graham turnbull

During my vacation time into January, several memorable moments presented to me and I record these munificently for your benefit and improvement.

On Christmas Eve, I had occasion to visit the RBS Bob Cratchit in my local town’s high street.  I was attired in a casual Tweed  shin length winter coat, stout hiking boots, gaiters, long woollen stockings, warming moleskin trews, winter vest, double cotton shirt, Norfolk Jacket and the usual appurtenances – long scarf and Sami bobble hat.  I had also equipped myself with two extended mountain walking sticks.  One cannot be too careful of a slip in this treacherous weather.  As I entered my secret code which I keep in a small leather notebook which can be accessed with a quick fetch from my underpants pochette and positioned my monocle – for the bad eye don’t you know – I was assailed by a comment from the queue which had now formed, “Jeezuz, what a pallaver!” I rose above this as I carried on with my financial business and then I detected a thin, watery, nebulously thin voice emanating from the RBS Bob Cratchit, singing unsurely and hesitatingly, “In the Bleak Mid Winter.” It was remarkable how little this improved me.

On New Year’s Eve, we were first-footed by the Vicar and his friend the Lumberjack.  Both insisted on kissing myself, my man, cookie, Miss Shingle and the cat.  The cat looked rather pleased with herself as she poured the drinks and I discovered she had given each of us a New Year gift – mine was an old fish bone served in my drink [she claimed it had slipped], my man had a postage stamp holder woven from cat hair, cookie had a recipe book titled Fish for Friends with a twenty pound note as a bookmark, Miss Shingle gained a framed picture of the cat licking herself rather indiscreetly, the Vicar appeared to have a pair of vole hands and the Lumberjack was favoured with a knitted item which rather bemused us until the cat announced she had knitted a “willy warmer”.  I do believe the Lumberjack was quietly pleased.

As I returned to my place of employment, my expertise was immediately called for in the Empire’s capital city.  This time, one of my buffet boys had spotted a “special offer” which allowed us to travel First Class at less than the steerage rate.  Unfortunately, only two tickets were available but that was solved by placing one of the buffet boys in steerage. My accompanying buffet boy was then let off scot-free as it appears First Class provides a set of buffet boys to cater to one’s every whim including constant incitements to eat and drink more. We departed Edinburgh as whippet thin travellers and alighted at King’s Cross as ballooning bumpkins bursting our buttons.

As I know that many readers of my journal rely on my generously offered efficacious advice for eutaxy, I humbly provide my Yuletide list of essentials.  This will ensure a most acceptable Christmas outcome with very little stress:

Advise the staff that any fault in Christmas will be entirely at their cause for fear of future disagreement on being summarily dismissed; instruct your appointment secretary to prepare an appropriate list of gifts and to organise their purchase and dispatch; give her a half-crown for her trouble; ensure your oldest eggnog and quite ancient mince pies are at hand for carol singers. Have your man erect a substantial 12 foot spruce in the front driveway lit by candles in little metal lanterns – he will enjoy lighting them incessantly; Organise a Christmas party for the village before the watchnight service and invite the Post Mistress, The Young Men’s Rugger Football team – for keeping Miss Shingle quiet and occupied – but do not encourage a performance of the Whale Song; pretend some affection for the Avon Cosmeticals woman but leave her to chat with the Hans the old stuffed bear in the hallway as soon as you have welcomed her; ensure the Vicar and his Lumberjack friend have brandy sufficient to ensure they disrobe and embrace amorously as at HallowE’en so that the rest of the company may have something scandalous to occupy their conversation; provide cigars and mulled wine to the Baden Powell young men and women after locking their troop leaders in the downstairs broom cupboard; organise an entertainment such as the Young Womens’ Muscular Conservative and Unionist Club performing a tag team mud wresting tournament and allow the local communist – there is always just one – to hose them down afterwards; round up the whole village and all your animals including the Miss Valerie Will Mule, The Camel and for the sake of Christmas the South American Panther and Miss Gruel for the Watchnight Service by touring in your reindeer drawn sled with mounted repeating Elephant Gun; Remark loudly that the Vicar has never delivered such a rousing watchnight sermon as you leave the Church no matter how dreadful it has been; ensure transport home at the church for every person you would rather not see again and help them generously on their way with a bottle of champagne and a slipper of cigars; and spend the whole of Christmas Day and Boxing Day throughly pickled lest any notion of annoyance overtakes you.

My man, the cat and Miss Shingle prevailed on me for a Christmas visit to the Motion Picture House. Apparently Hergé’s Adventure’s of Tintin had been fashioned by artistry into a cinematographical presentation. I must admit to a certain surprise at being asked to wear spectacles – or 3D shades as the cat insists – as I informed the assistant that my opera glasses were already in my pocket. The young assistant was wearing substantial face cosmetics and chewing gum and commented, “Wo’evva – yuv paid four thame – here.”

Imagine my surprise to discover after we entered that the cat was nowhere to be seen after making quite a substantial tarradiddle and insisting on the megabag of popcorn. It was only as I settled with the megabag occupying its own chair that I distinctly heard substantial munching and espied two furry ears and the surface end of a snorkel atop the bag rim.  The cat was actually inside the bag.

Miss Shingle and my man were hardly better as they were wrestling with a hotdog – a german weiner I surmised – in a long bread roll.  Well each to their own I thought as I brought out my meerschaum and some well plaited travelling shag. There then amounted the most furious rammie [please consult your Chambers 20th Century for the Scots argot] from all around me. Apparently everyone was free to create the most astonishing mess with popcorn strewn floors and mustard smeared seating fabric but I was not allowed to smoke. Rudyard Kipling would never have put up with this. A rather dis-shevelled man in front of me said, “tough luck matie,” as he continued to grill his sardines on a portable barbecue.

Following an hour of “trailers” and advertising, the feature was to begin.  I remarked to Miss Shingle that it must be most excellent else no one in their right mind would wait so long.

What a shock to discover that the Moving Picture House had not only added sound and colour but also 3D effects to its repertoire; although I did miss the organ rising at the front and some stirring Wurlitzer music.

I remarked in a loud voice to my man how sensible young Jamie Bell was in his plusfours in preparation of adventure and was immediately shushed by a woman in a loud frock who had until then talked incessantly to a small brow beaten man.

Just then Jamie Bell as Tintin turned his head and I had to duck for fear of being viciously Quiff Whipped and so established an approach to the 3D effect of the motion picture. I also had expected a litlle more subtlety in the make-up of the actors.  They were so made-up that they barely resembled real people while the director seemed to have selected a range of actors with quite astonishingly ugly large noses which 3D’d out of the screen in a quite disconcerting manner.

However, I was comforted in being able to follow the plot line quite easily as it barely departed from that of the last motion picture I had viewed – The Perils of Pauline – with the excellent Pearl White.  I had expected that the motion picture industry with sound, colour and 3D would have developed very sophisticated acting techniques and plotlines but that appears not to have happened. And just as in the Perils of Pauline, the serial ended on a cliffhanger moment for the next episode.

As I sat in the back seat of our Panther Black charabanc, on the journey to my comfortable home, gently puffing at last, I assured the cat, who was now the size of an inflated Zeppelin Airship from her consumption of her Mega Bag of Popcorn, that I was most content with our entertainment visit.

Well, as I sit here at my escritoire and leather edged blotter, I reflect that it has been many weeks since my last journal entry. In fact, the parrot had made a nest on the last page where I had detailed my run in the country.  I fear that the exertions of that day made it necessary for me to repair to a sanitorium of the Balearic persuasion. The cat and Miss Shingle, and even my man, dare I say, had forcibly informed me that I had quite clearly reached the end of my tether and so they dispatched me to warmer climes. Being sent by post sitting on a pail in my trunk was not entirely my idea of elegant travel and I rather suspect the rolled up copy of the Sunday Post that I had caught Miss Shingle and the Vicar snorting over at the Oor Wullie page had informed their selection of transportation. But I may perhaps own that my vehement opposition to cattle transportation at the hands of budget airlines may have sealed my own fate.  At least I had time to wax my moustache fully and completely read the Francis Gay homily. The bucket proved most handy too and the remains of the newspaper.

Imagine my delight, when the trunk was opened at the other end by my staff all wearing gas masks, to discover that my dear Mama and Papa had been transported too. Their trunk had clearly been opened before mine. Papa was in fine fettle sporting a travel ear horn made of raffia and Mama was wearing a jaunty feather fascinator in her hair.

A Balearic interlude must of course include certain features and I provide a list for those who may not have reached further than the perimeter of Magaluf.  Essentials include pitching paella, throwing a donkey from a steeple, vertiginous mountain treks on the backs of trained balearic goats, a visit to find The Edge in Valdemosa [my man insisted on this although I saw no adjacent cliff face], hauling drinking water for dear mama and papa to make British tea – I am sure that 12 gallons of tea drinking a day is not normal – quaffing cervesas, fighting octopus on one’s plate a la Captain Nemo, rinsing one’s Britannic Passport with one’s trews, visiting the British Consulate, walking around the village square in full highland dress, spats and busby, suffering heat stroke shortly after, jousting with mosquitoes using a cocktail stick from one’s fifth vodka cocktail of the morning, escorting my man for a Spanish haircut [this is a bit like a spanish omelette - not how we do it! We were quite shocked to discover it did not employ a pudding bowl], managing to avoid pranging the charabanc for once and generally having a jolly time.

We returned after many weeks of excellence to an utter disaster.  The cat had remained behind and the televisor – an infernal machine although of certain antique value being an original designed by John Logie Baird with a fabulously extravagant 6 inch screen – had wheezed to a smoky end. The cat had therefore purchased a new televisor device by forging my signature on my RBS Bob Cratchit Card – I had never signed it – and guessing my password was 1234 – for the essential matter of watching the X Factor.  This is apparently an entertainment although it seems to be singularly bereft of any element that could remotely qualify for the soubriquet of possessing “The X Factor.”  To the matter, the cat had purchased a 75 inch LED LCD 3D televisor and a Sky plus HD combo which my man has remained wedded to.  They sit in my best reading wing armchair together wearing ludicrous “shades”, as they term them, crooning, “oooooh dermie… ooooooh marcus.” It appears that the X Factor occupies the whole output of the televisor on a Saturday evening and so they have installed a commode to the side of the armchair lest they “miss a bit.” There is also a handy copy of the Sunday Post to serve its best function.

All of which explains my absence, my return, and why I am still sitting on that damned pail at my escritoire.

Wallace and Bruce appeared at my abode early this morning just as I was finishing the kippers and Telegraph crossword. I find I use many crosswords when I am availing myself of the world news in the Telegraph.  What was wrong with Persia, I ask and having most of the world map Imperial pink!

Wallace was wearing a pair of gentlemen’s shorts – over his fur coat, I may add – and sported a bandanna around his head; for the benefit of keeping his cowlick from his eyes when he “jogged”.  Bruce was wearing a pair of long trews – over his fur coat – and a bandanna too. He claimed these to be termed “trackie bottoms”. I commented that both the shorts and pantaloons had quite clearly seen better days as there was a dreadful sheen about them; but they both assured me this apparel was brand new and would serve for many years as long as they did not approach an open fire too closely.

They invited me to join them in a a healthy and invigorating run in the countryside.  I very promply had my man assist me in changing into a striped varsity shirt, cricket cap and jockey trews with long woollen socks and plimsolls.

And so we set off at a goodly trot.  I, of course, had strung the double harness leather Tantalus round Gottfied – the wolfhound – so that we had a ready supply of refreshment for the sake of preventing dehydration.  One crystal decanter carried a passable travelling brandy and the other a rather lightweight – but quaffable, mind you – Spey malt.  My man also ran with my hookah pipe as I was not giving up my morning smoke and I had stuffed some rather good Cohibas in the top of my socks for something more substantial when we stopped to gain our breaths.

As we ran into the village, the vicar hallooed to us that he had rarely seen such fine manly thighs in operation.  He was standing at the vicarage door with his friend the lumberjack whom I could not divine whether making exit or arrival, although shirtless.  The Vicar does seem to have been of much better spirits of recent times. He was wearing a pair of beetroot coloured relaxing slacks.

Some of the children of the village ran with us spinning their hoops and chattering brightly – and throwing stones at us – as I threw some shillings to them.  Shortly we returned to my front gate.

The run had been most exhilarating and Wallace and Bruce were quite puffed although I was in fine fettle and barely perspiring although I called for Miss Shingle to mop my brow for safety with an eau de toilette dosed silk handkerchief.

I offered Wallace and Bruce a refreshing hose down which they declined for fear of the colour running from their leisure wear. Feeling justified, righteous and fit, I sent the Miss Valerie Will Stable’s mule out with a measuring wheel to give us a better estimate of our fitness challenge.  The result – almost two hundred full yards – was most commendable – as we stopped only three times for refreshment, cooling from a portable Punka powered by the Camel and palpitation defibrillation from my personal nurse.

I have been laid low with an infernal infestation of those “transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water” as descriibed by Mr H. G. Wells in his fictional account of the War of the Worlds. Although, one must not always jump to conclusions on Mr Wells. On my last visit to the metropolis, I chanced upon a few quite alien creatures who had the merest sliver of acquaintance with how a human should deport himself. A quick beating with my brolly soon cleared a path to the Oyster Bar for me.

I have, of course, been of stentorian and stoic mien throughout my illness and only occasionally resorting to a pathetic but justified call for toast soldiers for a brave soldier’s boiled eggs.

It is at times like these that one overhears the staff’s opinions. I quite distinctly heard Miss Shingle opine to the Avon Cosmeticals woman – whom she had outrageously invited into the hallway – that I was having a “man flu” episode – as good as any comedic episode of “Shooting Stars”. I barely understood the woman but I regret that I did not entirely engage with her when she asked “How I was doing?” later and stiffled a snarf and snorting in her handkerchief as I inhaled from a bowl of hot water and camphor with my night shawl pulled tight around my shoulders.

The cat wasn’t entirely helpful as when I dozed off, and awakened after a fearful nightmare of gasping for breath, I discovered she had settled for a nap over my face, “Simply to keep me cosy!”

But after an evening with my chest wrapped in brown paper and vinegar – and barely improved – I decided to risk a visit from Dr Leech.

I now have in my possession a set of “capsules” which require the assistance of a stiff malt and honey to ease down as they are quite clearly designed for a Killer Whale’s throat. At least, I get to quaff something palatable 4 times a day as cookie has me on consomme and porridge following the Doctor’s confirmation that I am indeed poorly.

Now with a tablet down and a cold compress to my forehead, I turn to Book 2, Chapter 3 “The Days of Imprisonment”: “The arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us from our peephole into the scullery, for we feared that from his elevation the Martian might see down upon us behind our barrier…”

I am sure it is just vivid imaginings and my fever but was there not, just now, a flash of green light and an enormous whoosh from the common outside my chamber window…

I have received a missive from Miss Gruel. I am entertaining the conceit that this was a thank you note. It is a conceit as I fear I recognised the crabbed spidery hand and green ink and cast it into the Aga unopened at my breakfasting.

I have managed to coax Miss Shingle from her room. I surmised she had been ill used after receiving a comment from a correspondent Miss Will of the Miss Valerie Will Stables. I summoned the local Rugby Football Team who sang rugger songs at her window and then carried her off for a night of carousing. The cat informs me that Miss Shingle is the team mascot and that involves a range of support activities.

My man now has a RBS Bob Cratchit card for the money printing machine in the main street. I explained all the petting and imprecations necessary for this activity and he frankly stood looking at me as if I were a rube of the most base sort.

The black panther or to be more accurate the south American black cougar has not met with an entirely universal welcome. The cat feels his use of the cat tray is an infraction and my man informs me that the work in cleaning up is not inconsiderable. Furthermore, the panther’s view that he is a ladies’ man and should sleep in Miss Shingle’s bed was followed shortly by the noise of planks, nails and a hammer being employed on Miss Shingle’s side of her chamber door.

In addition Wallace and Bruce were mightily distressed after being rather generously hugged by the Panther and licked all over while he crooned “deeleeshus”.

Cookie informed me as he served macaroni cheese and tapioca for dinner that every piece of meat had disappeared from the kelvinator.

Finally, the last straw dropped on my already burdened back when I repaired to the rear reading room for a sizeable snifter, and a perusal of my newly purchased book. Miss Shingle told me earlier this was delivered by an Amazon (who must have been a complete surprise as Miss Shingle considers the women’s conservative and unionist club’s wrestling tag team to be overly muscular and hirsute.)

Anyhoo, with my book “Imperial Mastery of Colonials including the Scotch” clutched in hand and with a box of snuff for aesthetes in my waistcoat pocket and the thought of 40 winks engaging my mind, imagine my dismay to discover the Panther in my wing armchair wearing my tassel cap and a pair of my best harem slippers and smoking a large Cohiba.

One simply never puts one’s hand on another gentleman’s humidor without invitation!

Suffice to say, the panther has been dispatched by Royal Mail to someone who will appreciate his south American machismo. I have sent him as a gift to my old nanny Miss Gruel. What a tarradiddle he made of being wrapped too! If I had been so disobliging as a child, mother would never had managed to post me off to boarding school in a brown paper and hairy string parcel.

Definitely not my view of a gentleman and altogether too much gold jewellery. I penned a short epistle to Miss Gruel stating that no thanks would be necessary.

We have, of course, been at home for some time after our return from Wimbledon by fast steam packet.

The cat, still enthused mightily by her adorable Andy sweatband, had decided to organise a tennis tournament at our lawn tennis court. I, myself, favour real tennis but can turn a magisterial hand to the milk and water lawn variety.

The cat had invited the postmistress, the local muscular women’s conservative and unionist club members, the vicar and his new friend the lumberjack, Wallace and Bruce, the wildman who had been trapped on our island, my staff, gottfried and hans, the parrot, camel, and the Miss Valerie Will stables’ Mule.

My man had set off to purchase a new charabanc as I had been informed my old trusty vehicle was not economical or environmental with a road fund licence cost of extortionate size due to its capacity of 12 gallons to the imperial mile. Apparently, a new Panther Black charabanc was to be purchased since it was on “offer” coming with a free panther.

We were quite contentedly playing games betwixt thunder storms and sipping Pimms or, to be honest, for me occasionally playing while quaffing mightily when the cat became quite agitated with barely repressed excitement. I thought she might have got wind of the free Panther.

However three large vehicles arrived and from these alighted a crowd of very fit young men and a rather dishevelled, lanky tousle haired young ragamuffin. In a frenzy of purring and leg rubbing the cat introduced the Adorable Andy who had answered her plea for a demonstration match.

Apparently Andy was prepared to play us if “I manned up” the cat explained. I must apologise for the argot of the cat who spends much too many hours on Facebook reading the pages of Messrs Andrew and Ross McDade.

The cat declared herself umpire and the Vicar and the Lumberjack said they would keep an eye on the fit young men. Andy would play me,
Miss Shingle, Wallace and the Wildman each stationed respectively in a quadrant of the opposing court.

How I scoffed pshawed and pished this concept but the cat was most insistent. The muscular Conservative and Unionist woman would be the ball girls.

Well, the rout of mankind ensued with Andy winning three straight sets 6-0 6-0 6-0 with each game to love.

How the cat and the muscular ball girls fawned over him as we were resuscitated on our side of the net by the St John’s Ambulance crew that had been called. I could barely crawl to the Pimms.

It was at this moment that my man arrived back with the new environmental charabanc with a black panther stretched out on the rear parcel shelf wearing a gold chain, gold bangle and a gold ring on each thumb.

We have departed Wimbledon. As we took our leave I dispatched a street urchin with a telegram to my household so that they may in a state of readiness for my imminent arrival. I had to negotiate the terms of this with the abominable child. It was usury. Where have the days gone when a child would climb up a chimney, work 14 hours in a cotton mill, sport a cheeky smile and doff his cap to his betters all for a shilling a week. I shall have to write to my dear sister to ensure she’s training her grandson appropriately and also send a package of conditioning soot.

As we summoned a hansom, the cat shared a confidence. She has begun talking to me after slightly thawing. Apparently, the bundling in the towel was forgiven immediately, it was being left in John Inverdale’s company that she found unforgivable. I can sympathise.

To the meat: the cat has been sending small gifts to her favourite tennis stars. To Roger Federer, she sent a head sweat band with the word “loser” imprinted. To Rafa Nadal, a powder can of “Imperial crotch rot Preventative”. To Novak Djokovic, a letter in green ink and an apple with a worm. To adorable Andy, she gifted her undying love and three mice she’d caught round the back of centre court.

One always remains bemused by the cat’s affiliations and her system of rewards.