Time for a Winterfest Polka

Over the last few days I have been distracted by the UK election. With the dust beginning to settle, I can now yell ‘Here it is!’  “A Couple of Tenors Short” reaches part twenty-one without anyone suggesting a mad themed party. I was told this story is a touch eccentric. I read it again, but I can’t see it myself. Am I missing something? Never mind. For those of you who do not speak Datsun, I had considered inserting sub-titles, but it is the 21^st century, everybody speaks Datsun, don’t they?

OK, here is the standard bit about this being a serial and advising any new-joiners to take their dried frog pills and start with Part One.    

Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap (which hasn’t really changed, but TODAY, well you have to read it to see if I am about to deliver a humdinger of a plot twist).

Inspector Glynn Jones thought he was going mad, but after finding the man from the State Security Services in his kitchen dressed in a green lycra body suit, he is not so sure. He tried an experiment with the engraving on his wedding ring and discovered that it mysteriously changed when Pippa gave a different wedding day for their marriage than was on the ring.

Although he has found himself married to Pippa Hucknell, he appears content with the arrangement, even though the world around him continues to confuse. He has found that he driving a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry that behaves like a puppy; suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions; keeps re-growing a ginger moustache; bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships; had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks; had one of his team hospitalised by the feral Girl Guides and found the camp Sat-Nav unit in the pink Mark III Ford Zephyr is developing a personality and cannot be switched off.

Then there are the strange cases he has to solve, the abduction of Archie McRamie, the theft of industrial generators, forged tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships, feral Girl Guides, the smuggling of illegal Macramé yarn, and a suspected murder of a ‘John Doe’ dragged from the Thames.

Since the case started, Doctor Wilkins, the famous TV Pathologist has confirmed the unknown swimmer drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea. The Fruit Fancies of his last meal are being linked to Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling. Darrius works for Horace Adkins, the beloved Barbers Shop Quartet impresario who is presumed dead after a massive explosion at his Georgian Mansion which the local police have suggested was suicide.

After finding a copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie in which the main character appears to be Horace Adkins, he decides to pay the author a visit only to find that both he and Smithy had been there before but cannot remember anything about it. Not only does he discover the McRamie abduction, but that all records relating to the case have vanished.

Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil, another of Adkins employees, were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon. Vera Adkins had gone there to instigate a defamation case, but her sister Violet arrived and talked her out of it.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendant and a man from the State Security Services who were very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion. The State Security man has also suggested that he does not believe the book is the cause of the defamation case.

Now read on...

At the door to the station, Inspector Jones paused and looked at his reflection in the glass. He shook his head slightly. His forefinger went to his top lip and straightened the hair in his ginger moustache. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and went inside.

The desk sergeant greeted him, but said nothing about his outfit. Neither did the two constables he passed on the stairs.

As usual, Jones was the first to arrive in the office. As he entered, two miniature pigs that had been cavorting in the middle of the room gave a squeal and ran back to their nest behind the filing cabinets.

Jones walked over to his desk. The two miniature pigs cautiously came out of their hiding place as Jones hung his flying jacket over the back of his chair and sat down. Jones watched them as they sprawled out in a puddle of early morning sunshine in the middle of the room.  Jones took a deep breath, scrunched his eyes closed and clenched his fists and concentrated hard.

When he opened his eyes, they were still there. Jones sighed, shrugged and turned his attention to his in-basket.

The pile of pastel files was higher and there were four buff folders at the bottom.

Four of the pastel folders related to missing generators. Two were reporting Macramé activities on the underground. One contained a long and unnecessarily detailed complaint about a pornographic garden gnome installation that had appeared outside a Women’s Institute. One detailed an attack on a blind man by a gang of youths. The last two were complaints of vandalism lodged by delicatessen owners.

Jones turned his attention to the four buff folders all of which were stamped ‘Low Priority’. All four were missing person reports. Jones idly typed the first name into the computer and sat up when it showed that the man had a long list of convictions for petty crime. He tried the other three and got the same result.

Gathering up the buff folders, he went to the briefing room and added the pictures of the four missing petty criminals to the white board.

The briefing itself didn’t go well. Nobody reported any progress and the inclusion of the four missing persons on the board had sparked a rather heated argument between Jones and his detectives.

Afterwards, Jones stomped back to his desk and sat sullenly as the detectives drifted off on their various assignments. A uniformed constable entered and approached Jones nervously. Jones glared at him.

“Yes?” Jones snapped causing the constable to take half a step backwards.

“There’s a lady in reception to see you, sir.” The constable mumbled. “A Joanne Schooner. She’s waiting in Interview Room Two.”

Jones stared blankly at the constable before realising that she was Archie McRamie’s agent. Grabbing a pad and retrieving his folder from the top drawer, he followed the constable downstairs.

Joanne Schooner could be aptly described as a striking woman. Standing a little over six foot tall in her diamante studded pixie boots and with shoulders to cause envy in a miner, she stood out from a crowd. She wore a shapeless, ankle length, tomato red dress that could double as an emergency shelter and on top of a shock of bottle blonde hair, a small, purple pill-box hat decorated with garishly coloured plastic squid. When Inspector Jones entered the room, she ceased examining the pictures from past Light Entertainment Championships that adorned the walls and glided over to greet him.

Jones offered his hand, but, choosing to ignore it, she hugged him tightly and engaged in an expansive display of air kissing.

“Inspector, darling!” she gushed as she released Jones from her grip. “How lovely to meet you at last. Do you have any news on poor Archie?”

“I’m afraid not.” Jones replied, gesturing towards one of two large wingback chairs. “Please take a seat, Miss Schooner.”

“Oh, please call me Jo.” Jo purred as she stroked Jones’s arm.

“OK, Jo.” Jones sat down. “Have you had any contact with Archie or any ransom demand?”

“Nothing at all.” Jo’s arms flayed as she spoke. “Totally typical of Archie. That man can find an adventure and publicity in a tea crate!”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.” Jones gave a weak smile. “This isn’t a publicity stunt is it?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so.” Jo gave a little laugh. “There’s no book to sell at the moment. Archie is the master publicist, Inspector. He would never waste time on stunts without a book to plug.”

Jones nodded and doodled on his pad. “The ideal author for an agent to have a client.”

“In all but a teensy respect, Inspector.” Jo laughed again. “He can’t write for toffee!”

“What?” Jones looked up suddenly. “I’ve just read ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’. I thought it was excellently written.”

“Oh it is, Inspector”. The agent nodded. “But it wasn’t written by Archie McRamie.”

Guiding me to the Forest Path

On a Sunday lunchtime, a group of us get together in the 'Rat & Ferret' to enjoy a couple of pints of Dr Ethaniel Nightswerve's Velvet Cudgel and generally socialise. Topics of conversation are wide ranging and eclectic.

There are the common themes like our discussions on Evar's latest attempt at inclusion in the record books, postulations on the miracles of engineering that must constitute the barmaid's undergarments and the prospects of Oundelian Wanderers qualifying for European football. The latter topic we discuss with much head shaking and tutting now that the Oundelian star striker, Stan 'Twinkletoes' Ferchop has been injured in a freak pedicure accident.

As the level of the ale lowers in our glass, the conversation diversifies and starts to meander through life's little mysteries. (See Note 1).

On Sunday, the conversation had somehow found its way to the subject of teachers. As I recounted a memory of one particular teacher, I suddenly found Bertram Willder at my elbow and thrusting his card into my hand.

Trust me, you do not want to have a person like Willder at your elbow. He is one of those people who seems to be able enter a room without opening a door, so the shock caused me to spill a few drops of the Velvet Cudgel on my sweater. (see Note 2).

I looked at the card. For that particular event, Willder was operating as ‘B. Willder’, solicitor and partner in ‘Everyone’s a Winner’ law practice franchise.

Willder looked genuinely shocked as I declined the offer and started to start on his well rehearsed sales pitch. (see Note 3). However, when I made to tip some of the Vevet Cudgel on his sharp suit, he backed off. Muttering under his breath, he slithered away to pester another regular with an opportunity to invest in a steam powered toothbrush company.

You see, my setaceous yeomen, I am not a litigious soul. Besides, the subject of my anecdote, my ‘careers’ teacher, is protected by the simple fact that I cannot remember his name.

I can picture him well enough, the crop of unruly sandy hair, the patchy moustache that sat unevenly under his bulbous red nose. I can see him sat opposite me, eyes desperately trying to focus, the vein on his temple throbbing gently as he tried to control his natural aversion to teenage boys.

He wasn’t a dedicated careers teacher. His main subject was maths. It was generally accepted that the reason was that he became careers master was because he was the last to find an excuse when the headmaster asked for volunteers. His unfortunate and ironic assignment as the teacher to set young people onto the ideal career path was probably due to his need for constant nips from a bottle of Johnny Walker whenever faced by pupils.

The method for helping us making the career choices was ‘computer aided’. We were given a questionnaire with a number of questions. You answered the questions on a card which were collected and sent away to be processed by a huge computer.

It was the early days of computing.

Some weeks later the results came back and you were scheduled a meeting with the careers teacher.

I went in with an air of expectation only to be knocked sideways by stale whisky fumes. I recovered, sat down and waited for teacher to focus on me. He put the bottle, badly disguised as a brown paper bag in a drawer. At the third attempt, he grabbed a sheet of paper and thrust it my approximate direction.

“Forest Ranger.” He slurred.

“Eh?” was my response. “I have a tree pollen allergy.”

He shook his head, grabbing the desk for support as he did so. A short monologue ensued in which he evangelised on the infallibility of the modern computer before drawing the consultation to a close with a bellowed “Next!” (see Note 4)

My career as a Forest Ranger was short lived. For a start there were a lot of us Forest Rangers roaming the Wiltshire countryside trying to herd trees into a forest. For those of you who have ever tried to herd trees, you will know how difficult it is. The task was made all the more difficult by there being more Forest Rangers than actual trees, so hardly a day went by without some squabble breaking out over a copse. In the end, they decided that perhaps we would be better employed elsewhere and they made me work in an office, doing menial and repetitive tasks while being ordered about by a man in a shiny polyester suit.

I didn’t last at that either. Perhaps, I was a bit harsh on that poor careers teacher. After all, I did end up working with computers. Maybe his monologue on the infallibility of computers did have an impact on me after all. Mind you, I just wish that somebody told me that if you really wanted to make money, live in a huge mansion and always have a pretty girl on your arm, you should set up your own international porn empire.

Note 1 : It widely accepted that on Padstow's birthday, when the drink had been flowing particularly freely we had actually managed to solve the riddle of the meaning of life. Sadly, none of us thought to write it down and the answer was lost amongst the resulting hangovers.

Note 2 : Which is a real shame. I liked that sweater. Now, instead of the happy faces of those chirpy Disney characters, Chip and Dale, exalting the world to smile on the front, it is now a mass of holes. It looks like it has been the victim of a swarm of moths on acid.

Note 3 : A sales pitch that apparently swayed Stan ‘Twinkletoes’ Ferchop, who has not thought this through. While he did undoubtedly stagger away from the pedicure, the circumstances are likely to cause a media frenzy that could cause him to lose his lucrative endorsement from Borthwicks, the family horse liniment supplier to the stars. Just what he was doing in an unlicensed foot parlour in Soho on the eve of the game against Aston Villa is going to be hard to explain. However, it is the fact that the pedicure was being administered by a naked girl smeared in boiled rhubarb that will probably lose him the sympathy of the court.

Note 4 : It transpired later that using the logic of the infallibility of computers, 60% of school leavers that year were destined to be Forest Rangers. 20% were going to were going to be bankers and bring the world economy to its knees and 18% were going to be car mechanics. The other 2% were going to have a long and happy career on the stage as drag queens.