Dining out

In those days one would dress for dinner in the appropriate attire, nowadays people wear the most ghastly and inappropriate things, old beefies Indian head dress springs to mind. The major, for a while,adopted a pair of silk pyjamas and pointed shoes with bells on the end which he insisited on wearing to dinners and such affairs. Apart from the infernal ringing when he walked, he could not remain seated at the table for very long as he would just slide off the chairs due to the silk, a quick ''frrrrtt'' followed by a thud and the tinkling of small bells, the bloody fool...

The Ascent

Following a crack in the cliff face we ascended slowly, linked together by a rope as was the fashion of the Alpinists. The Major wore an Austrian hat at a jaunty angle and a lederhosen that left his pale legs rather exposed. I commented that it was not healthy for a man to wear so much leather, bar on stage at the Moulin Rouge.
Having come to a rather difficult part of the rock face the Major paused and said to me -'I say Colonel do you know where the Andes are? 'Yes' I replied, 'on the end of your sleevies!!'
The Major finding this very amusing guffawed rather loudly which caused a small avalanche, fortunately for us it overshot us and wiped out the french basecamp instead.

The Colonel

SS Titanic

Having been invited to the Captains table that evening we retired to the upper deck where the Captain served champagne, finding it a tad warm he left rather briskly to fetch some ice for the bucket....the blighter never returned and the ship sank shortly thereafter. The Major pronounced the evening a 'total disaster'. To top it all we ended up sharing the bottle with the rest of the lifeboat, it was however chilled to perfection...

The Colonel

The rocket

...intended for flight it ressembled a large steel tube with a point at one extremity and what ressembled several fins at the other on which it stood.

The Major was ecstatic and could not wait for the demonstration, he had a fondness for all things that flew, it was often that I would fall asleep in the study whilst listening to him wittering away about some damned african bird.

We were all reassured as the chap in charge informed us that if anything went wrong it would probably land in France so not a single english life would be endangered, with the exception of a member of my staff, whom I had volunteered to pilot it. Strapped to the rocket he would operate the tail fins by pulling on several wires, this we were told, would guide the rocket and enable the pilot to jump off at the opportune time and operate what was called a parachute, another bloody stupid invention that will never catch on...

After much ado and a speech by myself, the fuse was lit and after an almighty bang! it was away, climbing at first it appearred to level out and then head across the channel towards France, all this was ignored as the local Mayors' trousers had caught fire when the rocket took off and he had jumped off the cliff into the sea below.

Whilst mayhem ensued onshore the Major observed the rockets progress towards France. As planned my member of staff had released the rocket and dropped into the channel and could be seen swimming for shore. As the Major commented ' That Armstrong chap has a future piloting rockets don't you think?' I replied that he would do better at swimming!!!

The Castaways

During the storm we became disoriented and ended up crashing into a reef which made quick work of the boat leaving us shipwrecked on some godforsaken island. I gathered what was left of the provisions and the last caged chicken (who had turned out to be a cockerel thus explaining the lack of eggs) and ordered the Major to explore the island further whilst I kept watch for any ships.
The Major soon returned with a chap dressed in a white linen suit who introduced himself as the owner of the boat we had hired. He was not pleased to see his boat being used as firewood.
I quickly enquired how he had managed to find us. He replied that the marina was just five minutes down the beach. I immediately castigated the Major for being so bloody lazy and handed him the cockerel...

The Colonel

The Setting Sun

The Major stood at the entrance to the hut I had commandeered, pipe in hand, wearing his cap at a jaunty angle, which gave him that devil may care look that I’m told is all the fashion back home.

We had just gone over our plans for the future exploration of the eastern hills which we were told harboured great apes the size of the Sergeant Majors wife and similar in appearance by all accounts.

Also to be found in this secret Eden were the inevitable pygmies; these were of the headhunting variety. We were informed that they would boil a man’s head and shrink it. One of the young lieutenants awoke one morning screaming, claiming that he had been a victim of the pygmies. Fortunately for him he had put on someone else’s cap which was two sizes too big for him.

Despite these dark clouds on the horizon, an air of excitement and mystery prevailed amongst the men, for what is life without risk I say. We should push the boundaries of our lives and question what we find, least ignorance and fear prevail.

The Major, absent minded, tapped his pipe out, the hot ash instantly setting fire to the rush matting at his feet. Immediately our local guide ‘Alfred’ appeared and with great presence of mind seized the matting and pulled it from under the Majors feet, in an instant his shirt caught fire and he disappeared screaming into the trees. ‘It’s very dry this time of year’ commented the Major.

The sun was now setting, bringing with it the fiery colours so typical of the African sky the moment spoiled only by a faint smell of singed hair.

One of the village elders in charge of the porters walked up to the hut and spoke to the Major ‘Mr Major Sir, It is time’

The Major turned to me and said ‘Will that be all then?’

‘Yes, I think we’ve gone as far as we can go today’ I replied.

‘And accomplished great things’ added the Major.

Do you know, as he turned to leave, his figure silhouetted by the setting sun, I caught a glimpse of a smile on his face.

The Colonel

In Memory of Stephen Patrick Rooney

The Morning After

Bea was in that warm and fuzzy place in between sleep and wakefulness...Wallowing in the luxury of the Aardvark cover the major had so thoughtfully laid down for her last night (he apparently has contacts in the Sutchi tribe in Western Tanzania)....ahhh last night!
She was heady with the warm bliss that comes the morning after one of 'those' nights...it had been so perfect...the major had thought of everything...

She had been quite thrilled when the Padre had agreed that a trip to the Outer Hebrides was just what she needed and that the Major was going to chaperone her on the pretence that he had to check on his butterfly collection that he just happened to keep there.

Taking half a dozen pygmies with them was a splendid idea from the Major, however Bea smiled to herself remembering it was her idea to hide them in picnic baskets to get them over the border - as one knows, pygmies are very hard to disguise.
It was a perfect scene; Bea carried aloft on the shoulders of two of the dear little things, not even noticing the blood from her toes as her feet scraped the roughed ground...Bea had only eyes for the Major. She could picture him now as if it was only yesterday...and it was....strutting ahead looking so handsome in Aardvark hat, full tribal gear...she didn't even mind that the below freezing breeze was having an adverse effect on the Major's spear....
He'd thought of everything....more pink gin than one could carry (so of course those dear little helpers carried it all)...well what more did one need? Just one more thing to make it perfect.....strapped to the Major's back was his trusty banjo...she knew it was going to be perfect.

And perfect it had been, the log cabin, the fire, pink gin flowing, the Aardvark rug laid out and the Major...oh the major playing that Banjo like he had never played it before, which was highly illegal in some countries....he knew just the right strings to pull to make Bea reach the edges of ecstasy (along with a snort of ground rhino horn)...he'd even let her have a strum of his prized possession, he was pleasantly surprised at how good she had been with it, however, it wasn't the time to let him know that she had been once been allowed to strum the entire Philharmonic's string section. Nothing was as good as the Major's instrument....

...lying there she wished that she didn't have to open her eyes to the new morning, however maybe the Major would have even more surprises for her. Slowly she turned over, it had to be slowly because she didn't want that build up of gas she could feel dangerously close to it's exit to be released just yet....stretching her arm out she felt for the Major....

...But where was the Major???

Mrs BP Smythe

The Zeppelin

The Hun were crafty buggers and had invented a dirigeable aircraft called a Zeppelin. But, having no stomach for war, had abandoned it in a hangar. Pinky, full of his usual bravado and alsatian beer, decided he would pilot the craft around the field, with his men hanging on to the guide ropes and various tethers. All went well until several gusts of wind blew him off course. Pinky, seeing his fate before him, decided to abandon ship, his men releasing the tethers and running for fear of being crushed by the monstruous beast. As Pinky dropped from the aircraft, his foot become entwined in one of the ropes and he was hoisted aloft, flailing and shouting, his little fat face tomato red...oh how we laughed.
The storm finally arrived and we retired to the shelter of the hangar which provided us with an excellent view of Pinkys predicament, I believe he was struck by lightening several times....

The Colonel

Fortunate son

....with his father as Surgeon General, he never made it into the Royal Navy, as he was diagnosed with 'shell shock' prior to recruitment. A world first, or so I'm told.

The Colonel

Early Breakfast

As the Major opened his eyes, he thought he was in heaven, but, as he came to his senses, he realised that the blank white sky he thought he was looking at was actually the underside of one of the dining tables in the Officers Mess. As he hoisted himself to his feet, he started to hear screaming and as he turned towards the door, there stood Buntie Rayham the hired help who was used and abused by Mrs Poutbottom Smythe ......He looked down and realised he was completely devoid of any item of clothing, and even more shocking, was the fact that his whole body had been completely shaved. Pygmies was his initial thought, however he knew this wasn't their Modus Operandi ......then suddenly Mrs Poutbottom Smythe appeared from under an adjacent table ....looking I might add, a bit the worse for wear.

It all started to come back to him ......things had got a bit boisterous in the Mess the previous evening .....one thing led to another, and after the Colonel had offered him the powdered Rhino horn things had took a turn for the worse, he knew this by the fact that he was wearing more of Mrs Poutbottom - Smythes lipstick than she was .......so if it wasn't the Pygmies who was it? He had a good idea who ....

The Major

Mrs Beatrice Poutbottom - Smythe

Which ever way you looked at things, the Major was not enjoying himself...stuck in a God forsaken outpost of the British 'Empire', his only entertainment was taking pot-shots at endangered species and also the natives, which incidentally were becoming increasingly endangered themselves.....in short....the Major was starting to lose his mind.

He was running dangerously low on ammunition when he smelled something strange, at first he thought the lavatory in the mess was blocked again, however on closer inspection he discovered that it was indeed.......perfume....there was a female in close proximity!

That evening in the Mess, the Major, who by 8pm had drank half his body weight in Pink gin, was startled to find out that the female in question was none other than Beatrice Poutbottom Smythe, the younger sister of Jeffery Poutbottom - Smythe( Its a long story) with whom he had attended boarding school. Her husband, the new Padre, had been sent to set up a mission to help local tribes with their tattoo spelling, the Major decided at that point to find himself other means of entertainment. But little did he know that this would include non other than would be novelist Mrs Poutbottom Smythe...

The Major

Doctors advice

On my doctors advice I have ceased all fornication, I believe this will be of great relief to my lower regions.......actually I was being treated for constipation but the two can be easily confused as I discovered at boarding school, one inevitably follows the other.

The Colonel

Gin soaked pygmies

The pygmies had been at the gin again, we had to put the supplies out of reach, knee high should have been fine but we had not taken into account their great improvisational skills, they were on their stilts in a jiffy and orff with the gin with us in hot pursuit.
Some of them had frightfull falls during the pursuit, toppled from their stilts. Vertigo is sometimes a problem for Pygmies, as Shackerly Bennet the great naturalist often observed, but great entertainment.
We had some of the tribe perform a dance at the officers mess and had to throw out three of them for indecency. Fortunately only the front row saw anything.
One was accidentally crushed in a stampede when the bar opened. Old Pinky shouted mines a gin and that was the last we saw of the little bugger, they found his loincloth, heavily soiled of course.

The Colonel (Stolen from the Majors diary)

Pinky on the pole

Old Pinky had been at the gin for several days, they found him lashed to a bamboo pole suspended 15ft off the ground, smelling of juniper....his underwear had been removed, which was quite common for him.

The Colonel

The Shoot

It was around News Years, we were on a shoot. We were strategically placed down wind of the beaters as they cleared the woods of pheasants, partridge and the odd rabbit. I myself had an exceptional mornings shooting, having bagged three pheasants and one rabbit. It was going exceptionally well until the Vicar appeared, bursting out of the woods to our left, shouting about a wedding or some such nonsense. He was met, I'm afraid to say, by a volley of shoots.
Some of the wounds were superficial others less so. Had it been one of the farm hands, it would have been of little consequence, but I received a somewhat irate letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury demanding a formal apology and a voluntary contribution to the Church of England and my attendance at Sunday mass. Fortunately for the Vicar he delivered mass from a standing position as I am told he had many problems assuming a seated position with any degree of comfort for many months thereafter.

The Colonel