It Ain't Half a Classification System: Our unfortunate Librarian faces ambush in the jungle

Von Bog-Brush

Well it's blooming freezing in the barracks, so I asked Major Business-Suit if I could start a Hot-Toddies fund. He was frightfully pleased with the idea, but so far I've only raised 20p - don't think that's going to go very far. So meanwhile, it's Brass Monkeys rather than Top Brass or Regimental Silverware for me.

The soldiers around here are all being remarkably well behaved - no subordination in the Ranks (not even the notoriously rebellious Catering or Volunteer Corps) since before Christmas. I am getting increasingly nervous and fear they are about to launch a major assault, particularly if Kaiser Friederich Wilhelm von Bog-Brush gets his hands on Catering's stale bread rolls and launches an assault from under the dining room table. If that were to happen, we're all for it I'm afraid.

Meanwhile at the Indies, the bosses were all very excited about a beauty contest they wanted to organise to entertain the troops, who are out on jungle manoeuvres. I was all for it, having got several years experience organizing concert parties on behalf of ENSA (well - ok - I had a minor role in It Ain't Half Hot Mum, but that's almost the same thing).

Anyway - imagine my dismay when I realized the true intentions behind said beauty contest: they actually want me to rearrange all the books in the Library, with the most attractive facing the door in order to entice members in (rather like an Amsterdam 'shop window' if you catch my drift). It seems that Melville Dewey, the American Library of Congress and several others (did someone mention Ranganathan?) have got it all wrong. Henceforth all books shall be arranged according to appearance. Either that, or I'm retrospectively joining the Indian Mutiny of 1857.

Onwards and Upwards.

Rum, Sodomy, the Lash and Death in the Family

It's a rum do as we say in the Navy. Having silenced Kaiser Wilhelm Friedrich Von Bog-Brush of the 9th Volunteer Rifle Brigade (who - incidentally - felt it best to warn me not to bet the firm on one ship's cat: ie 'back-up' my data, as if he was the only person who's ever considered it), by the cunning insertion of a link to a digital Drop-Box (works every time), and dispatched the Catering Corps by frightening them with an Iron Cross I found hidden in the archives, I went on shore-leave for Christmas.

The Old Boy does Fred Astaire

Said leave didn't go according to plan. My father, that well-known Red-under-the-bed, Enemy of the State, took ill and was dispatched off to the Sick Bay for Christmas. Sadly the old chap (93 and a bit) didn't make it, and the old bugger - in true subversive style - died on Christmas Day. Naturally at this time of year, the old Wheels of Bureaucracy ground to a halt completely so it took a devil of a time to get the old  Death Certificate sorted; and for some poilitico-environmentalist reason the old chap chose to be buried in the woods rather than the more traditional Burial at Sea (or even Synagogue as I'm sure his antecedents would have wished) so we will have to wait another week to say toodle-pip to the old boy.





I'm anticipating something along the lines of a French Cabaret as a woodland burial offers no protection from the elements and the little'uns have requested the inclusionof various farewell rituals ranging from a Bach Cello Suite (infant prodigy grandson) and a self-penned poem (naked-rapper granddaughter  who actually wears no fewer clothes than Rihanna, so may be re-named soon). It's what he would have wanted, bless the old Radical.

The Old Man (centre) attempts to flog the
Daily Worker  in the East End of London

So that's it from me for this week. Next week I hope normal service will be resumed, to bring you more tales of rum doings in the Navy and adventures from my old friend Sir Richard Burton in the enticing East. But meanwhile, it's goodnight from me and goodnight from him.