Vivian in PUNCH
July 26, 1971
Punch Magazine Calling
It was like walking into a trouser-turnup. The fluff, the fliff. I opened the door and there was a sudden rush of foul language. Had some beast started a glue factory? Pooh, I thought when I got home. I'd been away at the seaside for a couple of weeks and now this. I'll be on my hands and knees for a month.
Outside it was Wednesday and sunny. In the elephant-grass-front-garden blow-flies blue and bothered a bag of whelks thoughtfully tossed in by a passing reveller. I should burn joss-sticks outside my house, even, and my father within. Oh the heat and oh for a smooth pint of draught 'Photo' and a large 'Amos' to wash away the dust, to get slightly 'Brahms' and sleep it off in the sun.
In shorts it was boating weather. A day to be Ernestly Hemming one's Way across the Serpentine with slender sandwiches of cress and cucumber. A day for kite-flying/throwing shadows/heading the shot/esquimaux-baiting/drinking/dreaming/doing nowt much. But, merde alors et dammit, mon copain and Dear Reader, it was also a day to be doing. New-freckled and fearless I faced a concertina of letters caged in the box and did 'em. I fed fishes and turtles, then hovered the hall, swiped the stairs and wept the windows (got the stubborn stuff off with an oily rag).
Then it came, in a brash of bells, the blower. Leisurely I tore off my pinny and pounced. "Hello, Canine Beautician." "Punch Magazine." By Poseidon's prong and me looking such a mess. Would I like "to squander an hour and then write about it?" Would I? Not half! It should be something I don't do normally. Easy: but was it? What to do? I racked my brain for the bizarre. Rat-juggling? I glanced down into a tank of tiny frogs that had been mere commas when I went away. I'll think of something and they must be fed. So, furrowed in thought (so much so, I considered piercing my brows so's I could see where I was going when concentrating), I plunged into the front garden with machete and net to trap aphids to feed the little fellers.
Later, with tweezers in one hand and a glass of greenfly in t'other, I had one: a right blinding Road To Damascus job there in my own front-yard. Eat!... I never eat, leastways not 'til after dark when the Children of the Night howl round the graves and they're closed. What though? I considered Catharticles Karsey Kebab House, but then, playfully running my fingers thru' my pockets, decided that whatever the excursion it must be near and cheap. An Indian blow-out? Of course, and luckily enough scarce two paper-bags away lies the Shilalipi Restaurant. Funny name 'Shilalipi', sounds like something you could pick up from a tuba if you didn't wash out the mouthpiece.
(And, here, the rat ate the remainder of the piece. If we can sticky it all together again, we certainly will.)
September 15, 1971
How To Keep A Compartment To Yourself
I like to sing on the train. Sometimes I lie full length on the seat for a game of 'luggage rack basket-ball'. This is quite exhausting and involves several oranges. Then, though of course I rarely do, a chap might want to make a smell or something of that kidney. But tiens, let's get down to the basic groundwork. It's good idea to frighten and disgust as many people as you can before even boarding the train. At the turnstile or on the platform, make a few affected gestures, be _really_ unusual. I find that slapping the back of my neck and hopping is a winner, if you keep it up. Smile and apologize, pointing to the skull. Arbitrary laughing and giggling upsets a lot, and this can be combined with eating insects. You can get a pack of six washable flies at 6p at most toy-shops and Harrods. Dribbling, I don't go for.
Once past the ticket-puncher you get involved in that peculiarly English exercise, the 'polite stampede'. This is when all sorts of important people striding at amazing speed attempt to wind you with their elbows or inflict crippling leg wounds with their important briefcases. Wallop... "I'd dreadfully sorry" /Gouge... "Oh excuse me" /Stab... "Look, there's Geoff with the water-skis and albatross" /Outta the way/Important/Important. Sorry, but you must never compete. The lucky winner will receive a choice of smoking compartment nearest the buffet-bar/or a bog/or slap bang in between depending on your appetite/constitution/curiosity/retaining power and so on, etc.
A friend of mine goes to the bother of strapping both his legs behind his thighs a la Toulouse Lautrec and stumbles. Another chum slips into the toilets on the station and entirely bandages his head in gauze, bumps into a few posts and is actually carried to his compartment.
Assume now you're on and, by sheer fleetness of foot or strength of Brut, alone in a carriage. Now for action. How to the other sods out? Quickly... throw your suitcase/briefcase/handbag/nosebag on the seat nearest the corridor, dispense other baggage/papers/bowlers/brollies on to every other seat. Light up a pipe if you can. I recommend Sean Stein's Herbal Smoldering Shag. The trick is to multiply yourself as many times as poss. I've found that with little practice at home with six ordinary armchairs I've improved my distribution technique quite astonishingly and can make myself rather enormous under average conditions in 4.05 seconds.
This should keep out 85%.
(Ki notes: Vivian herein forgets the tactic he used whenever he could, the one more successful than any of the above. Sit in compartment, leave oodles of space for all comers.. and when, as they will, someone opens the door in eager anticipation of sharing, look up with a toothy smile, all the while beckoning with a crooked finger. Come in, oh yes, do come in... This kept out 100%.)
|
