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.

Come the revolution

So the battle with the catering corps appears - for the moment - to have been won following a bloodless coup and the ousting of their chief supporter, Colonel Flowers of the Petunia Rifle brigade. However, the war is most definitely not over as a new recruit, Kaiser Wilhelm Freiderich Bog-Brush (Volunteer Corps), has decided he wants to take over the entire section and has started garnering intelligence from several of our rival units. Little does the Kaiser know that his intel is flawed as I have pre-empted his forces on every front with my use of double-agents (and the odd moth). Plans include having Bog-Brush detained by a shadow unit, sent on spurious intelligence-gathering missions to Kazakhstan and dressed as an elephant for a victory parade on Hampstead Heath (see picture above). This Librarian will not be overcome.

On the plus side, I have been delving into the regimental archives and finding some fascinating stuff: court cases involving some of the Army's top brass, Generals suing for loss of overcoats and subalterns driven out of the unit for gambling. Ahhh the tales I will have to swap with Commander Norman 'the Ninja' Rollaston when we dine in Claridges as part of our mission to inform the masses.

Meanwhile, In the Indies, we have been executing lawyers. The Law collection was falling apart and dying from loneliness following a distinct lack of interest from readers. I am however pleased to report that, far from having them taken out and shot at dawn, we will be finding nice new homes for them. We are after all, a civilised country. This last fact is probably why my CO considered me unsuitably attired to make an appearance in the Officers Mess for a celebration dinner hosted by members of my management team. Must remember not to wear fuchsia leggings next time. Long live Punk. (see picture attached for what I probably should have worn)

Toodle pip.

Mutiny on several fronts

photo by Fernando Tucedo

Things have been quite calm at the barracks this week and the old Catering Corps haven't launched a deadly sally for some time. However, no sooner does one front close with its soldiers limping off in defeat, than a new one opens, this time led by the Volunteer Corps who are determined to 'shake things up' They are going to need some serious discipline instilled into them before they run riot all over the Library and plant petunias in the archives.

Surprise but welcome visit from the Major this week. He popped in to fill me in on his latest adventures. He appears to have retired from Commando duties and a series of dubious night-time outings with various members of Royalty and the Brat Pack, but at ninety years of age is still going strong and being thrown out of Annabel's in the wee small hours - good on you major. Managed to wangle an invitation to lunch at Claridge's with him under the pretences of a request for help with my historical research (it's a tough job, as they say, but someone has to do it)

Meanwhile over at the East Indies, the staff are revolting: the chef in the Officer's Mess is refusing them their normal rations and I anticipate a mutiny on the scale of the one in 1857 - our Sepoys are not ones to take events lying down. Maybe they could help me sort out my volunteer problem and form an Army of Retribution.........

Dr Livingstone I Presume

Well it's been another week of battles on the home front. Apparently a group of distinguished journalists  PR people and COs had hired the barracks for manoeuvres and objected to the presence of a civvy such as myself in their midst. I was forced to retaliate in the only way I know: firing an assortment of cheese straws, vintage claret and rubber stamps at them from the safety of my luxury office suite (aka the broom cupboard). When this failed, I had to use the option of last resort and bring in the big guns in the shape of the Iron Duke himself no less. He saw the buggers off in no time at all, and unrestricted access to the library was restored....for now, but I pity the poor bugger that attempts to take on the Duke of Wellington.

photo by Francesco Gola at http://www.fotopedia.com/items/flickr-4929974975

After that minor skirmish, I decided it was time to undertake some exploratory work on my rear trench, where several dozen leather-bound ledgers have lain virtually undisturbed since the 1860s. This was dirty work as anyone with experience of trenches will tell you, but I emerged after around 24 hours having completely reorganised the show, and erected a barbed wire fence to keep out a certain Volunteer from the RAF who appears convinced we are holding his archive hostage in there. On surfacing, I was so caked in dirt that I was very nearly escorted of the premises by my CO, until he recognised me by the unusual footwear (lucky I'd remembered the Ruby Slippers what?)

Meanwhile over in the Indies, it was decided that a similar series of excavations were long overdue and I headed for the upper floors accompanied by a Sub-Lieutenant from the IT Division and a Deputy Field Marshal from the Home Guard. The state of the latter's health continues to give me cause for concern, particularly as the regimental defibrillator is busy undertaking its annual service, but fortunately he held out.


I did however, secure a promise from the Regimental Secretary that I would be sent on a First Aid Course. Imagine my surprise when they decided that the most appropriate course of action was to enrol me - not in the Royal Army Medical Corps, but on a two-day Bookbinding course. I very much doubt I will bump into H.M. Stanley there!

Invasion of the Carpet-snatchers (siege of the broom-cupboard)

photo: Willapalens www.flickr.com/photos/76798465@N00

This week has seen an invasion of a totally different nature: the usual armies of diners were replaced by an army of miniature menaces. I don't know how long the buggers have been hiding away in the dark recesses of my luxury office suite (aka broom-cupboard), but until recently, the results of their blitzkrieg have been hidden by several dozen volumes of unwanted books and the odd leather tome from 1873. However the ongoing reorganisation has unearthed the true horror of their dastardly deeds. To put it simply: I have moths in my archive and they've eaten half the carpet. The Horror, The Horror. Not one to take this lying down, I immediately called in the SAS, who oddly enough, said it was not their territory and recommended a pest-controller instead. Sadly I had to retire before I saw what ammo they had chosen, but I hope they killed the buggers without destroying my office.

After the excitement of yet another battle, I repaired to the gym, where the Zumba teacher was on fine form as usual, though as a favourer of the highly-pulled-up trouser, I suspect him of secret tendencies towards believing he is in fact Simon Cowell. If I find this to be the case, I shall act at 50,000,000 times the speed of a BBC controller who uncovers a suspected child-molester.

Back to the Indies after all this excitement, where life continues at a far more civilised pace - apart from a brief Napoleonic invasion, which I repelled with a few carefully selected volumes of poetry. Oh and this week's visit from old Captain Gordon Gin-soaked of the eponymous Highland Regiment, who was in convivial mood ...as ever, and had brought his friend who told me that frankly he wanted him shot for the crime of having egg on his tie and a few buttons missing.
Ah the joys of war and peace eh.

Fighting them on the Beaches

So I return from shore leave to find the buggers have well and truly invaded - they even stole the floorboards. Apparently they need them for another room in the Barracks. I stood and viewed the devastation as, in my absence they removed all my brave lads from their shelves and housed them in temporary shacks dotted about the premises. 

For some it was their first taste of real battle and they relished the prospect of going over the top, others - particularly the elderly, took refuge in my luxury office suite below stairs, where they had to share shelf-space with Mao's memoirs and Hitler's Mein Kampf (shelved not too far from Lawrence's  Seven Pillars of Wisdom - for their own safety).

After the noise of battle receded and the sallies ceased, it was left to myself and my lovely assistant (recruited for the afternoon from the ranks of the Household Cavalry), to repair the damage caused by a team of maintenance workers whose knowledge of the Dewey Decimal system was - unsurprisingly - sadly lacking. I am now recuperating at home having been given special leave and a doctor's note.

photo copyright roh.org.uk

Back in the Indies, business continues at a rather more leisurely pace, though the welcome committee continue to ply me with drinks in order - I fear - to bribe me to obtain tickets for Wagner's Ring Cycle on the  black market. I've warned them that my contacts are unlikely to come up with the goods, but that I'll accept a glass of the finest red wine anyway. 

I wonder if I'll be able to buy time by acquiring a few anthologies of War Poetry...

in which our Librarian gets up and at 'em and arms herself with a defibrillator

photo by Waaargh! at
  http://www.fotopedia.com/items/flickr-416231916 

Well I have to say the last truce lasted longer than most. Before I'd even got to the door of the barracks this week however, the smell of toast wafted towards me delighting my nostrils so much that had I not already had breakfast, I may have almost been tempted to join the enemy for a quick repast .......before dismantling their barricade naturally. However, I'm made of sterner stuff than that and set to work dismantling their rather poorly constructed fortification, which consisted of a few dining chairs carelessly stacked against my office door. Having made short work of that, I valiantly attempted a roll-call of a few dozen elderly soldiers who'd been lying about undisturbed at the back of the luxury-office-suite-aka-broom-cupboard for several years without seeing active service. Frankly some of them were clearly in the wrong regiment so I despatched them to the London Library and I prepared to exercise the remaining regiments before entering them into the register. At this point, I realised that the enemy within known as the catering corps, must have entered into an alliance with my OPAC supplier as it was...well... kaput, meaning I couldn't achieve any meaningful progress on the cataloguing front. Instead I decided to sabotage their operations and armed myself with several pots of marmalade and a few forks and set about constructing a battering ram to be used when they least expect it. 'Up and at 'em the buggers' as my dear friend Richard Sharpe would say! (he's been rather quiet lately has he not?)

photo by R.S Gould at
http://www.flickr.com/photos/richardgould/ 

Meanwhile in the east Indies, Olympic fever appears to have taken hold, and many natives appeared to have disappeared down the road to watch the Beach Volleyball (rather dangerous at their age I'd have thought, but I daresay they'd taken precautions). I took the opportunity to raid the archives where, along with a rather elderly employee of the old firm I set about the process of 'weeding'. This turned out to rather dangerous as my accomplice was wheezing, shaking and sweating rather visibly and I was uncertain whether this was down to the Malaria he contracted out on the North West Frontier, the DTs he'd contracted in the hospitality suite, or an on coming heart condition. To be on the safe side, I armed myself with a bottle of Gin, some Smelling Salts and a Defibrillator. Forewarned is Forearmed as my dear friend Captain Hooke used to say.


And talking of Gin, old Colonel Gin-soaked of the eponymous Gordon's Highland Regiment, has taken leave (not of his senses - that happened decades since). Apparently he rather upset Bruno the Barman by wearing the same shirt for five days on the trot without bothering the laundry with it, and has been advised to sew some buttons on in order to prevent his rather shrivelled belly from making a guest appearance. 'The Horror The Horror' as my dear friend Mr Kurtz might have said.


That'll have to be it from me for a few weeks as I'm off to spend my shore-leave not fighting 'em on the beaches of a Sardonic Island....or was it Saronic?