Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Mallets Of Forethought
05/30/2006
It will come as no surprise to you all, my dears, as I sit well muffed against the northerly drafts that whistle the length of the Long Gallery, that my thoughts are very much on the splendid game of Croquet.
For once I have some sympathy for Pious Prescott, had he being playing football, or better still “keepy uppy” with some urban urchins, no one would have batted an eyelid. As a good socialist it is perfectly acceptable to be a serial wife beater like D i S n r MP (delete this reference Trollaigh, Old Boy. G Pollock QC), spend your hols with a corrupt Italian politico, support a junkie son, send your nippers to Eton or get the housemaid into trouble, but for god’s sake don’t be caught with an elitist Croquet mallet.
Along with an appreciation of good Port, a love of Croquet is the only lasting benefit of an Oxbridge degree, although some would add punting to that list, therefore I suspect many a politician of different hues has a well-used Croquet set at home. Of course, I am not speaking of Oxford or Association Croquet, the rules of which are almost unknown, however I refer to Kitchen Croquet, played universally on warm afternoons after a decent lunch. The game is practiced throughout the world, particularly in America where President Nixon, the inventor of the shout of “troquet” is said to have a mallet buried with him at Arlington. The US also supports “Cross-Country Crockey” or “Extreme Croquet”, which I have played at The Lakewood Croquet Club in Connecticut, the club boasts the motto “Mallets plus Morons equals Mayhem”. It was there, while I pondered a rather severe ruling that my host informed me “you can do anything you like as long as it does not involve physical violence”. I am not entirely sure that all his members were prepared to stop with this admonition. The Old Governor, my father, was addicted to the game, the rules of which he frequently made up as the afternoon progressed, to ensure victory. I have a lasting memory of him striding onto the grass rolling up his sleeves, OG tie round his panama, surveying a set made up from fencing wire and tractor parts, braying “Here we play the Watt-Jespersen convention: bisques at six and eight, all roquets taken by the strike”. This was complete gobbledegook, but certainly dragged his ghastly guests, and Anglican Bishop and an English Duke, to an ignominious defeat. I only recall one guest having the sense of humour to beat the Old Man when the guest fielded his twenty-year-old daughter as a playing partner. Suzie wore a summer dress and not much else, she had a habit of leaning over a lot while considering and taking her shot. We feared for the old duffer’s safety as he grew first red then purple, to the extent that he forgot to “adjust” the score value at the winning post and lost by three points. Those were the days, were the summers really that glorious? Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Baby Blockhead
05/28/2006
I fear that our trend to stormy weather has stuck with us for a most unsettled fortnight, gales from ever quarter, heavy rain, frequent snow on the tops and visits from a couple of frosty nights which have started to cause some damage in the garden. The bad news for any visitors is that temperatures have rarely struggled above 10 degrees, however, Heather the Weather has hinted at a long-range improvement, perhaps towards the end of next week.
As this is a holiday weekend, a few startled campers are riding out the weather in tents that are presumably weighed down with substantial boulders. I spoke to one Father and Son pair who, in the fashion this year, are dressed from head to toe in Gortex Cammo. They almost blamed me for the storms claiming that they camped in the glen last year in calm, spring weather, even swimming in the River Trollaigh, whereas the only swimming they are doing this year is in their sleeping bags, poor devils, but it is hardly my fault. Of course every tent contains a couple of rods, however as the river is so high, one would need the luck of the fiddler’s bitch to hook a Stickle Back, I am turning a blind eye.
Over the last few days, I have reluctantly attended a community meeting which droned on about the provision of, or the lack of, local healthcare. I accept that I may not be able to grasp the economic nettle, but I fail to understand how so much cash is tipped into healthcare, when bugger all appears to come out the other end. One of the hot topics was Baby Square Head Syndrome, which is apparently caused because parents are now far too busy to pick their babies up, and leave them on the floor watching daytime TV. The solution is glaringly obvious, pick the brats up or even better, employ a Nanny to do it for you. But oh no, consultants and experts have been summoned from all the corners of the globe at the cost of mega millions, so that baby blockhead can now be strapped into a tight crash helmet, courtesy of the taxpayer while the bonce returns to the shape nature intended. I was always led to believe that any ailment with “syndrome” in the diagnosis was a pure invention to satisfy to fears of guilty but dotting parents and BSHS appear to fit the bill perfectly, allowing mum and dad to hog chips and swallow vodka whilst their guilt is publicly absolved with a pushchair sporting a form of medieval torture. Perhaps the helmets could be customised with a brand logo or the unfortunate child’s name, the mind boggles! Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.