They
are gone the days of Daimler Jags and Lagondas, of Land Rovers and MG
TDs. In their place is a walking stick. These days we are a
tripod.
The
odd thing is I prefer it. I never felt at ease with the combustion
engine. For one thing they rarely combusted on command. Show me a
blasted heath or a lonesome grott and I will show you the scene of a
grotty me, kicking the wheel of a sulky saloon. Silent and not only
on a Peak in Darien. At least the MG always broke down within walking
distance of a pub.
The
LG6 Lagonda was the worst. At the funeral of an old chum called Mike
Quy it broke down when filled to the chrome rims with grieving
newspapermen, than whom no-one is easier to drive to noisy scorn. What was worse it gave up its particularly showy ghost just as I was
being beckoned into motion by a policeman on point duty. His first
summons was slow and stately, not untinged with respect for a classic
car. When it seemed the
classic car was pointedly ignoring him the stately beckon was
transformed into a shaking fist.
"Watch
him!” came a voice of a so-called friend. “Any moment now he is
going to rip off his helmet, dash it to the ground and dance on it.
Just like Charlie Chaplin.” "It
wasn't Charlie Chaplin, it was Andy Clyde,“ offered a pedantic sub
editor. “Rob Wilton,” suggested another and an argument ensued.
Can
you believe the only car I ever owned which never let me down was a
Lada I bought for transporting bloodhounds? It failed in its
purpose by being so noisy the hounds refused to climb in. Forced, they howled piteously at passing vehicles and nothing does piteous better than a
bloodhound in extremis. Nary a car passed without a reproachful
driver.
Stepping into a motor car was like suddenly getting a starring role in a nightmare. It did not even have to be my motor car. A friend who owned a Citroen, once the property of the Paris police, wanted me to share its power so he took me to the Grand National. Heavily refreshed, we were driving home when for reasons unknown the car decided rather than go round a roundabout to jump over it. Jumped like a stag. Had it not been for the police car it hit on the other side I reckon it would have been a contender for best jump of the day.
Stepping into a motor car was like suddenly getting a starring role in a nightmare. It did not even have to be my motor car. A friend who owned a Citroen, once the property of the Paris police, wanted me to share its power so he took me to the Grand National. Heavily refreshed, we were driving home when for reasons unknown the car decided rather than go round a roundabout to jump over it. Jumped like a stag. Had it not been for the police car it hit on the other side I reckon it would have been a contender for best jump of the day.
Fair do's the
policeman driver trapped well. He was out of the car like Mick the
Miller, notebook at the High Port. He opened our door and invited the
occupant of the front seat to step outside and tell him what he had
drunk before getting in. It took a quarter of an hour and filled
four pages of the policeman's notebook. At the death he asked: “And
after all that drink, do you think you're fit to drive?" My friend was
shocked. "Drive?”
he said. “Certainly not. I am a passenger. The car is a left hand
drive.”
With
a walking stick you know where you are. It has gravitas. A comic
character in the novels of a hunting squire of the early nineteenth
century played a part in the creation of our greatest novelist. He
whittled sticks carved with the heads of great statesmen which would
make the fortunes of his descendants. R.S. Surtees also created one
of the great comic characters of any age. John Jorrocks was a fox
hunting grocer whose cry at table was “Pick me up, tie me to my
chair and fill up my glass.“
Lord
Scampersdale: “You think because I am a lord and may not swear you
may do what you will with me.”
Surtees' publishers wanted him to add comic captions to the drawings of a
fashionable artist called Seymour. Surtees refused so the publisher
hired an unknown lobby reporter called Dickens. The result was “Pickwick
Papers”, which is not without hints of plagiarism.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
The
time has come to reveal that when I was a young and rather pretty
provost sergeant I was chased naked from the showers and round the
sergeants' ablution block in HQ 7th Armoured Division, Rhine Army, by
a Regimental Sergeant Major in the Irish Guards, his moustache
twitching with desire. I easily outdistanced him and reached the
safety of my room. Some days later I was caught with little effort by
a NAAFI manageress called appropriately Mrs Horne who rewarded me
with 200 cigarettes. Several months later, she was charged with the
theft of 50,000 cigarettes.
My
Commanding Officer in a PR unit in Bad Oyenhausen transferred to the
Royal Armoured Corps because the black beret brought out the blue in
his eyes, causing him to be severely talked about.
As
a small boy I came within an ace of suffering severe
mental imbalance when I discovered I was the only child in the class
who had not been fondled by our popular teacher Mr Harrison, long gone
to interfere with the cherubim in the skies.
I
mention these incidents in the light of recent disclosures, just in
case there is any compensation floating about.
Even later in the Fornicating Fifties and Sexy Sixties I covered the early concerts by the Rolling Stones, the Beatles and all Brian Epstein's stable of pop stars. The audiences were largely female teenagers and to get through the crowds of young girls who stormed the dressing rooms offering themselves to the stars was not a happy experience
+++++++++++++++++
Our
trade paper Press Gazette got involved in a minor
disagreement with the Sri Lankan High Commission over its reporting
of an assassination attempt on a British journalist. The
Commissioner questioned 'British'.
He
insisted: "The
fact that one is also British and is a reporter does not make him a
British reporter. The
unfortunate shooting had nothing to do with his being British. A woman
and child is not the same thing as a woman with child.”