually used for this method.
A shaken Martini is more thoroughly and vigorously mixed, which not only makes it colder but, as more of the ice melts, makes the drink more diluted.
Shaking also introduces air bubbles into the drink, which aerates the mixture. An immediately noticeable consequence of this is that the drink becomes slightly cloudy.
The presence of air bubbles also alters the taste of the drink, as the bubbles tend to restrict the flavour of the gin, giving the drink a sharper taste. A combination of both the increased dilution and the presence of air bubbles result in a drink that has a less oily texture.
A study by Biochemists at the University of Western Ontario in Canada indicated that due to the aeration and presence of air bubbles in a shaken Martini, more antioxidants were produced, arguably making the drink healthier.
The more gently-mixed stirred Martini is characterized by not being as cold and being less diluted than its shaken counterpart. The stirring method produces a clear, or certainly clearer, Martini. The absence of air bubbles, as well as the lower dilution rate, in a stirred Martini results in a drink that not only has a smoother texture, but also offers a more pronounced and defined flavour of the gin.
According to W. Somerset Maugham, as quoted by his nephew, Martinis should never be shaken. They should always be stirred so that the molecules lie sensuously on top of each other.
There is, incidentally, another method of preparing a Martini which involves neither shaking nor stirring.
Diamond or Pouring Method
Pre-chill the gin and stemmed glassware in the freezer. Add a small amount of vermouth to the chilled glass, either by rinsing or using an atomizer to spray the inside of the glass. Add the chilled gin and garnish the drink.
The advantage of this method is that it creates a similar chill factor to the shaken Martini, but with the minimal dilution of a stirred Martini. The disadvantage is that due to the very limited mixing involved, anything more than the merest whiff of vermouth tends to spoil the result and so this method is only for people who like their drinks very dry.
In conclusion, the author believes that the correct choice of method when mixing a Martini is one of personal taste. One recipe book from the 1950s suggests that,Clear mixtures should be stirred, cloudy ones should be shaken.
Even so, there is not necessarily a correct answer. However, it should be noted that the shaken Martini, with its less oily texture and a less pronounced flavour of gin, is often preferred by palates that are not accustomed to, or would not usually drink, gin. Thus, this method makes for a good introduction to gin Martinis, leaving the individual, thereafter, to decide what is to their liking.
5. The Cultural Martini
The cultural influence of the Martini in literature, film and wider society is considerable in comparison to most other cocktails and is subject to enough material to warrant a paper in its own right. Here is an introduction to some of the possible content of such a paper.
Some famous Martini drinkers include:
Sir Winston Churchill. An avid fan, Churchill preferred his Martinis naked; that is to say, without any vermouth. In fact, it is said that he thought it enough to merely bow in the direction of France. Being a member of Boodles Gentlemens Club in St Jamess, along with author Ian Fleming, Churchill was very keen on Martinis that used the exclusive gin that was made for his club, Boodles British Gin.
Ian Fleming. A great Martini lover himself, and creator of probably the best known fictional Martini drinker. He invented his own variation of the Martini, The Vesper, published in his 1953 book Casino Royale.
Ernest Hemingway. Described The Montgomery, a 15:1 ratio Martini, in his book, Across the River and into the Trees. A keen Martini drinker in 1944, after the liberation of Paris, he led two troops of French soldiers to the Ritz hotel. Upon their arrival, a frightened assistant manager asked if he could be of service, to which Hemingway replied, How about seventy-three dry Martinis?
Alfred Hitchcock. Hitchcock prepared his Martinis with gin and a cocktail shaker and, with regards to the dryness, he is reported to use five parts gin and a quick glance at a bottle of vermouth.
Kingsley Amis
Robert Benchley
Humphrey Bogart
Noel Coward
W.C. Fields
F. Scott Fitzgerald
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the New Sheridan Club for the opportunity to write and present this talk; Dottie, who was of great assistance in my research; Massamiliano of the Dukes Hotel, who introduced me to the Diamond-method Martini (and a very nice drink it was too) and Sarah of Henrys Bar in the City of London who made what is probably the most memorable Martini I have ever had.
Finally, my special thanks to S.L. Miller whose support, encouragement and critical editorial eye have made this paper possible.
Bibliography
Byron, O.H. The Modern
Bartenders Guide. New York. (1884)
Muckenstrum, Louis. Louis
Mixed Drinks with Hints for Care and Service of Wines. New York: Dodge Publishing Company. (1906)
Hemingway, Ernest. Across
the River and into the Trees. London:
Jonathan Cape. (1950)
Fleming, Ian L. Casino
Royale. London: Jonathan Cape. (1953)
Tanqueray, Gordon &
Company Ltd. Gordons. London: A.F.
Galt & Company Ltd (1950s)
Gilbey, John H.P. The
Martini Book. London: W.A. Gilbey Ltd.
(n.d.)
Maugham, R. Conversations
with Willie: Recollections of W. Somerset Maugham. New York: Simon & Schuster. (1978)
Conrad, Barnaby III. The
Martini. San Francisco: Chronicle
Books. (1995)
Regan, Gary and Regan, Mardee
Haidin. The Martini Companio—A Connoisseurs Guide. Philadelphia: Running Press. (1997)
Struminger, Alexander B. Martini. New York: Robert M. Tod. (1997)
Edmunds, Lowell. Martini
Straight Up. London: The John Hopkins
University Press. (1998)
Palin, Michael. Michael
Palins Hemingway Adventure. London:
Weidenfield & Nicholson. (1999)
Schott, Ben. Schotts Food
& Drink Miscellany. London:
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc. (2004)
Stone, Nannette. The Little
Black Book of Martinis. New York:
Peter Pauper Press Inc. (2004)
Marangraphics. Maran Illustrated
Cocktails. London: Marangraphics Inc.
(2005)
Reed, Ben. Martinis. London: Ryland Peters & Small. (2006)
Trevithick, J.R. 1999.
Shaken, not stirred: bioanalytical study of the antioxidant activities of
Martinis. British Medical Journal
[Online] 18th December. 19:1600-1602. Available at:
http://www.bmj.com/cgi/content/full/319/7225/1600 [accessed 2nd March 2008]
Hess, R. 2002. Shaken or
Stirred. [Online]. DrinkBoy. Available
at: http://www.drinkboy.com/Essays/ShakenOrStirred.html [accessed 1st March
2008].
Passmore, Nick. 2006. In
Praise Of The Silver Bullet. [Online]
Forbes. Available at:
http://www.forbes.com/2006/03/13/Martinis-cocktails-hemingway-cx_np_0314featB_ls.html
[accessed 24th February 2008].
Wilson, Jason. 2007. Sometimes,
Respect Starts With a Pour Down the Drain. The Washington Post. [Online]. 21st March. Available at:
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[accessed 2nd March 2008]
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http://www.rdwarf.com/users/mink/Martinifaq.html#famous [accessed 1st March
2008]
—{}—
The Eight Kinds
of Drunkennesse
(From
Pierce Penilesse, His Supplication to the
Divell, by Thomas Nashe published 1592 and brought to our attention
here by Mr Arbuthnot)
(First appeared in Newsletter No. 17)
The first is Ape drunke, and he leapes, and sings, and hollowes, and daunceth for the heauens.
The second is Lion drunke, and he flings the pots about the house, calls his Hostesse whore, breakes the glasse windowes with his dagger, and is apt to quarrel with any man that speaks to him.
The third is Swine drunke, heauy, lumpish, and sleepie, and cries for a little more drinke, and a fewe more cloathes.
The fourth is Sheepe drunke, wise in his owne conceipt, when he cannot bring foorth a right word.
The fifth is Mawdlen drunke, when a fellowe will weepe for kindnes in the midst of his Ale, and kisse you, saying; by God Captaine I loue thee, goe thy waies thou dost not thinke so often of me as I do of thee, I would (if it pleased GOD) I could not loue thee so well as I doo, and then he puts his finger in his eie, and cries.
The sixt is Martin drunke, when a man is drunke and drinkes himselfe sober ere he stirre.
The seauenth is Goate drunke, when in his drunkennes he hath no minde but on Lechery.
The eighth is Foxe drunke, when he is craftie drunke, as many of the Dutch men bee.
—{}—
The Assassination of Georgi Markov
By Torquil Arbuthnot
(Extracted from Mr Arbuthnots crime walk before the New Sheridan Christmas party, and subsequently published in Newsletter No. 16)
Georgi Markov was a successful literary figure in Bulgaria before he defected to the West in 1969. He even joined the Bulgarian Writers Union, officially approved by the government. He was also accepted by, and socialized with, Communist Party leaders, eventually learning the intimate details of their carefully hidden, private lives.
But he went
too far with a novel called The Great Roof. This novel depicted an incident in
Bulgarian history when, in May 1959, a roof under construction at a giant
Communist Party steel mill showpiece collapsed, killing and injuring an unknown
number of workers. The Communist Party failed to inspire or lead workers in the
search for victims. Markov called the novel an allegory and document of the
moral degradation of Bulgarian socialist society: In the fall of the roof, I
perceived a symbol of the inevitable collapse of the roof of lies, demagogy,
fallacies and deceit which the regime had constructed over our country. Markov
later wrote a play entitled
The Assassins, a drama about a plot to kill the leader of a police
state. That play was censured in a party newspaper article signed by Todor
Zhivkov, then president of Bulgaria. Markov was warned by a friend that he was
about to be arrested and fled to Italy. He eventually claimed political asylum
in Britain.
Markov became a broadcast journalist for the BBC World Service and a writer for the CIA-funded Radio Free Europe. His weekly-broadcast programmes for RFE, largely consisting of his memoirs of life in Bulgaria, were called, In Absentia, Reports About Bulgaria. Not only did these memoirs describe the cultural life of Bulgaria, but they also exposed the otherwise-hidden life of Communist Party leaders, especially Zhivkov. Markovs listening audience was estimated to be about 60 per cent of Bulgarias adult population, even though RFEs Bulgarian-language broadcasts were heavily jammed.
Following his fathers death, and the Bulgarians governments refusal to allow Markov to visit his dying father in 1977, the tone of Markovs broadcasts changed. Called Personal Meetings with Todor Zhivkov, they were bitingly satirical and a personal attack on Zhivkov. Markov wrote, I have stressed over and over again that the principal evil in the life and work of Bulgarian writers, painters, composers, actors was interference by the Party. And behind the Partys interference stood its chief organizer and executive, Todor Zhivkov. As a result of Zhivkovs general, arbitrary and often quite unwarranted interference, Bulgarian cultural life became permeated by an atmosphere of insecurity and chaos...
In July 1977 Zhivkov signed a Politburo decree proclaiming, All measures could be used to neutralize enemy migrs. Markov received various warnings and anonymous threats to stop broadcasting but ignored them. The Bulgarian secret police then made three attempts on Markovs life. The first was in Munich in the spring, when Markov was visiting friends and colleagues at Radio Free Europe. An agent tried but failed to poison Markovs drink at a dinner party honouring the writer. A second attempt occurred on the Italian island of Sardinia, where Markov was enjoying a summer vacation with his family.
The third attempt succeeded...
On 7th September 1978 (Zhivkovs 67th birthday) Markov was waiting at a bus stop on Waterloo Bridge. As he neared the waiting queue, he experienced a sudden, stinging pain in the back of his right thigh. He turned and saw a man bending down to pick up an umbrella. The man apologised and then hailed a black cab and sped off. Later that evening, Markov developed a high fever and was taken to a hospital, where he was treated for an undetermined form of blood poisoning. He went into shock and, after three days of agony, died.
Markov had earlier told
doctors he suspected hed been poisoned. Scotland Yard ordered a thorough
autopsy of Markovs body. The forensic pathologists discovered a spherical
metal pellet the size of a pin-head embedded in Markovs calf.
The pellet measured 1.52 mm
in diameter and was composed of 90 per cent platinum and 10 per cent iridium.
It had two holes with diameters of 0.35 mm drilled through it, producing an
X-shaped cavity. Further examination by experts from Porton Down showed that
the pellet contained traces of toxic ricin, a poison to which there
is no known antidote.
After the fall of Communism the case was re-opened by British and Bulgarian investigators. They decided the poison and the umbrella-gun had been provided by the KGB. The Bulgarian secret police had assassinated Markov as a birthday president for Zhikov.
—{}—
By Nevison Casual
(Originally appeared in Newsletter No.16)
High in the mountains of Himalaya, above the triple-canopied forests that echo with plaintive birdcalls in the valleys below, on a barren plateau strewn with rocks and empty port bottles, there rises from the clouds a granite fortress. In the local language they call it Sheri-Dan, which translates as The House of Flying Fag-Ends. This, curious traveller, is the oldest Chappist Monastery in existence.
Until the mid twentieth century, Sheri-Dan was completely isolated from the outside world. Within its walls the monks distilled their beliefs and disciplines—and occasionally raw grain alcohol—and learned to perform amazing physical feats. Today, tales of the order are widely told, and it has even become fashionable for adventurous Europeans to spend time with the monks, hoping to find their Inner Chap, or at least return with some unusual cufflinks and a few anecdotes. So what is it like to scale the mountain path and soujourn with the order? To save readers the ordeal of leaving their armchairs, your correspondent journeyed to find out.
As one stands uncertainly before the monasterys gates, all is quiet bar the moaning of the wind and the distant thwack of leather on willow. The walls are of ancient stone blocks covered in a mottled algae that, viewed from a certain angle, resolves itself into a pleasing houndstooth check. Its no use procrastinating: one reaches for the sculpted iron door-knocker that curiously resembles an elegant brogue Before ones fingers touch the metal, the door creaks open and an immaculately attired butler beckons silently for one to enter. Ones education has begun.
Every visitor comes with preconceptions. Is it true the monks purify their bodies by drinking Stella Artois to induce projectile vomiting? Is it true some penitents force themselves to wear jeans with anti-fit as a reminder of their earthly worthlessness? Is it true one monk meditated on top of a pole for 23 years? (Actually the Pole was Wozciek his valet, a strong man who found that carrying his inebriated master around the place made seeing to the holy mans needs a great deal easier.) So many questions. The reality of Chappist life is far more subtle.
Many Westerners mistakenly believe that Chappist monks take a vow of silence. In fact the vow they take is one of pertinence—idle nattering about trifles, such as politics, impending wars or the nature of being, are strictly forbidden and offenders are summarily locked in the stocks and pelted with stale scones. Quips, cheery salutations and the vivacious exchange of complex cocktails recipes, on the other hand, are actively encouraged. Many tourists visit Chappist temples simply to experience the transcendental ambience of spirited post-dinner banter, the clinking of glassware, perhaps the honking of a battered old piano, all wafting through the calming haze of pipe smoke.
This discipline of limiting talk to the utterest of essentials means that experienced monks have a finely honed ability to tell what someone else is thinking without recourse to words. Legend tells of a blind master of gin-jitsu, the Chappist art of making the perfect martini, who was much in demand as a cocktail waiter. He could divine customers orders simply from the way their clothing rustled as they approached the bar, and knew instinctively when drinkers glasses were empty by smelling their fear.
The heart of the Chappist monastery is the Dojo (or Anecdojo, to give it its full title), a large hall strewn with rugs, its walls adorned with traditional stuffed animal heads, dartboards, coat-hooks and the weeks tea-making roster. Here trainees learn to spar with one-liners, wisecracks and party pieces.
Observe how the cocksure novice begins with a flurry of irony and affable bravura. His opponent, the old tutor, at first glance shy and helpless, smiles and counters with a single, well-placed mot juste, reducing the audience of kneeling acolytes to gales of laughter. Wounded, the young attacker can manage nothing better in return than a low swipe at his opponents old age and decrepitude. The masters rejoinder is whispered into the youths ear so sotto voce that no onlooker can catch it, but its effect is devastating. Ashen, the young man looks instinctively to his trouser fly—mortifyingly unbuttoned, a flash of shirt-tail clearly visible to all the world. (Was it so all along, or is this the work of the masters drawing-room legerdemain?) The bout is over.
Such punishing instruction must be carefully dispensed. After this lesson the young monk will be carried to a comfortable wingback and a stiff cognac pressed into his sweating hand. With several hours of shoulder-clapping and good-natured joshing, his tutors must delicately rebuild his sense of panche before his education can continue.
The Dojo is also where novices learn the healing discipline of beditation. Few Westerners realise how much their lives would be improved by as little as eight hours of beditation a day. Here at Sheri-Dan, it is a core part of training. At 4.30 each morning, the hoarse iron bell sounds across the courtyard, summoning the groggy novices to rise from their port glasses and make their way to the Dojo. Here they settle into Egyptian cotton sheets on feather mattresses, and slip into a deep sleep. Stern masters stalk the hall, flexing Malacca canes, ready to give a fierce thwack to any young monk who allows himself to wake up even for a moment.
The Tea Ceremony
The Chappist tea ceremony is similar to the better-known Japanese one, but far more elaborate. In fact making the tea is just a small part of it. Novice monks must learn how to toast crumpets using only the rays of the sun. True masters can do this even at night. Each brother must prepare his own Gentlemans Relish by lying on a single anchovy until the pressure reduces it to a nourishing paste.
In the weeks leading up to the most holy festivals, one of the more promising aspirants may be sent out into the world to quest for the fabled Clotted Cream. Rumour has it that the monk who can return with some in time for Tea, then contrive to consume a prescribed quantity without dropping dead from a heart attack, is promptly invested as the new abbot.
Tie-Chi
Outsiders are often bemused by the sight of a group of Chappists moving very slowly for the first few hours of the morning. This is Tie-Chi, the Way of Taking Things Easy, and is how all adepts begin a day of study and prayer. The monks believe it is important to focus on the perfection of true harmony with the universe as they perform pure, simple actions, such as lathering their faces with shaving soap or choosing just the right tie. Besides, their hands are often quite shaky first thing in the morning. A Chappist master can appear to do absolutely nothing until lunchtime, at which point the observer will realise he has somehow managed to slip into an elegant three-piece, execute an immaculate Plattsburg tie knot and is already perusing the wine list.
Chappists are also sometimes to be seen moving very slowly last thing at night, but this is usually down to absinthe-induced nerve damage.
Martial Arts
Inevitably outside attention tends to focus on the Chappists martial skills, which are undeniably impressive.
Initiates begin with simple cane-fighting. The Chappist order prefers the crook-handled cane or umbrella, which can be used not only for thrusting and bludgeoning movements but also for hooking an opponents feet from under him and for stealing someone elses drink from a good three feet away.
Next the trainee moves on to the pipe. The Himalayan fighting briar is a justly feared weapon, and the monk must master all three types: the light, finely-balanced throwing pipe, the short, squat stabbing pipe, and the long, slender blow-pipe, with integrated rifling. From a position behind an aspidistra in the smoking room of one of Londons more famous clubs, a Chappist assassin is rumoured to have propelled a water-filled dart with such accuracy that it travelled up the stem of the Club Presidents own briar as he flourished it mid-anecdote, and comprehensively extinguished the flame. Faced with such humiliation, the man had no choice but to retire to the library with the club revolver. Conjecture is still rampant as to which of his rivals hired the marksman.
Beyond this, the monk might specialise in one of the more esoteric fighting systems, the powers of which are almost without limit. The Spinning Cufflinks of Death, for example, are so devastating that no adept would ever be so reckless as to shoot his cuffs in public.
Physical mastery of the weapons, of course, is merely the precursor to a deeper, mystical learning. An elderly monk, cheerfully waving his pipestem by way of conversational elaboration, may in fact be describing in the air an ancient magic rune. All who see it are mesmerised by the masters radiant lan, rooted to the spot, unable to tear their attention away from his amusing story until—at a time of his choosing—he enunciates the punchline. In ancient times Chappist raiding parties would use this trick to immobilise the guards of an enemy compound. While the master wove his bon mot, his minions would storm the fortress and ransack the drinks cabinet. For this reason, unlike many other orders, the Chappists never bothered developing their own beer or liqueur.
And so, as
the doors of Sheri-Dan clang behind me and I begin the long trek home, do I
feel any different? Readers, my life has changed forever.
I know the recipe for a Corpse Reviver, can distinguish an Oxford shoe
from a Derby at 200 paces in the dark, and know a very funny story about John
Le Mesurier. And I retain just 10 per cent of my liver function. Truly, there
is a God.
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(Originally appeared in Newsletter No. 15, and possibly before that on the Sheridan Club web forum)
The following are euphemisms habitually used in English newspapers, in particular The Daily Telegraph. Which NSC Members do you think will have which euphemisms attached to their name after they shuffle off this mortal smoking jacket?
Convivial Habitually drunk
Did not suffer fools gladly Monstrously foul-tempered
Gave colourful accounts of his exploits A liar
A man of simple tastes A complete vulgarian
A powerful negotiator A bully
Relished the cadences of the English language A crashing bore
A lively conversationalist A crashing bore
Relished physical contact A sado-masochist
An uncompromisingly direct ladies man A flasher
A confirmed bachelor Homosexual
He never married A misogynist
She left no close relatives A lesbian
Lived life to the full Drunk
Not always an easy man to live with A wife-beater
A free-spirit Couldnt hold down a job to save himself
Always had a twinkle in his eye A drooling pervert
Colourful Criminal
Misunderstood A git
A man of large appetites Obese
An original thinker Insane
Marched to the beat of a different drum Heard voices
Lived a quiet life Had no friends
Active in the community A busy-body
Uncomplicated Stupid as a bag of hammers
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By Torquil Arbuthnot
(Originally given as part of Torquil Arbuthnots murder walk prior to the Murder, Mystery and Mince Pies at Sheridan Towers New Sheridan Club Party, and subsequently appeared in NSC Newsletter No. 15)
William Terriss first made a name for himself as an actor in Sir Henry Irvings company at the Lyceum Theatre. But he became the popular idol of his day when he started playing the romantic lead in somewhat overblown Victorian melodramas at the Adelphi Theatre on the Strand. A fellow actor in the Adelphis company, only ever given small walk-on parts, was one Richard A. Prince. Mr Prince was described by contemporaries as, a strange, twisted, tormented young man with a heavy waxed moustache, a squint, a strong Scots accent, and a decidedly inflated opinion of himself both as an actor and a dramatist. The fact that he was staggeringly unsuccessful and incompetent both as an actor and a dramatist preyed on his mind and he became a victim of persecution mania. He was also an inveterate letter writer, both to theatrical managers (letters of abuse) and to royalty (letters of condolence or congratulation, usually in doggerel). His fellow-actors knew him as Mad Archie.
Terriss eventually dismissed him from the Adelphi company after putting up with his insults and general lunacy with admirable patience, and refused to see him any more. On 13th December 1897 Prince tried to get a complimentary ticket for the Vaudeville Theatre adjoining the Adelphi (and under the same management). He was refused and created a disturbance at the box office, before returning to his lodgings near Victoria railway station. There he brooded for a few days.
Terriss was at the time appearing in a fustian drama by William Gillette called Secret Service. As was his wont, he spent the early evening of 16th December before the performance playing poker in the Green Room Club, and then took a Hansom cab to the theatre, where he had a private entrance in Maiden Lane. In the dim gaslight he probably never noticed the dark figure lurking in the shadows opposite, near Rules restaurant. As Terriss unlocked the stage door, Prince ran up to him, drew a knife, and stabbed him several times. Terriss died almost immediately, while Prince made no attempt to escape but hung about until he was arrested. Prince was taken to Bow Street police station and charged with murder. When told to empty his pockets they were full of pawn tickets, and when asked if he had anything to say he requested something to eat. He made no defence, and was convicted of murder but found insane and committed to Broadmoor. Apparently he ran the Broadmoor amateur dramatic society for many years, conducting concerts and directing plays and, according to witnesses, enjoying himself to the full.
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by Dr Leavingsoon
(Originally appeared in newsletter no.14)
Club Member and inveterate
adventurer Dr Leavingsoon writes from far-flung New Zealand
I had a horse once.
Yes, a genuine, too-old-to-make-glue, too-slow-to-ride, too-swaybacked-to-sit-on horse. Laden down with furs and the remnants of my grub and kit after a six month forced camp in the rain forest a fortnights march North of Karamea. (Readers will have to use Google Earth or an Atlas.)
Popped in to see some old friends—who politely gave me a bath before even talking to me and gave me an over-sized old pair of pants to replace the shorts that had turned into a short kilt from crotch rot—and next day I started on the journey South along the Karamea Westport road. On foot. My boots had holes in them and I had to keep replacing a cardboard cut-out sole where it had worn through to the road. Frankly, even though I had had a decent meal and been kindly given credit by the store to replenish my supplies (being a once-local), I was sick of walking. Rubbing down Grey one night by the side of the road I was so completely dishevelled by it all I vented my anger futilely and violently on the sandfly and mosquito populations that were lining up at my blood bank.
Eventually, four days later, I descended the 357-metre Karamea Bluff, passed Seddonville and, on the fifth day, trudged into Granity. Tied the hack to the front post, traded five pelts for a dozen ales with the publican and showed him how to make leather. A bloke had been watching me and decided to introduce himself. He was the local engineer for a coal mine near by and seemed a nice enough bloke. We yarned about traps and possums and the bush and dogs and horses—in fact when we got to horses he seemed rather keen on the idea. Well, I was going to give the old girl away when I got to Westport and I was sick of walking—could I cadge a lift in exchange? Hed go me one better was his response and we left for more beers to walk round to his house where he showed me a most interesting Land Rover collection.
Ill swap you this series 1 Land Rover for that horse, mate. Its a bit tired and Ive no need for it—already got another one. Ive been meaning to use a hack for some time now...
Done!
And so I clattered out of Granity with a dilapidated jalopy, utterly proud of my new ownership papers and knowing darkly that somehow I had been had!
Got stopped by the cops outside of Westport, with a full tank of gas, fresh supplies, shaven face, flash haircut, a few hundred dollars and a map of the South Island, on my way to Christchurch.
No warrant of fitness or rego.
Just bought her—taking her to Southern 4WD in Christchurch for repairs.
Why cant you do it here. Ominously, there was no question mark after his query.
Live in Christchurch. Picked it up.
Things were looking pretty good for me just then. A bit unfortunate that one of the windscreen panes decided to pick that moment to fall out...
His look made me confess all; that I had swapped a horse for it, that there was nowhere in Westport that had the parts I needed, that the money in my wallet and the gear in the back was all I had in the world to show for six months of extreme hardship and that I wanted to get to Christchurch to start a career in music. A few confirming phone calls later back at the station he put down his expression and picked up a new one.
Listen, Im not going to book you this time. But you cant take that truck to Christchurch.
But—
Hold on. Do you know Cobden at all?
Across the river from Grey-mouth? I asked.
Thats the place. When you get to the bridge carry straight on down to the beach. The road will dog-leg right and, when you see all the Land Rovers, pop in there and get the parts you need.
I was struck dumb for a second. Then I started shaking hands enthusiastically.
Thanks very much!
Either youre the biggest liar Ive ever met or youve been through a hell of a lot and deserve a chance to get back on your feet. But go straight there. Well be keeping an eye out for you.
I heaped praise on them and drove my unregistered, unwarranted vehicle about 100 km down to Cobden along the main highway. The shocks were shot, the brakes werent crash hot and the steering operated like a drunk sow. It was a white-knuckled ride far below the speed limit but I arrived, shaken not stirred, at Cobden. It took the rest of my money and a crash course in mechanics to get the jalopy road worthy, warranted and registered, but a week later I was off to audition for third horn in the Christchurch Symphony Orchestra.
I was no more than five minutes out of Greymouth when I was stopped by the Police. They gave me a grin, a big thumbs up and waved me off.
I won the audition by the bye.
West Coast Police; no other breed quite like them.
—{}—
by Torquil Arbuthnot
(Originally appeared in newsletter no.14)
As 2007 draws smoothly to a close I thought members might want to know what was happening one hundred years ago.
On 18th March 1907 Swedens first and only train robbery took place. Other momentous events in 1907 included the introduction of taxi-meters in London cabs, and Baden-Powell leading the first scout camp on Brownsea Island.
On 1st June Colin Blythe, playing for Kent, took 17 wickets for 48 runs against Northamptonshire at Northampton in one day. It is the best analysis ever recorded for a county cricket match (or for a single days bowling), and was not bettered in first-class cricket until 1956.
Edward VII was on the throne of Great Britain, while abroad Franz Joseph I held down Austria-Hungary, Leopold II ruled the Belgians, and Alfonso XIII kept an eye on the Spaniards. Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman (Liberal party) was PM while across the pond Theodore Roosevelt (inventor of the teddy-bear) sat in the White House.
Notable 1907 births included actor and Olympic swimmer Buster Crabbe (famous for playing Flash Gordon); the poet W. H. Auden (famous for scuttling off to America at the start of World War II); Katharine Hepburn (famous for wearing trousers and talking as if she had lockjaw); Laurence Olivier (famous for playing demented Nazis in films); John Wayne (famous for his funny walk); Leslie Charteris (famous for writing The Saint series of books); and actress Fay Wray (famous for being King Kongs girlfriend). People who popped their clogs in 1907 include Chappist writer Joris-Karl Huysmans (author of Rebours [Against Nature] and L-Bas [Down There]) and Klara Hitler (mother of the German corporal).
Joseph Conrads The Secret Agent was published in 1907, as were E. M. Forsters The Longest Journey, John Millington Synges The Playboy of the Western World, Beatrix Potters The Tale of Tom Kitten, and a very early P. G. Wodehouse novel, Not George Washington.
In 1907 the Nobel Prize for literature went to Rudyard Kipling, in consideration of the power of observation, originality of imagination, virility of ideas and remarkable talent for narration which characterize the creations of this world-famous author.
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The New Sheridan Guide to Hangovers
by Torquil Arbuthnot and Nathaniel Slipper
(Originally appeared in newsletter No. 13)
A gentleman in his time will receive, like visitors, many ailments. For example gout, ingrowing shoulder-blades, Green Monkey Fever, and the galloping lurgie. However, there will be one ailment that is more than a casual visitor, but rather takes a place in the body more akin to that of a lodger, and this is the dread hangover (or hammering bastard behind the eyes as it is known in medical parlance).
Usually a fellow can be expected to perambulate languidly about the town, cane swinging metronomically from the vertical to the horizontal, tipping his hat to all manner of person and quipping heartily as he goes, regardless of health, weather, bank balance, mood or the going at Lingfield. It is only this disease, the hangover, that can knock a chap out of this ambience. Therefore we examine the hangover, and look at the most modern scientifical research into it, and also how a fellow might see his way to the other side, whilst maintaining his joie de vivre.
Despite years of medical research by scientists and guinea pigs, it remains impossible for the cause of the hangover to be discovered. The Common Hangover Centre, which has existed out of the Wheatsheaf in Rathbone Place for over half a century now, has repeatedly experimented on volunteers, who will spend hours there by turns listening to ragtime pianola, taking part in quizzes and playing bar billiards. Yet still it is impossible to predict which of the subjects will wake in the morning with their heads under the pillows and groaning loudly whilst others are bouncing out of bed brimful of the joys of the day. The current popular theory is that it is caused by the movements of the moon in relation to the posture of a gentleman and the receipt of his wage-packet, and occurs approximately once every 31 days.
One thing that can be certain of a hangover though (which leads one to suspect that it may indeed by a psychosomatic illness) is that it always occurs after happy times. A fellow can be quaffing away in his club, with dearly beloved chums, chortling, exchanging badinage with the barmaid, spinning out the first portion of anecdotes and missing the dartboard by some distance only to wake up the following morning struck down by The Beast.
The physical symptoms of the hangover are well known to us all, the dry throat, the tsunamic raging inside the skull, the hollow emptiness of the wallet, and the utter weariness of body. This makes it impossible for a fellow to do any more than crawl to the nearest chaise-longue, pull a cushion over the face and weep silently. From this position he can then proceed to make noises of great pain. Throughout this is the urgent need to remain motionless, as the slightest tremor of the knee will bring agony soaring to new heights.
But there is also the mental suffering brought on by this malaise. This takes the form of self-loathing, shame, paranoia (does the barmaids father own a working shotgun?), a desire to apologise to all and sundry and an almost concrete desire never to drink again (for drinking copiously is usually what is blamed despite the lack of scientifical evidence). This is emphasised by the subconscious, which will gradually introduce events from the night before to the memory, such as the moment on the way home where it seemed rather amusing to pull off a fellow gentlemans chemise and then lie in the road using it as a pillow, or diverting the midnight train from Penzance to Budapest. Incidentally the weakening of this refusal to take alcohol again is the first sign that a gentleman is on the road to recovery.
There are any number of cures to this dread illness: much like tips for the Grand National, a frisky queue of individuals will be prepared to give you their advice. One solution is to soldier through, remaining silent and still on the sofa, pale and shivering until, approximately a fortnight later, the pain is relieved and the state of the body returns to neutral.
However, there are more positive methods to regain a state of normalcy. A hearty fried breakfast for example, and not just of fried eggs and bacon, but encompassing fried mushrooms, fried tomato, fried black puddin, fried snuff, and fried bread. Ideally this should be accompanied by a glass of gold-topped milk, and some exciting tales of tittle-tattle from one of the red tops featuring the latest daguerreotypes of the Welsh chanteuse Miss Church.
Another cure, and this is based on ancient lore (Similia similibus curantur), is to take the hair of the dog that bit, which in this case, appears to mean to imbibe more alcohol (even though there is no medical evidence whatsoever that it is the drinking that bit and caused this state of affairs). This takes fortitude and care. One must choose a drink that is gentle and kind upon both body and soul, and be prepared to accept that, at first, this will prove a challenge. Happily after a few of these dust-settlers, ruddiness will return to cheeks, a smile and a quip to the lips, and a familiar horror to friends faces. London buses will also appear less glaringly red.
It is a well-known fact that when a gentleman is taken ill (if, for example he has fallen prey to the flux or been horse-whipped by some Baron in the town square and finds it prudent to lie frailly upon the chaise-longue) he will receive all manner of sympathetic visitors. His friends will shower him with kind gifts and anoint him with gentle words and wishes of recovery and good health to come. Sadly, the fellow struck low with the hangover will receive none of this, but will be firmly told to pull himself together and that he has brought it upon himself. Although how this is any more self-inflicted than, say, being thrown from a horse, falling from the trapeze, or being struck by the Clapham omnibus remains a mystery.
Thus a gentleman must be prepared for the hangover as it is a fact of life, much like having to shave ones chin in the morning or having to evade ones creditors in the afternoon. Against his will perhaps, he must contain the suffering with courage, good heart and humour, battling through this miasma until he is free and feeling like his own self again. At which point, as a reward for recovery, he should adjourn to the bar and let the whole merry cycle recommence.
The Arbuthnot-Slipper Hangover Cure:
The Firecracker
Mix a Martini glass half full of tequila and half full of Tabasco. Clears the head like a blast from a shotgun.
Suggestions for Further Reading:
Sir Kingsley Amis On Drink Contains advice not only on how to deal with the physical hangover but also how to cope with the Metaphysical Hangover.
Keith Floyd Floyd on Hangovers Contains recipes for hairs of the dog, and for suitable food for the sufferer, written by a sterling gentleman and toper.
Sir Clement Freud Book of Hangovers Who better than the grandson of Sigmund Freud to give advice on the hangover?
Possibly the best description of a hangover in fiction occurs in Sir Kingsley Amis novel Lucky Jim where the eponymous hero wakes up one morning after a heavy night:
Dixon was alive again. Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider crab on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, hed somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.
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A Journey to Viennas Coffee Houses
by Torquil Arbuthnot
(Originally appeared in newsletter no.13)
The Kaffeehuser of Vienna have more in common with Parisian literary cafs or English pubs than they do with modern espresso bars that serve latt in paper cups. The Austrian writer Stefan Zweig described the Viennese caf as an institution of a special kind...a sort of democratic club for discussion, writing, and playing cards.
Another writer, Alfred Polgar, had this to say about Viennas legendary Caf Central, a Baroque coffeehouse in the grand tradition whose patrons have included Goethe, Beethoven, Mahler, and Trotsky:
Its inhabitants are, for the most part, people who are misanthropes, and whose aversion to other people is as acute as their need for people: who want to be alone, but must have company to do so. The habitu of the Central is a person who derives no sense of belonging from his family, profession, or party; the Caf Central comes to his rescue, inviting him to join and escape. Its customers know, love, and underestimate one another. Even those who profess not to know each other regard this non-relationship as a kind of relationship; mutual dislike serves as a unifying force at the Central, a sort of camaraderie. Everyone knows about everybody. The Caf Central is a village in the centre of the metropolis, steaming with gossip, curiosity, and slander.
The Viennese coffee house tradition goes back to the year 1683 when the Turks besieged Vienna. Georg Franz Kolschitzky (born 1640 in Poland, died 1694 in Vienna) who was working as translator for the oriental trading company in Belgrade, and who spoke Turkish, went through the enemy lines to Polands King John Sobiesky who had sent an army to free Vienna. Kolschitzky made it back to the city with the news of imminent relief, as a result of which the city council decided not to surrender. The Turks were defeated and fled.
As rescuer of Vienna, Kolschitzky had first choice of the booty. He ignored the gold, weapons and other goodies: he was only interested in the sacks of brown beans nobody else wanted—Kolschitzky knew about coffee from his travels to Turkey.
Later he opened one of the first coffee houses in Vienna (1686) named At the Blue Bottle (Zur Blauen Flasche), the basis of the old tradition. The first documented founding of a coffee house was in January 1685 when the Greek Johannes Theodat (Diodato) opened one in his house at Haarmarkt. He held a Privileg (what a licence was called this time) for the retailing of coffee. Until 1700 there were 4 more licences by Kaiser Leopold I. By 1804 there were already 89 coffeehouses and after the Vienna Congress (1814/15) there were 150. Around 1900 the number increased to about 600.
The typical offer was coffee-specialities, cacao, tea, milk, chocolate, mineral water, lemonade, ice-cream, wine, spirits and liqueurs.
In the beginning only men went to coffeehouses. Around 1870 it was fashionable to go to a coffee house with the family. Even ladys parlours were opened. During 1938 there were 1283 coffeehouses; the number decreased to 584 in 1994.
A key factor in the Viennese coffeehouse experience is the unique traditional furnishings and service. Regular local clients cherish the familiarity of the surroundings, with service by waiters who know their coffee preferences. A wide range of reading matter is available. A typical caf subscribes to around twenty national and regional newspapers—in languages including Austrian, German, Italian, French, English—and a similar count of international magazines. Clients wander over to the newspaper racks and return to their tables with a selection for an hour or two of browsing.
Nobody is hassled by any hint of drink up and go. By a long- standing tradition, the coffee is served in an elegant cup with matching saucer on a silver tray. Alongside is a serving of water, with a spoon balanced on the glass. If you want something to eat, from a light snack to an apple strudel to a complete meal, all things are possible.
Most of Viennas traditional coffeehouses date from the latter half of the 19th century, when the decision was made to remove the broad medieval city walls. In their place, the Ring was laid out, a broad, tree-lined series of boulevards encircling the old city, with parks, squares and sedate public buildings every few hundred yards. Essential to that development was the construction of coffeehouses spaced around the Ring itself or within a few minutes walk.
Within that broad band, several of the original coffeehouses still flourish: Prckel, facing the Museum of Applied Arts and the City Park; Schwarzenberg, the oldest of those on the Ring, opened in 1861; Rathaus, dating from 1843 and located outside the former city walls, just behind City Hall; and Landtmann, easily accessible from Parliament, City Hall and the National Theatre.
This was the period when the Austrian Empire achieved its greatest power. The construction fever was palatial in style, reflecting the confidence of the era. The coffeehouse salons were grandiose—20 feet from floor to ceiling, with classical columns, lavish chandeliers and red velvet upholstery around the booths.
The furnishings have likewise remained traditional. Essential elements are marble-topped tables and bentwood chairs with a wickerwork seat.
The following is a selection of the various coffees available in Viennese coffee houses:
Schwarzer Strong black coffee. A kleiner Schwarzer is the equivalent of an espresso; a grosser Schwarzer is a double shot. Also called a Mokka.
Brauner Coffee with a dash of milk or cream.
Goldener Coffee with milk; similar to regular coffee in New York.
Mlange. Equal amounts of milk and coffee with froth.
Kaffee Crme Coffee with a miniature pitcher of milk on the side.
Kapuziner Cappucino. (Same name, different language.)
Kurz A single shot of espresso.
Mokka See Schwarzer above.
Verlngter Coffee with hot water added; a good choice for North American and English visitors who like their coffee weak.
Einspnner Coffee in a glass with a hefty dollop of Schlagobers or Schlag (whipped cream).
Fiaker Espresso in a glass with sugar and Kirschwasser (a dry cherry brandy), topped with whipped cream and a cherry.
Phariser Espresso in a glass with sugar, whipped cream, cocoa, and a shot of rum.
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Some Interesting Discourses on Strong Drink
These were not presented to the Club. I just thought that every questing toper should read them.
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by Padre Ian McDowell
(Originally appeared only in the Padres crazed imagination)
Once, when the countryside was a quiet and dignified place as opposed to a garage for agricultural machinery, there were, often, large breathing things in fields. Some were brown, some a sort of off-white, some mottled. They were called cows. Well thats what we called them anyway as they were unable to indicate to us their preferred nomenclature. If you went to the countryside in those days youd have a jolly good chance of seeing some. They lay, or stood, sometimes singly, and sometimes in small, pensive groups, chewing grass, or just gazing into the middle distance.
If you were taken with them enough to want to follow them late at night, you would see them enter a large building with no furniture. This was because it was very difficult and expensive to make furniture that suited them. This building was called a barn. If you remained there all night to see what would happen, you would be woken at a very early hour of the morning by a young girl carrying a wooden stool. This was not for the cows, but for her.
She would place the stool right next to one of the cows, and sit on it. Then she would reach below the cow and do something quite mysterious with its underparts. She would also have placed a wooden pail it. After few seconds, a noise of rushing liquid would fill the barn and a whitish substance would be seen filling the pail. This was known as milk. This milk was almost the same thing that you now find in corner shops in London, usually with lots of young people standing around it debating its origin.
Anyhow, the whitish substance, milk, was later observed being scraped to remove its thick top layer, known as cream, which was in turn put into a wooden barrel with a handle on the side, and turned until it coagulated. It was then taken out, salt was added, and it was shaped into bricks and sold. These bricks were called butter.
By the late 1970s people were increasingly putting this butter into their refrigerators, but when it came out of the refrigerator it was very hard to manipulate, and often damaged the things that it was supposed to be spread on. And so a company using a stork as its emblem, all of whose salespeople were cloned from a man called Bruce Forsythe, decided to produce something called margarine, which, even though it also lived in the refrigerator, was much more maleable. People stopped buying butter altogether, and soon the large breathing things in the fields were so bored at not having their underparts played with by young girls that they all fell over and died.
And so the milk that we buy when we queue for The Times remains a profoundly mysterious thing. Next time youre in the country, look out for a Museum of Cows where these facts are substantiated. I kid you not.
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Satanism: Separating Fact from Myth
by Lord Rupert
(Originally delivered at the Club Night of Wednesday 6th June, 2007)
The term Satanism has been, in modern times, the subject of much undue confusion. Distinctions have been made between differing factions, ideologies, and traditions. One would think that Satanism involved the obvious; worship of the Devil. Apparently there are those who do not believe that this is the case. There are some that believe that Satanism is the worship of the Individual over, and separate from, any Divine source. These people, called Modern Satanists, are the products of the Satanic Bible purely. There is no other reason to believe that Man is God and that Satan is an abstract force meant to represent the Carnal nature of that God other than the rationalization (and I use that word loosely) presented by Dr Anton Szandor LaVey during the first part of said book.
This rationalization is, curiously enough, riddled with phrases and statements that would lead one to believe contrary to the atheistic view held by the current followers of the organization founded by LaVey to act as a vehicle to the lifestyle teachings he wished to impart. Why then would they be considered Satanists if they do not worship Satan? Only because of the extensive use of the term by their founder, really. These people have been titled Modernists to differentiate them from Satanists who believe in a Being of greater power and understanding.
The lifestyle expressed in the Satanic Bible is a truly inspired teaching and all human beings currently dwelling on this planet should, and would benefit from, taking the ideas expressed by Dr LaVey into consideration. Modernists are considered Satanists because, for the most part, they live their lives in a truly Satanic manner.
By virtue of the fact that they were founded by a man with a daunting, if not unsurpassed, understanding of Human nature and the nuance to call on the Devil for aid has allowed them to maintain a substantial level of influence on the non-Satanists opinion of Satanism. (More times than I would like to recount I have been dismissed as a self-absorbed ME worshipper because of this.) Modern Satanists are considered Satanists because they were founded by a Satanist and continue to use the term, even though it doesnt technically apply to the religion they currently follow because of their curiously odd way of not actually worshipping any actual anthropomorphic deity.
They are not Satanists because they do not worship the Devil. Thus, they should rightly be considered a funny sort of Humanism that was founded by a Satanist who, for whatever personal reasons, recounted his pact with Satan and denied His existence.
Which raises an interesting point. Dr LaVey was working with various travelling troupes up and down the States which would explain his ability really to sell the whole concept, if you consider that, as a travelling salesman, he would encourage you to spend more of your money to get a better deal—in the Church, the more you spend the more chance you have to progress through the ranks, as it were.
There are also those who, while calling themselves Satanists, wish to distinguish themselves from those who call themselves Devil Worshipers. Why? They feel that, while they worship a Deity who is referred to as the Devil under every conceivable circumstance, they are different from Devil Worshipers in some very specific way. This mindset is mostly inspired by the need to feel more important or more justified than others, which, in itself, is a perfectly natural and correct way to feel.
Pride is not, however, the only factor to be considered. From what I understand, the rationalization provided is that they believe that a Devil Worshiper is one who devotes himself to the undertakings of absolute Evil and depravity, or that they submit themselves unquestioningly to the whim of Satan and repress their individual will to question things. This can lead, for example, Serial killers such as Charles Manson to use the brief flirtation they had with any form of Satanic worship to justify any desire they had, because Satan made me!
The only problem is that in one sense the concept could be viewed as being right on the proverbial money once one has considered where the definitions of Evil and depravity came from. Those of us who entertain ourselves with riotous bouts of orgiastic revelry, feasting, dancing, and reaching a pleasant state of intoxication would all be considered very Evil indeed. From the first time Elvis shook that famous pelvis of his he was immediately considered evil and Satanic in the extreme! Evil is a term that is used to represent the opposite of Good, which is a term used to represent those who follow the laws of Jehovah.
Again the concept that a Devil Worshiper submits completely to Satans will, above their own, is an interesting point to contemplate. What, exactly, is the will of Satan? It is the common belief of all Satanists that the point of Man on earth is to fulfill his Freewill, a gift given to us by Satan (as summed up splendidly by Aleister Crowley: Do what thou shalt shall be the whole of the law. So the will of Satan is that His followers live their lives according to their own will. Well, it would be difficult indeed to submit to Satans will AND disobey Him simultaneously, wouldnt it?
Another point in which they feel they should distinguish themselves is on the matter of Jehovah. Some Satanists believe that, in the beginning, Jehovah created everything and Lucifer (The Bearer of Light) was cast from Heaven and now seeks to over throw Jehovah. Others believe that Satan is the real Ultimate Deity and that Jehovah is an upstart storm-god who has a penchant for trying to mislead the minds of Men.
The religion of Satanism is fundamentally different from Paganism because of its most recognizable feature—the rejection, hatred, and opposition of Jehovah and his idiotically self-destructive followers. Simply because you live by your True Will and dislike any other religious groups followers does not make you a Satanist!
It is interesting to see that in the time since the Church of Satan was being formed it has become almost socially acceptable to be a member. Whilst this is fine, it can suffer from being watered down for the masses, as it were! Two fine examples would be the popstar Madonna and how, when she discovered the Jewish Kabbalah, it became really trendy to be seen with the red thread; or the film star John Travolta and the scientology movement of which he became a prominent member by spending a large amount of money on the cause!
Ego Sum Lex Mundi
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by Julian Allason
(Originally appeared in Newsletter No. 7)
Victor Hervey cut a figure sharp enough to warrant a place in the dramatis personae of Waughs satires. Aristocratic gunrunner, partygiver, gentleman burglar, convict and flogee, the sixth Marquess of Bristol was perhaps too colourful a figure to provide character inspiration to a serious novelist, although acquainted with several. His seat, Ickworth in Suffolk, was the venue for numerous country house parties even beyond its passage into the hands of the Treasury in lieu of death duties. His son, the seventh Marquess, known as John Jermyn, maintained the family tradition of wild partying. Having retained a lease on Ickworths residential east wing he terrorised National Trust visitors to the rest of the estate by racing vintage cars through it.
By the time of his death from drug addiction in 1997 aged 44 little of Jermyns 30 million inheritance survived. Sothebys were called in by the executors to auction off what remained. The director, a glamorous American blonde, was accommodated in one of the principal guestrooms, where she discovered in the bedside table several capsules of amyl nitrate—poppers supposed to confer aphrodisial powers—and a French maids outfit. Mentioning this to colleagues over dinner served by the Smith-like Bristol butler, she was subsequently amused to find the drawer empty when she retired.
A recent visit to Ickworth to inspect a curiously under-catalogued Titian and some Chinese porcelain set me to reflect upon country house parties. What then was the format for the country house weekend during the decades of the 1920s through to the present day?
Convention demanded arrival upon a Friday afternoon in time for tea, at which a gift would be presented to the hostess. Meanwhile suitcases would be carried up to bedrooms and unpacked by servants. At the statelier homes cars were driven round to the stable block, washed and, with luck, refuelled. Guests were then expected to disappear until seven or so when cocktails were served prior to dining. In the Midlands it was usual to sound the gong not for dinner—that would be announced by the butler—but twenty minutes earlier to winkle any latecomers out of the bathroom. (En-suite facilities were not widely adopted until the 1980s, and are still rare in Scottish country houses and castles.)
The placement at dinner was automatic, being protocol driven, unless one of the lady guests was possessed of exceptional beauty, wit, or embonpoint, in which case promotion to the hosts left (but rarely right) hand might be gazetted. After cheese the ladies would retire, leaving the men to port and cigars, and perhaps to water the lawn. It is still considered poor form to keep your host up late on a Friday evening, particularly in the winter when an early rise for shooting might be on the cards.
Whatever the season a hearty breakfast could be anticipated, to include such dishes as devilled kidneys, kippers and cold cuts. Shooting brakes and Landrovers stood by to take the guns, never more than eight in number, off to the first drive. Some of the ladies might follow to pick up downed birds, or join the guns for lunch.
Outside the shooting season Saturday afternoons were usually devoted to cultural affairs—or just affairs. Options could include a tour of the property, its pictures and dungeons, a game of bridge or expeditions to nearby churches or archaeological remains. Planchette and bezique seem to have been reserved to the unromantic upon rainy afternoons.
Until the Second World War white tie and tails were the norm for Saturday dinner. By the 1960s these had almost entirely given way to dinner jackets (tuxedos) worn with black bow tie, long dresses remaining usual for all but the youngest and prettiest women. If there was no ball to attend a neighbouring houseparty might join the dinner, swelling numbers to two dozen or more, and providing occasion to deploy the best porcelain and silver. Minor domestic staff would join butler and footmen to serve, and it was not unusual for servants from the visiting house to assist. Billiards, charades and party games might follow at the less stuffy houses. Photographic tableaux enjoyed a brief vogue in the 1920s.
Appearance at breakfast on Sunday morning was no more obligatory than attendance at Church from the Great War on. Luncheon was another matter; at it gossip from the night before would be exchanged and loose ends tied. Guests departure would take place no later than 3pm, after the servants had been tipped. Such was the model to which all but the most bohemian subscribed, a model scaleable downwards to more modest houses, but varying little even in ducal palaces.
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Nina Hamnett, the Queen of Bohemia
by James Mitchum
(Originally appeared in Newsletter No. 6)
Nina Hamnett, the Queen of Bohemia, and frequenter of the Wheatsheaf pub, was born on St Valentines Day in 1890 in Tenby in South Wales. By coincidence, another artist with whom she was to be acquainted, Augustus John, had been born in the same street in 1878. She was an army brat, spending her childhood in a succession of army camps throughout the UK.
From 1906 to 1907 she studied at the Pelham Art School and then at the London School of Art until 1910, where her tutors included George Lambert and William Nicholson. Her talent as an artist was soon spotted by the likes of John and Sickert, both of whom sketched and painted her several times.
In 1914 she went to Paris to study at Marie Vassilieffs academy in Montparnasse. On her first night in Paris she went to the caf La Rotonde where the man at the next table introduced herself as Modigliani, painter and Jew. They became close friends and Hamnett often modelled for him. In later years she would hoick up her blouse displaying her bust with the boast, Modi always said I had the best tits.
She also met and befriended the likes of Cocteau, Diaghelev, Picasso and Satie, and encountered the sculptor Henri Gaudier-Brzeska. They became lovers and he made a sculpture of her dancing naked. Later Hamnett would introduce herself to people with the comment, You know me, mdear – Im in the V&A with me left tit knocked off! This was the Laughing Torso sculpture that provided her with the title of her autobiography in 1932.
In Montparnasse she met her husband, the Norwegian artist Roald Kristian, though theirs was a difficult marriage that ended in divorce. During her time in Paris she continued to paint, mainly portraits, and exhibited at the Royal Academy in London and at the Salon dAutomne in Paris. She also worked for Roger Frys Omega Workshops producing designs for avant-garde fabrics, clothes, murals, furniture and the like. She also became Frys mistress, Fry describing her as the most fascinating, exciting, tantalising, elusive, beautiful, exasperating creature in the world.
On her return to London in 1926 she soon became a regular fixture in Fitzrovia, the part of London so named after the Fitzroy Tavern on the corner of Charlotte and Windmill Streets in Soho. She brought with her, according to the music critic Cecil Gray, a nostalgic breath of the old spirit of Montparnasse. Her favourite pub was the Wheatsheaf, where she would sit in the far corner of the downstairs bar imploring people to buy me a drink, dearie.
She met the writer Anthony Powell in 1927 or 1928 when she was 37 or 38 and he 22 or 23. She and Osbert Sitwell were collaborating on a book (published by Duckworths) on Londons statues which she was illustrating. She met Powell when she delivered some drawings to Duckworths where he worked. Hamnett took an immediate liking to Powell and invited him to her studio to draw him.
For Powell, according to Hamnetts biographer, Nina held out the promise of adventure into an unknown Bohemian world for someone eager to taste more of London life than the season of deb balls. According to Peter Quennell, Nina was Anthony Powells first grown-up love affair. He was rather pleased with it at the time. She satisfactorily deprived him of his innocence, which is a thing people were anxious to get rid of in those days. He built her up as a romantic femme de trente ans, a Bohemian mistress.
During their relationship Hamnett introduced Powell to a bizarre Firbankian world some of which he reproduces in his novel Agents and Patients (1936). Hamnett took Powell and the composer Constant Lambert to visit the impoverished, opium-smoking Count de Malleisque and his wife, who were staying at the Cavendish Hotel in Jermyn Street accompanied by their Pekinese and a pet monkey who was perpetually trying to defend itself from the unwelcome sexual attentions of the dog. Powell described the scene at the Cavendish in his memoirs: the Count would play the guitar, or do newspaper puzzles (which were to win him some enormous prize), while the company drank Pernod, and a clergymans voice intoned church services on the radio.
In his memoirs Powell writes of Hamnetts heavy drinking and belligerent manner: a condition not affecting her gift, but restricting continuous work to a few months at best; human relationships to equally fragmentary associations. Hamnett would always refer to Powell as her little Etonian.
Hamnett had always been a heavy drinker but was now losing her ability to cope with the booze. At the same time she began to develop a taste for boxers and sailors and other rough trade. When asked why she favoured sailors, she replied, Because they leave in the morning.
In 1932 she published her autobiography, Laughing Torso, which was a best seller in the UK and USA, but became the subject of a libel case from mountaineer and occultist, Aleister Crowley. Crowley objected to a passage in the book that read: Crowley had a temple in Cefalu in Sicily. He was supposed to practice Black Magic there, and one day a baby was said to have disappeared mysteriously. There was a goat also there. This all points to Black Magic, so people said, and the inhabitants of the village were frightened of him.
Hamnett won the libel case but the situation appears to have profoundly affected her for the rest of her life. She was to spend a good part of the next few decades of her life inhabiting the bars of the Fitzroy Tavern and the Wheatsheaf, exchanging anecdotes for drinks. To enter a pub, wrote Constantine Fitzgibbon, and not to buy Nina a drink was in those days and in that world a solecism that amounted to a social stigma.
In December 1956 she threw herself off her balcony, or drunkenly slipped, and was impaled on the railings below, dying shortly afterwards.
Nowadays she is remembered too much as only a Fitzrovian legend rather than for the fine painter and designer she was.
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by Julian Allason
(Originally appeared in Newsletter No. 2)
The rigidity achieved by Savile Row tailors of the 1950s, especially when using the tweed favoured by Evelyn Waugh, was said to be sufficient to enable a drunken subaltern to pass Colonels inspection. Naturally it would only have been worn west of Chiswick, south of Croydon or north of Hampstead. (Cavalrymen and members of the Household Brigade were not thought to go east). Some magnates had their suits worn in by their butlers.
The pecking order in Saville Row remains little changed today: Huntsman, Henry Poole, Anderson & Sheppard, then Kilgours, although Gieves are considered to have lowered standards in a bid to appeal to New Labour. This is roughly reflected in their prices which start at around 2,500 for a two-piece bespoke suit, less at Gieves. Although softer fabrics, lighter in weight, are now preferred by clients the internal construction retains the shape characteristic of each house, and a degree of crease resistance foreign to off-the-peg suits. The jacket is still referred to as the coat.
To this day Scottish tailors display bolts of estate tweed worn only by employees of that estate. These are capable of warding off rain, snow, brambles and low-flying grouse. Even shotgun pellets are deflected according to one gamekeeper.
Tailors disapprove of dry cleaning, preferring occasional airing, preferably in the Highlands and, where necessary, attack with a brush. Jeeves employed a sponge to remove Bertie Woosters breakfast from his lapels, a technique superfluous on a Highland tweed.
A waistcoat would have been worn with a single breasted suit, the coat of the latter having two side vents, one vent being considered common. Absence of venting marked one out as of Italian or Balkan extraction, not necessarily attracting the social cachet now attached to Italian tailoring by the media (although not perhaps in St Jamess).
The correct accessories were a silk handkerchief (not matching the tie) in the coats outer breast pocket and a watch chain worn across the waistcoat or, on a single breasted suit descending from lapel into breast pocket. The bottom button of the waistcoat was only buttoned by bounders and bank managers. Trouser turnups were the norm from about 1911 to 1965 and, in my childhood recollection, often yielded a three-penny bit. Zippers were considered fast until fairly recently.
For evening wear, white (bow) tie and tails were usual until
the Second World War, with the dinner suit (tuxedo) or a velvet smoking jacket
with braided trousers worn to dinner parties well into the 1980s. The white or
cream tuxedo began as tropical wear, occasionally appeared at county dances in
June, but was otherwise the province of bandleaders.