A report to The President on how to purchase a motorcar Edit
After falling ill from what I assumed to be Tobacco Mosaic Virus from handling such large quantities of money, I was rudely disturbed by two of the least esteemed members of The Society (The Belgian and the stinking, putrid Secretary) at the window of my chambers. I somehow, god only knows how, discerned from their inane babblings that they were on the hunt for a Svenska Aeroplan AB motorcar, doubtless to tow my manor away. Nonetheless I thought I should be magnanimous in my ailing state so I ushered them to the front door where Wiggins lead them to the morning room. My suspicions were piqued when the Belgian mentioned the name Berthold, they clearly wanted to lay more charges on The Intern by framing him for regicide and given that he was locked up in a Belgian cell, I felt the need to have Wiggins call Albert immediately while I tried to waylay the two fiends.
I was rudely awoken by the Secretary’s barking at an godawfully early morning time, before I had taken my petit dejeuner. There was no way he would cease his noises, which he later described as the poetry of “true erotic caresses”. He forced his entry and threw a bag of coins on my kitchen table, saying “I have obtained these from a certain College, and need to spend them fast.” I counted at sight about three pounds fifty, but he insisted it amounted to exactly £519,583.95. The coppers were on to him, obviously, so there was little time. I asked him what he had in mind, and he said he wanted to buy a vehicle that was not horse-driven, as the last rotting horse he’d stolen from Farmer Bertrand had left the stable (a building that only existed in the recesses of his mind). I proposed a simple solution: take the Treasurer’s BBQ apart and rebuild it into a car. That way we would kill two flies at once: the loot could be hidden in the carrosserie whilst the wheels would come off as soon as we’d hit the A1 outside the town of Wide Open. I had my reasons for it to break down right there, but I shall disclose these thoughts in my own privacy.
I spent an uneasy night last night. Yet again terrors awoke me at every turn. Firstly I dreamt that the maiden next door had not replied to my epistolary advances and instead was seeking to mate with a different man – Ronald MacDonald. Secondly, I dreamt that an incident was occurring in China and Japan – but not Hong Kong. Yet my third dream was perhaps the most virulent beast that I have ever had to suppress (save the water buffalo that I once tried to sell matches to) – The Belgian had, only the previous day, requested me to assist in his quest to acquire a combine harvester. His recent concerns to acquire real estate with which to impress your(presidential)self, led him to accept rural quarters. The land there (a single backyard) was proving difficult to maintain, and after having a ‘quiet word’ with Farmer Bertram, had secured the name and address of a farm machinery shop in return for £519,583.95 worth of ‘kola-kubes’. With this in mind I leapt out of my chaise-longe in order to go and lend a ‘hand’. I naturally assumed that the Belgian was just trying to be seductive again. It turned out I was wrong. The result: we spent the afternoon in diggerland.
I instantly put the cowards on the wrong scent by directing them to a golf course which, as I told them, sold vehicles at knock-down prices. The truth of the matter was that the golf course in question does not, has not and will not exist. Knowing that Paul, my trusty bloodhound was as infirm as myself I had to resort to an alternative method of ridding my estate of these blaggards, namely, releasing the peacocks. I knew that the Secretary is congenitally afraid of the sound of a peacock’s “song”. Alas, all I could find at such short notice was my faithful 12 gauge Holland & Holland. Whilst brandishing the weapon and shouting obscenities at the pair Wiggins came running towards me waving a scrap of jotting paper. “What the devil has got into you man?”, I enquired. “A reply from King Albert, my lord.” As it happened, The Intern was sentenced to death by shattering that morning for completely unrelated crimes to the one that I suspected them of framing him for. I let the wretch fall from my mind. Why should I help him after what he had done to me?
After announcing “If there is one thing we British do well, it is outdoor music in the summer”, the Secretary forced me to pull his barouche. On our way we dropped by the Treasurer, who answered our question for tea by inexplicably waving a drainpipe at us and mumbling that he had to pay tax on his “motorcar”. He also mentioned he should never have “bought” one in the first place. The Intern had told him he was off to Belgium on a mission (a continuation of his quest for more Lebensraum, as his Germanic nature was prone to incite him to, undoubtedly). Word had come from our messenger boy, Yves, that the Intern had bumped into a few salesmen over there. They had wanted to sell him snuff (a word they kept repeating incessantly), although he always carried a brace of Gotebergian snus on his person (I suspect a conspiracy). After all, there was only one reason he could be convinced to leave the Isles, and that was Mother. However, this truth remained a sore point in a man broken by maternal reality. There would only one way to get to Wide Open: we needed a sling shot and some Irish spuds. The former would put the Treasurer out of his misery for a few hours (a well-aimed shot to the head would put him at rest under the tarpaulin he destined to form his “chambers”. A local hobo, grateful for the odd penny the Treasurer would throw him from time to time, didn’t mind being called Wiggums, or any other name he’d make up. The spuds were just ballast (and the Secretary fed on them, cooked or not).
After arriving at the treasurer’s pond, we immediately became embroiled in some kind of official dragnet. A police officer called Geoff (a pleasant south-born fellow) arrived and after opening his notepad attempted to arrest the Treasurer for being in cahoots with the intern who had been busted in a raid on an opium den and was currently enjoying time in stir in a Barbados gaol. The lithe Treasurer, eager to resist such entertainment refused to don the handcuffs. This same Treasurer opened the societal wallet, and released his collection of moths which congregated around Rozza. The effect would have not been half so startling if the Treasurer had not started making noises like puffins in an attempt to convince rozza that he was prey to a more severe – fowl based – attack. Emboldened by his failure to convince his fellow societal members that rozzer’s ’seeing off’ was anything more than an egregious accident, he started crying inconsolably and wrote telegrams, many to his aunt in Weston Supermare, who is used to his bouts of black despair. In a final gesture his raised his fishing pole in an attempt at violence, but accidentally got sidetracked and caught a pike.
- NB. The Secretary was violently forced to leave the official interview at this point
Please continue gentlemen, and the truth if you wouldn’t mind…
Having only the day before read the cover of Creasy’s The Fifteen Decisive Battles of the World: from Marathon to Waterloo (my powers should remain unquestioned, for I am capable of judging a book by not only its cover but by its owner) I determined to ride from Marathon to Waterloo due to my assumption that Creasy was talking geographically. My journey was both arduous and almost without reason. Nonetheless upon my arrival at Waterloo I arrived at the Duke of Wellington’s quarters or at least the sign above the door made such claims. I directed my line of inquiry to who could only be Prince William Frederick George Louis (later King William II of the Netherlands, Grand Duke of Luxembourg & Duke of Limburg), aide-de-camp to the Duke himself. Alas before His Royal Highness could respond I was jumped by a feral beast who had previously been hiding behind some Jenever.
One who knows me, will understand: the reality of it was worse than any of my paranoid dreams. After we left the Treasurer’s wasteland, there was thumping (the un-pleasant kind). I for one don’t like the Secretary’s games, from any point of view (and he always elaborates on them). There is one little bit of spine in me left after listening to his stories about the Wide Open Girls’ School, to the point I believed him. When we got there, let me tell you, it was a Women’s Institute and they were of the moustache-wearing kind. I got on well enough with a few of them (they smelled like cake). However, the end of the story was that I ended up in a ditch with torn undergarments. I had told the Secretary about my days on the road, to my detriment, as one can see. The truth will out: it was not the Intern, but the Secretary who was after my passport/citizenship/identity. He has fallen so low that he pretends to be a Belgian. Even I am disgusted. End of my story.
After I beat the caked mud off the scoundrel’s face it became apparent that this was clearly my detractor the Intern. I quizzed him on his current state but all he could tell me was that the Secretary did it.
The Treasurer & Belgian (simultaneously): It was him officer, that bastard Secretary.
Recommendations to the Court and PresidentEdit
Having firmly affixed blame yet again at the doorstep of The Secretary, any claims for compensation (we know there are too many to list here, both financial and penile) should be directed at him as an individual. This Society pleads for the immediate release of the Intern regardless of which country he has chosen to be incarcerated in.
p.s. The first thing the Secretary asked for this morning was some sloe gin, the brute.