“Sport, sport, masculine sport, it’s an odd boy who doesn’t like sport…”
(Bonzo’s)
(Bonzo’s)
Dear Diary & Posterity,
Played a gripping innings at Poonaagggh, on the eve of the monsoon. Natives for wickets, myself, and the eleven (well, ten with me) from the Bombay Dragoons against the, newly arrived, crème de la crème of the Rutland Buffs. I was squaring up at around noon, the fourth batsman, and cutting a dash (not to say splash) in my whiter than whites and borrowed (courtesy of Mrs Colonel Napalm- Eccles) box & pads (she assured me that his well documented case of ‘jock-itch’ had completely cleared by 1919). So it was with some confidence that I strode onto the pitch, rubbing my lucky horripilation. Something old & something new etc, I mused… a talisman that’s seen me through many a near run game from prep school and beyond!
At five past the hour I hit a terrific six across the boundary and into the swelling river Pontoon. A turbaned Mahout (in the pay of the retiring commanding officer), resplendent (in an indigenous kind of way) upon a garlanded pachyderm, encouraged completion of the Over by instructing the creature in his charge to bolster the defenders with its persuasive proboscis. In the interim, two fielders (a Subaltern & a Private) were drowned in their attempt to retrieve this gloriously smashed ball - which was last seen skimming the surface of the waters of the sacred river taking out, to my certain knowledge, two Ganges ducks, one wading stork and a washerwoman whose beating-stone formed an unfortunate stop for the missile. Apparently, the ball recoiled on the surface just as she was slapping her doodads against the rocks. The merciless sphere then, gaining some spin from the application of suds, whacked into the writhing wet material she was womanhandling, and this combined movement of tangled washing & cricket ball had the effect of coshing the startled laundress on the back of her indigo-veiled head, before spinning orf again across the riverbanks. According to Lady ffrancon-Smythe’s Ayah – it disappeared down stream, still skimming the oily waterway & startling the swimming vipers & amphibians in its path..
Within the following wickets, several natives fainted in response to the intense heat of the hour and, I daresay, the drama of the moment. General Chivverley-Crumpet requested an interval at half past the hour, but play continued as I doggedly refused to stand down - simply stopping for one minute & thirty seconds to pack my box with extra ice at two strategic repositioning intermissions. I went on to glean 299 Not Out, while bearers carried the occasional occidental and native unconscious from the field and Red Cross nurses sprayed the more stalwart players with dilute gin and lime in order to cool them orf.
Apart from the drowning, just a few cases of fatal-ish heat-stroke, and several near-death experiences and, oh yes… one suicide… But, on balance, a worthy victory for the regiment, which was, I believe, deemed a just sacrifice in our start to the season. Used the Commanding Officer’s telephone to give Posterity (currently spending the Monsoon in the king’s palace in Nepal with a party of Officer’s wives and some Llamas) a blow by blow account of the day… she seemed suitably impressed… if a little over-tired. I kept hearing a noise, which sounded like yawning – which Posterity assured me was the palace minor-bird making its evening repertoire.
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To feel anxiety is to be blessed by the full wash of life in its ripest chancre—everything else is wax museums. (David Byrne)
Dear Diary & Posterity,
Thursday afternoon – having a muse while my batman prepares my attire etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. To my great consternation Charlemagne Bottomley- Rimmer, an old adversary from my school-days, has arrived at Poonaagggh Fort – posted on from Bangalore following some scandal involving a Mogul Infanta and some part of an elephant (according to my batman, one Corporal Jack Berrington).
At school and, worse still, later at college the swinish Bottomley- Rimmer insisted on calling me Hilarity Leatherbollocks and, no doubt, will continue in this fashion when our paths cross, which is a most exasperatin’ state of affairs, don’cha know. Must find a way to stop him in his tracks – if only I could think of a suitable dirty dig. But hang it all, what can one do with a mouthful like Charlemagne Bottomley- Rimmer? This will take some deep thinking, which I will attempt while wallowing in my chestnut-scented bath which my batman is drawing, as I write.
Later, same evening.
Seems that I got the wrong end of the story about Bottomley- Rimmer! Corporal Berrington (a charming but incomprehensible cockney) was in fact referring to the state of intoxication, which he described as ‘elephant’s trunk’!
Rather obviously, due to the propinquity of the species Proboscidean (which seems to have an unnecessarily high profile in this neck of the global woods) I jumped to that understandable conclusion that we were talking about a live elephant & not that specific analogous peculiarity of Cockney slang – which in my humble opinion adds nothing but verbal complexity and thus confusion. Can’t think why the corporal would assume that my command of the English language would include such vernacular. Anyway, it seems that the swine in question was clearly the worse for drink during a tour of duty guarding the Mogul’s family party on a tiger hunt, and engaged in over-familiarity with the Mogul’s daughters. In this part of the world that might mean anything from playing unchaperoned tiddlywinks with them - to imprudently proposing marriage. I doubt it was any attempt at physical dalliance, or I would not be plagued by his all too solid and in-tact bodily presence. Not that the unsavoury brute has any sense of chivalry, but he has an understanding of the paternal drive to protect daughters, involving non-voluntary castration with a rusty scimitar.
During my toilet and dressing I had the perfect opportunity to discuss my reservations about Bottomley- Rimmer and obtain some homespun second opinion. Corporal Berrington suggested several ways of ‘kickin’ the bounder orf his Polo pony’ and by such colourful means! It quite took my breath away! It is amazing what these common or garden Tommys, fellows brought up in gutters and educated in stables, can come up with while scrubbing ones back, decanting ones claret and pressing a dickey.
Firstly there is the name calling – which Corporal Jack (I call him Jack, when I’m out of uniform, as I was - being in my bath) described as a gift. He suggests that I say something like: “Hmmm… if the name Chalmondley is pronounced Chumley then shouldn’t Bottomley be pronounced Bumley?” And then add casually, “I think I’ll call you: Charlotte-Male Bumlay-Rammer…” I like this…what the American novellas might term… wise-guy style; it might well work, especially as Bumlay-Rammer wont be expecting such an uncharacteristic response! There! I’ve started practising my new manner already! Have been trying it out on Jack, but only when not in uniform, of course. Berrington is without doubt the most inventive and accommodating batman ever to have the honour of serving me.
Telephoned Posterity again this evening following dinner, I think I may have got somewhat carried away with my new character!
She was just telling me about her audience with the Head Lama, when I cut in with: “Surprised to find a gel like you with such an interest in hairy beasts-of-burden; hope you kept your distance old thing, they spit don’cha know.”
A decidedly prickly silence ensued and, in a fit of nervous agitation, I found myself saying: “Well old girl, can’t stand here all night chewing the rancid yaks’ butter, I have to cut-a-rug with the General’s Fanny.”
I dare say Posterity was wondering why Fanny Chivverley-Crumpet (the youngest child of General & Mrs General Spartacus Chivverley-Crumpet) was available for rug-cutting at Poonaagggh - and not completing her spring term at Cheltenham. Truth be told, my daring mood led me to declare some but not all of the latest news from the Fort. On the premise: Treat ‘em mean etcetera. Can’t think what got in to me – I think I need more practice before unleashing the new persona on friends & family.
Note:
1. Hmmm, hope my temerity does not lead to some unforeseen backfiring from Posterity’s direction. Such superb cannon – couldn’t resist lighting her cordite – but now… O! slight fear & trepidation…the thought occurs - she may blow me out… damme!
2. I really must screw my courage to the sticking post or I’ll never carry it orf when I confront CBR.
Oh rapacious day, kaloo kalay! Or words to that effect … Posterity has sent word that she is accompanying her friend Lettice Montenegro back to the Fort, Lettice has been bitten in the ‘Cush by a small snake which managed to crawl under her mossie-nets as she slept and attempted to pass the night with her. Luckily her mrs ffrancon-smythe’s Ayah was near by and heard the screams …such a resourceful woman for a native-type…anyway she knew how to
“!Oh Boy!” breathed Poserity…
I grinned sheepishly –
“That wasn’t a feminine squeal of admiration,” announced Posterity, rather churlishly I thought, “ It was an aside!”
Whatever could she have meant? Must be another of these Cocknese expressions that seem to be in vogue with young people these days, I took the notepad from the back pocket of my jodhpurs and my fountain pen from the top pocket of my pristine second best khaki jacket and scribbled the words: ‘aside’ - ask batman about it!
“Boy” Leatherbarrow’s Diary
( Major Hilary Leatherbarrow’s exploits in the Hindu Cush - 1931)
