The Art of being an English Gentlemen (Part 11)

A strange thing occurred last Saturday. I paid a visit to the lovely Melissa for a cup of tea and a natter about things artistic. When during the course of conversation, she upbraided me for my somewhat relaxed state of dress.

"What has happened to you? When I first knew you, you were all stout brogues, nice suits and turtle neck jumpers. Now it is, well, this..."

I was admittedly wearing a pair of somewhat distressed Mambo shorts that had seen better days. My new T-shirt however was in immaculate condition. My shoes however...

Let me put it this way. The Birkenstock is a comfortable item of footwear and certainly when I'm in a more 'mindful' state of dress I will happily pair them with a 'Zen not Zen' t-shirt and shorts. However, the incident did raise the question about summer footwear. 

On the assumption that the perennial brogue is, for the purposes of this discussion, not to be included. What can one wear? Trainers can be worn but a GOACA* has to be very careful. Please note only the following 12 trainers are acceptable as day wear:

• Adidas Gazelle
• Adidas Superstar (white/navy only)
• Adidas Handball Spezial
• Adidas München
• Adidas Italia
• Adidas Japan
• Adidas Samba (5 a-side football only)
• Puma Suede (Black & White)
• Reebok Classics (only to Association Football matches)
• Gola Harrier (Mods only)
• Onitsuka Tiger
• Chad Suede (As inspired by Terry 'Chad' Kennet on the Quadrophenia album cover)

No other trainer will be permitted.

Of course, 'exercise' training shoes have their place but solely for the purpose of exercise. But be very diligent, these are interesting times.

Next time around, proper shoes!

*GOACA > Gentlemen of a Certain Age

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #4

"...folded back shirt sleeves, as the sun streams down from the sky"

The fact that there is a slew of London's finest record stores within 2 minutes walk of this particular 'Moon Under Water', reinforces the reason why this is the best day in the best pub. The fish-finger sandwich, gorgeous. The second Guinness, finished. At the Cricket, it is still lunchtime. Outside, the Soho streets fizz with life. 

Leaving my paper and phone on the table. Nobody will steal my phone or my table. We just don't do that here. I climb the three stories to the roof terrace - empty. I'll come back up around 3:40 (tea-time at the cricket). 

Time to pop into Soul Jazz or one of the other record shops in Berwick Street, Murphy might still be around. Skim through the racks and boxes. Pick up a mint condition copy of Weekend's wonderful La Varieté. Put a deposit down on a pristine copy of 'Ascenseur pour l'echafaud' by Miles Davis. Then back in the pub before she glides through the door at 1:30.

My table has been tidied, a bottle of Tattinger is in one of the pubs rare ice buckets (made from a WW1 German helmet picked up at Ypres). My phone has been recharged, newspapers folded and a printed scorecard of the morning's play placed on a silver tray for my perusal.

The hubbub of Soho seeps in a couple of seconds before she does. Despite the fact that the pub is quite quiet (oh the bliss), a palpable silence accompanies her first step through the side door. She knows where I'll be, same table, same seat. 'The view from her room' by Weekend drifts from the jukebox in perfect time. She is wearing a summer dress, her hair short, two degrees south of ebony. She is beautiful, not least because she doesn't know or care whether she is or she isn't. 

She slides into 'her' seat. A double vodka and lemonade (ice, no slice) appears. 

They know her here.

It is 1:35pm.

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #3

"The Place I love is a million miles away..."

Lunchtime at the cricket, lunchtime in the perfect pub and a distant dream time on the jukebox. The Jam's 'The Place I love'* is playing. One of my favourite Weller songs, it always reminds of George Orwell's 'Coming up for Air'. 

In which, the main character George Bowling decides to revisit the places of his childhood, in particular he plans to revisit a specific pond with a large fish in that he had tried to capture over 30 years ago. When Bowling returns, he finds the whole place unrecognisable. He eventually locates the old pub where he is due to stay but finds it much changed. His old family home has become a tea-shop. Only the church and the vicar appear unchanged. 

The saddest part is when Bowling sees his ex-girlfriend. She has been so ravaged by time that she is almost unrecognisable and utterly devoid of the qualities he once adored. She in turn, fails to recognise him at all.

Thankfully, 'The Place I love' lingers in utopian days of sanctuary despite the fact that: 

"... the place I love is overgrown now
with beautiful moss and colourful flowers
and goldfish that swim in a pool, there's a small brick wall
with neon lighting, controlled by lightning"

As my mind reaches out for the opening salvo of Rick Buckler's drums on A-bomb in Wardour Street that never arrives, a fish finger sandwich drenched in Heinz Salad Cream, Vinegar and Tabasco does. The barman knows to leave bottles of all three condiments on the table too. The thick cut chips were brought here directly from Mount Olympus and melt on contact with my tongue. A second pint of Guinness has also appeared in a blur of efficiency and gratitude. 

The good news from the cricket is that Jimmy Anderson has already bagged three early Aussie wickets. Meanwhile, Internazionale are interested in buying a decent goalkeeper from Genoa and an amateur British cyclist has been tipped as an outside hope for this year's tour. 

All this and it is only ten past one! 

*I know that 'The Place I love' was never released on 7" 

but this is a perfect day in a perfect pub....

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #2

"This is the day your life will surely change..."

The various 7" singles that comprise the jukebox have been lovingly chosen over the last 50+ years. A surprise selection of The The's "This is the day" adds a delicate hint of melancholy quite early in proceedings (everyone knows that the real pub melancholy hour is from 3:30-4:30pm).

Meanwhile, the first Guinness isn't hurried as today there is plenty of time. In fact there is time to go to the bar and buy a packet of mini cheddars, taking a glance at the newspaper rack (all copies ironed) and surreptitiously taking a copy La Gazzetta dello Sport back to the table. Even though my Italian is very sketchy, fortunately the language of Calcio and grand tour cycling is universal.

The debate about whether a pub needs a television to be good or not is irrelevant. The key is, who is in charge of the remote control? Thankfully, today it is the turn of the Cecil (MCC member and ex-member of the Angry Bridgade). When Cecil (my friends call me Cec' you can call me Sir) Hedges has the remote then we are guaranteed a whole day's play of uninterrupted Test Match Cricket with the sound muted (unless a batsman is approaching a landmark score). The added advantage of this arrangement is, if you have missed any session of play then Cec can regale you with all the details, not least because he completes the pubs ball-by-ball scorebook in a meticulous fashion.

"Whatcha gonna do about it..."

Ah yes, the Small Faces on the jukebox and the mood lightens. First pint finished, the preview of Sampdoria's chances for the coming season completed, along with a retrospective on Marco Pantani and the mini cheddars done... the hum of SoHo traffic reduced by the sound of the Darlings of Whapping Wharf Launderette.

"I want you to know that I love you, baby
Want you to know that I care

I'm so happy when you're round me but I'm
Sad when you're not there
Sing the song now

oh yeah
(Whatcha gonna do about it?) tell the truth
(Whatcha gonna do about it?) she's so nice
(Whatcha gonna do about it?)

I want you to give your sweet, sweet kisses
Want you to hold me tight

I want you to come whenever I call you
And let me walk you home at night..."

A perfect day in the perfect pub - #1

"It's such a Perfect Day..."

Lou Reed simmers on the pub jukebox. I am alone (I imagine) and I have just got my first drink of the day. I got in here around about 11:30am, I ordered a pint of Guinness (it's going to be a long day) and was happy to wait 20minutes for it to arrive.

A copy of today's Guardian, this fortnight's Private Eye and my notebook & artline™ pen rest on the slightly damp (but no longer sticky) table in front of me. There aren't too many pubs that have decent jukeboxes these days; in fact the last one I can recall is Bradley's Spanish Bar in Hanway Street (the other side of Oxford Street)). Anyway, this one seems to have one. It also seems to have a small reading room to the left of the regular's door. There is another door for tourists and PtD's (Part-time drinkers) plus XOP's (Christmas Office Party) at the other end of the pub.

The reading room has two very comfortable high backed leather chairs (which were liberated from Boodle's in a stunning anti-club heist by notorious 'Gentlemen Thief' Peter Strand in 1956). Pub protocol (even in pre-Covid times) dictates that only one person can be in the reading room at any given time, with the next occupant required to use the 'other' chair. The bookshelves are very well stocked with the complete works of the approved 13 + an excellent collection of literature and poetry. Plus every copy of the Wisden Cricket Almanac dating back to 1902.

The 13 (as voted for by the regulars every Boxing Day):

1. George Orwell
2. Samuel Beckett
3. James Joyce
4. Flann O'Brien
5. Marcel Proust
6. Jack Kerouac
7. Albert Camus
8. Charles Bukowski
9. J.G.Ballard
10. Ian Fleming
11. Iain Sinclair
12. Jeremy Reed
13. J-P Satre

My table sits under a painting by Lawrence Toynbee of Chelsea v Spurs, Stamford Bridge 1953 (Practice Match). The first taste of the Guinness primes me for the glories of the day ahead. As soon as the stout hits my stomach the jukebox filters a new mood. The sound of the Modern Jazz Quartet fills the pub and a half smile slinks out from under a maudlin frown... 

It is going to be a beautiful day.

The Art of being an English Gentlemen (part 10)

We have had a number enquiries about whether the the wearing of Uggs is permitted in the sanctity of one's own home. To be clear on this point, the club rules stipulate the following:

14.1 - Sub-section 2
"On no account shall a Gentleman wear Uggs under ANY circumstance."

We hope that this message is suitably unambiguous. We have noted a number of conversations on the Club's WhatsApp group that seem to suggest members are using Covid-19 as a cover for letting standards slip. Whilst we do not wish to appear overly draconian, we believe that the vast majority of members will recognise this pernicious trend must be stopped in its tracks. Anyone caught wearing 'Uggs' will be suspended with immediate effect until a formal letter of apology has been received and recorded.

The Committee

NO!

Hero of the British Art Resistance

Billy Childish formed the "non organisation" The British Art Resistance in 2008. An exhibition was held under the title Hero of The British Art Resistance at The Aquarium L-13 gallery in London. It featured a  collection of paintings, books, records, pamphlets, poems, prints, letters, film, photographs made that year.

The recent sad loss of Andrew Weatherall (Jan 2020) led me to seek out interviews featuring the 'reluctant superstar DJ' and all round top chap. I was delighted to see in one interview that he was wearing a 'Hero of The British Art Resistance' pin. A fact that reassured me of his credentials as a champion of the under-achievers of the world. 

Apart from being a DJ, musician, remixer, record label owner, fan of A Certain Ratio and artist - he was a gentlemen in the truest sense of the word. Courteous, generous and wore a fine suit on occasion...

His succinct mantra seems perfect for a world packed full of pomposity and stupidity:

"If you're not on the margins, you're taking up too much room”

The Art of being an English Gentlemen (part 9)

Look here... Just because I haven't managed to file a report on this subject for a few years (8+ to be precise). It doesn't mean that the Art of being an English Gentlemen still isn't uppermost in my mind.

Even with the world spinning hopelessly out of control, there are some key decisions to be made. Laces or slip-ons? Oxfords or brogues? Etc etc..

The current word from The Committee for The Club for summer 2020 is as follows:

1. Gentlemen will mostly be wearing the loafer (with socks).
2. Only three types of tie knot are acceptable (in order of preference).
1. Half Windsor
2. Full Windsor
3. Four in hand
3. Club blazers are completely unacceptable (with following exceptions).
1. Genuine sports clubs
2. The Modern Jazz Quartet
3. French gentlemen 40+
4. "Manbags" are strictly verboten.
5. The following band/artist/pop t-shirts are to be decommissioned until 2022 (unless stated).
1. Ramones
2. The Clash
3. The Smiths (nb Johnny Marr T-shirts are still valid and acceptable)
4. Morrissey (2035)
5. Mod Target
6. Coldplay (indefinite)
7. Radiohead
8. Oasis
9. Wings (nb: other ironic t-shirts such as Bay City Rollers, The Osmonds inc.)
10. Never mind the bollocks/Sex Pistols
6. The blanket ban on English gentlemen wearing baseball caps is to remain in place until further notice. Ditto: Truckers Caps.
7. The flat-cap (aka the Peaky Blinders cap) must not be worn with anything other than a brogue or stout boot. The flat-cap/training shoe combination must never be worn. Penalty - 
1. 1st offence. All club rights national and international to be revoked for 12 months.
2. 2nd offence. As above for 3 years.
3. 3rd offence. A lifetime worldwide ban from the club, premises & events. In addition to be regarded as persona non grata.
8. The Cane - Gentlemen favouring a cane must note that sword-sticks are still outlawed in some of the clubs territories. However, use within The Club HQ is still permitted between 9pm and dawn.
9. Espadrilles can only be worn in the following countries:
1. Spain
2. Mexico
3. Portugal
4. Morocco.
10. Colours for this summer: Pink, Powder Blue, Navy Blue. 

The Committee

The Art of being an English Gentlemen (part 8)

Roll over, roll back, inhale & recall...

A month or so of sobriety botched in a thrice. Rummage through mohair jacket to find a boarding pass, some dollars and a pair of black persol sunglasses. Plonk sunglasses on, throw blinds open, recoil in horror at the city below and plunge into white hot shower. Resurface 20 minutes later in black merino turtle neck, slate grey mohair suit, stout black brogues, head back to bedroom to find dark brown arm floating up from under the sheets.

Kiss arm and still raw lips, make excuses and head to the nearest bar with the longest champagne list. Start at the beginning and plough on through...

A snatched memory of an air hostess and a late night bar. That's fine, that's good. The only question is...

What am I doing in Istanbul?

James Bond Novels - Casino Royale

The first of Ian Fleming's Bond novels, Casino Royale was apparently written in response to the looming shadow of getting married and the impending 'castration' from all the good things in life.

He started working on it in January 1952. At the time, Fleming was the Foreign Manager for Kemsley Newspapers, an organisation owned by The Sunday Times. Upon accepting the job, Fleming sensibly requested that he be allowed two months vacation per year. Every year thereafter, until his death in 1964, Fleming would retreat for the first two months of the year to his Jamaican estate, Goldeneye, to write a James Bond book.

Fleming used all aspects of his life as inspiration when writing: Every acquaintance of Ian Fleming ran the risk of ending up in one of his Bond books, and almost every character in his fiction is based on a real person, even if only by name. He plucked these monikers from his social circle, his memory, his reading, his favourite newspaper, the Jamaica Gleaner, and his imagination: old school friends (and enemies), clubmen, colleagues in the City and Fleet Street, golfing partners, girlfriends and others found themselves transported into Fleming’s fiction. The fact that my father's name Peter Franks appears in Diamonds are Forever, was always an intriguing adjunct to my fascination with the Bond novels.

Between 1953 and 1966, twelve James Bond novels and two short story collections by Fleming were published, including one novel and one collection issued posthumously. (It is still argued whether Fleming himself actually finished 1965's The Man with the Golden Gun, as he died very soon after it is known to have been completed.)

In Casino Royale MI6 assigns James Bond, Special Agent 007, to bankrupt Le Chiffre, the paymaster for a SMERSH-controlled trade union, in a high-stakes baccarat game at the Royale-Les-Eaux casino. With him is Vesper Lynd, an MI6 accountant sent to make sure Bond handles the agency's money properly. He initially thinks of her as a nuisance, but over time grows to have romantic feelings for her.

The game soon turns into a one-on-one confrontation between Le Chiffre and Bond that soon bankrupts the latter. As Bond contemplates killing Le Chiffre outright, he is approached by CIA agent Felix Leiter, who offers to stake Bond for another hand. Bond accepts the offer and eventually wins the game, taking from Le Chiffre tens of millions of francs belonging to SMERSH. Desperate, Le Chiffre kidnaps Lynd and subjects Bond to brutal torture, threatening to kill them both if he does not get the money back. Suddenly, a SMERSH assassin bursts in and kills Le Chiffre as punishment for losing the money, saving Bond's life.

Lynd visits Bond every day as he recuperates in the hospital, and he gradually realizes that he loves her; he even contemplates leaving Her Majesty's Secret Service to settle down with her. When Bond is released, they go on holiday together, and eventually become lovers. One day, they see a mysterious man named Gettler tracking their movements, which greatly distresses Vesper. The following morning, Bond finds that Lynd has committed suicide, leaving behind a note explaining that she had been working as an unwilling double agent for the MVD. SMERSH had kidnapped her lover, a Polish RAF pilot, who had revealed information about her under torture; SMERSH then used that information to blackmail her into helping them undermine Bond's mission, including her own faked kidnapping. She had tried to start a life with Bond, but upon seeing Gettler — a SMERSH agent — she realized that she would never be free of her tormentors, and that staying with Bond would only put him in danger.

Bond copes with the loss by renouncing Lynd as a traitor and going back to work as if nothing has happened, coldly telling M, "The bitch is dead now." Nevertheless, subsequent novels reveal that he never truly gets over her death; in On Her Majesty's Secret Service, for example, it is revealed that he makes an annual pilgrimage to Royale-Les-Eaux to visit her grave, while in Diamonds Are Forever, he avoids listening to "La Vie en Rose", a song closely associated with Lynd in Casino Royale.

Fleming stated that Casino Royale was inspired by certain incidents that took place during his career at the Naval Intelligence Division of the Admiralty. Childhood friend Brett Hart was the basis for the novel, including a trip to Lisbon that Fleming and the Director of Naval Intelligence, Admiral Godfrey, took during World War II en route to the United States.

While there, they went to the Estoril Casino in Estoril, which (due to the neutral status of Portugal) had a number of spies of warring regimes present. Fleming claimed that while there he was cleaned out by a "chief German agent" at a table playing chemin de fer. Admiral Godfrey tells a different story: Fleming only played Portuguese businessmen and that afterwards Fleming had fantasized about there being German agents and the excitement of cleaning them. His references to 'Red Indians' (four times, twice on last page) comes from Fleming's own 30 Assault Unit, which he nicknamed his own 'Red Indians'.

The failed assassination attempt on Bond while at Royale-Les-Eaux is also claimed by Fleming to be inspired by a real event. The inspiration comes from a failed assassination on Franz von Papen who was a Vice-Chancellor and Ambassador under Adolf Hitler. Both Papen and Bond survive their assassination attempts, carried out by Bulgarians, due to a tree that protects them both from a bomb blast.

On a geographic note, the city of Royale-les-Eaux and its casino are inspired by Le Touquet-Paris-Plage or by Deauville, where Fleming used to play as a young man.

Casino Royale is a fanatstic introduction to Bond, the otherwordly almost exotic atmosphere of a late-night French casino was in stark contrast to the austerity of both post-war and mid-seventies (when I first read it) Britain. Bond's willingness to take on the cunning Le Chiffre, whilst polishing off numerous drinks and enemies in equal measure sets a pace that didn't let up in his writing for the next ten years.

Bond's latent racism and inherent sexism, whilst not to be dismissed, must be taken in the context of the time and Fleming's upbringing. In fact compared to some of the crass examples of both in the latter films his prejudices are quite mild. That being said, Casino Royale is the only place to start for anybody discovering him for the first time and indeed the only place for anyone returning to his annual trawl through the files of Commander Sir James Bond, (KCMG, RNVR).

James Bond & Harry Palmer

It is often said that where Bond glamourised the world of espionage, Palmer epitomised the mundane nature of life in the British Secret Service. For every one of Bond's rather rich meals in a french casino, Palmer rustles up a nice little omelette for his current acquaintance. It is new money v old England, Flash v Stylish, Fleming v Deighton...

Interestingly enough, Deighton was actually invited to write the screenplay for From Russia with love. Although little of it was actually used. Either way, the truth of the matter is, they both looked good, dressed well & drank steadily. All in all, enough to satisfy Gentlemen of any era!

Ash Wednesday

And you can't have a cigarette in colour, black & white only. That is why they smoked in the 60's but we don't anymore. It says so, it's in the rules...

Shrove Tuesday (Pancake Day)

You can't make a pancake without...

Pretending you are actually Michael Caine as Harry Palmer in The Ipcress File, it says so, it's in the rules.

St Valentine's Day

The intrigue, the mystery, the run across the road to buy the girl in the office some flowers, the poem, the imagined kiss, the memories of warm nights under Soho's glow and of course the silent trudge home across the sand at dusk...

The death of the art of flirting

It was last Tuesday that the art of flirting finally bit the dust, a final coy remark and that was it. Gone. It would be easy (and probably incorrect) to blame the demise of the gentle flirt on ‘Political Correctness’ gone mad, the rise of computer games, the antics of Messrs Gray & Keys or any other of the hundred thousand excuses people trot out at times like these.

Perhaps the fact is, people just don't have the time, the inclination and most importantly the skills required to flirt any more. The art of having one conversation whilst so obviously having a completley different one at the same time with the same person has been lost.

So, for the purpose of historical accuracy I shall recount the moment that flirting died...

In a bar in Sydney, a young man of no more than 23 managed to catch the eye of the young girl serving. He ordered a beer and opened up a charming dialogue which culminated in him offering to buy the young lady a drink too.

"No thanks, can't" she replied. He looked her in the eye and then down at his own drink. "My loss..." he said and walked straight out of the bar, leaving his cold drink on the bar. She looked bemused for a second and then swiftly polished off the drink he'd left behind before popping the glass in the dishwasher.

Meanwhile, outside the bar the young man looked back in through the window as she wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

Friends

Having just departed the beloved isle of my birth again, I feel it is time to answer the most frequently asked question. What do I miss most about England?

The answer is simple. It is not; The sweet rolling beauty of the South Downs, nor is it the intoxicating roar of the Matthew Harding Stand, Stamford Bridge. Neither is it the hefty clump of leather on willow nor the grim tang of Soho. It isn't irony, sarcasm, wit or wisdom. Not black cabs, red buses or white cliffs.

It is the girl with a bob in the pub on the phone and is it the bloke in his flat with his girl and their cat.So, in case there is any doubt, I spell it out.

Q: What do I miss most about England?
A: My friends.

The Art of Being a Gentleman (Part 7)

Up early, head home. Ease into cold sheets, dream of a distant night in a small club in the heart of a foreign city. I was dressed toe up in raven black mohair, save for Stout brogues, white shirt, dark tie, silver watch and wicked smile. Champagne was cascading from the heavens like an argent waterfall with diamond flecks landing on my by now roughened tongue. I let the high priestess of poesy flutter to a halt and then I rose up onto the bar and declaimed.

The gods in their crumbling citadel wept, the angels of the golden pyramids blushed and the traitors of the devil’s empire plucked out their own eyes in anger. I finished. Dismounted. Ordered another bottle. Flung open the doors, invited the chilly hordes in from the street as I passed them on the stairs.

Soho was empty and my heart was full.

Passport to Pimlico

Blimey, I'm a foreigner.

A bomb left over from the Second World War blows up in Miramont Gardens in the Pimlico district of London after some local children roll a tractor tyre down a hole. The explosion reveals a buried cellar from the manor house that gave Miramont Gardens its name, in which artwork, coins, jewellery and an ancient parchment document are found. Professor Hatton-Jones (Margaret Rutherford) authenticates it as a royal charter of Edward IV that ceded the house its estates to Charles VII ("the Rash"), the last Duke of Burgundy, when he sought refuge there several centuries ago after being presumed dead at the Battle of Nancy. As the charter had never been revoked, Pimlico is legally part of Burgundy. Local policeman P.C. Spiller (Philip Stainton) observes, "Blimey! I'm a foreigner!"

The British government has no legal jurisdiction and requires the Burgundians to form a committee according to the laws of the long-defunct dukedom before negotiating with them. Ancient Burgundian law requires that the Duke himself appoint a council. Without one, all seems lost - until a young man from Dijon (Paul Dupuis) steps forward and proves that he is the heir to the dukedom. He duly forms a governing body; one of its members is the shrewd shopkeeper Arthur Pemberton (Stanley Holloway).

Very quickly, Burgundy (followed soon after by the rest of London) realises that it is not subject to post-war rationing and other bureaucratic restrictions, and the district is quickly flooded with entrepreneurs, crooks and eager shoppers. A noisy free-for-all ensues, which Spiller, the Chief (and only) Constable of Burgundy, finds himself unable to handle. Then the British authorities close the "border" with barbed wire. Having left England without their passports, the bargain hunters have trouble returning home - as one policeman replies to an indignant woman, "Don't blame me Madam, if you choose to go abroad to do your shopping."

The Burgundians decide that two can play this game and stop an underground train dead in its tracks. "The train is now at the Burgundy frontier." explains an agent of the newly formed customs and excise department. They proceed to ask the passengers if they have anything to declare.

The infuriated British government retaliates by breaking off negotiations. Burgundy is isolated, like post-war Berlin, and the residents are invited to "immigrate" to England. But the Burgundians are "a fighting people" and, though the children are evacuated, the adults stand fast. As Mrs. Pemberton (Betty Warren) puts it, "We've always been English and we'll always be English; and it's precisely because we are English that we're sticking up for our right to be Burgundians!"

Pimlico is cut off from electricity, food and water (though there's plenty of gin and crisps). The water problem is solved by a covert raid late one night, refilling the reservoir with hoses attached to the nearest fire hydrant on the British side of the border. Unfortunately, the food supply is spoiled when the cellar where it is being stored becomes flooded, and it appears that the Burgundians are beaten. Just in time, three Burgundian youngsters learn about this crisis and toss food across the border, setting an example for sympathetic Londoners; they begin throwing food parcels across the barrier in an improvised "airlift", echoing the one that ended the Berlin Blockade. Soon, others get into the act. A helicopter drops a hose to deliver milk. Even swine are parachuted in (possibly a reference to the expression "when pigs fly").

Meanwhile, the government comes under public pressure to resolve the problem. It becomes clear to the bumbling British diplomats assigned to find a solution, Gregg (Basil Radford) and Straker (Naunton Wayne) (Better known as cricket loving Charters & Caldicott), that defeating the Burgundians would be no easy task, so they decide to negotiate. The sticking point turns out to be the disposition of the unearthed treasure. At last, the local banker (Raymond Huntley) hits upon a novel solution: "A Burgundian loan to Britain!"

With negotiations successfully concluded, an outdoor banquet is prepared to welcome Burgundy back into the fold. Just as Big Ben strikes the hour of reunification, the Burgundians realise they truly are back in England, when the clouds part after a loud clap of thunder, and the heat wave is brought to a swift end by a torrential downpour, sending everyone scurrying for cover.

Quotes
Connie Pemberton:

We always were English and we'll always be English, and it's precisely because we are English that we're sticking up for our right to be Burgundians!

Poll Results - Gentlemen's Shoes

1. Stout Brogues (no surprise)
2. Chelsea Boots
3. Bass Weejuns

The Art of being an English Gentleman (Part 6)

Wake up early in a large four poster bed with a flighty young poppet called Caresse curled up at my feet. Lean over the prone form of a gorgeous young red head (name not given) and neck vast goblet of Vodka Champagne from previous night.

The tattoo on my chest reminds me where, when and with whom I should be. Ease out of sheets, pad to chair, pop on finest tweeds, subtle checked shirt and finest stout brogues. Kiss both lovelies on nape, gun another Vodka Champagne and head out into the dawn. Drive like the wind. Get home late, slip into empty bed, nurse a slight hangover and a serious drink. Go to sleep drunk...