MESSING ABOUT IN BOATS

Forgive me, dear readers, for my absence last month – the Major and your travel correspondent were trotting around the Polish lakes enjoying the natural wonders of the countryside. It was quite a feat getting metropolitan Harold to imbibe a little oxygen with his Zywiec, but once he’d realized the piwo was half the price of the Big Pierogi, and the panis just as lissom, only browner, he took to it like a duck to water.

On our first visit to Mazury we stayed in the Gołębiewski Hotel at Mikołajki (Tel: 087-429 0747, Fax: 087-429 0744, e-mail mikolajki@golebiewski.pl) This is perfect for a wet weekend when the kids are playing up. Harold did enjoy playing on the water slides, although his cigar got frightfully soggy. The place is huge, flashy and packed with busloads of old-age pensioners from Germany on package tours. In high summer you could be in Tenerife – no need to go out of the hotel at all, there is tennis, horseriding, the pool, towels on sunbeds. It has an excellent à la carte restaurant, as well as an all-inclusive buffet, and the rooms are spacious with all mod cons. The discotheque downstairs is a 1970’s dream – huge underlit dance floor, glitter ball and a continuous barrage of Abba, the Bee Gees and Sir Mick Jagger. Dancing enthusiastically around my handbag, I imagined I saw John Travolta striding towards me with his index finger pointing to the sky. Sadly, it was only Harold in his cricket whites, ordering another pint from a passing waiter. But for a brief moment, I was young again.

The combination of appalling weather, screaming kids and elderly Hanoverians slurping their zwiebelsuppe became too much for us, and we set off in the jalopy to find the Wolf’s Lair at Gierłoz. This was where the secret bunkers of Hitler and his top brass were hidden, and where the failed assassination attempt on the Fűhrer took place. It certainly was secret – so secret that we got lost three times attempting to find it. Eventually we tagged on behind a German tour bus which took us straight there. It’s a very eery place, hidden away in a dense forest, but hugely interesting. I was filled with trepidation as to whether some phantom from the Reich would find its way into Harold’s subconscious and watched him carefully for anything resembling goose-stepping or a levitating right arm. But luckily he was too engrossed crawling round the bunkers trying to work out the cabling.

Mikołajki is one of the best-known holiday resorts on the lakes, but it is also worth visiting some of the others, such as Giżycko and Ruciane-Nida. All these resorts are popular with the yachting fraternity, but there is a refreshing absence of the type of hooray Henry that one often sees in more chichi yachting centres such as Cannes or St Tropez. Most people charter a small sailboat for a week or two (at affordable prices) and pootle from one end of the lakes to the other, overnighting on the boat at lakeside yacht clubs. If you know the difference between a reef knot and a spinnaker, this is a wonderfully peaceful way to spend a week. However, I don’t think I’d want to be in such a confined space with Harold for seven nights. Not without an oxygen mask. Another way of visiting the area on the water is to hire a kayak and paddle from one lake to another, through the canals. Unfortunately we couldn’t find a kayak with room for the suitcases, so decided to stay in a hotel and tour the region by car.

On our second visit we sought somewhere quieter and more exclusive to stay, and happened upon the Hotel Nidzki at Ruciane-Nida, at the southern end of the lake district (Tel: 087-423 6401, Fax: 087-423 6403). This beautiful manorhouse hotel is situated in splendid isolation at the end of lake Nidzkie, and the lake view is quite spectacular – not another building in sight, simply lake, forest and sky. A double room costs 190 zl per night (quite a bit cheaper than the Gołębiewski), including breakfast.

I have to say the Nidzkie is the cleanest hotel I have come across anywhere, it positively gleams. Ask for a room overlooking the lake, and make sure you confirm your booking by fax – they claimed we had only booked for one night not two, and we almost had to seek alternative accommodation. All very odd, as they obviously weren’t full anyway. Perhaps they mistook us for rock stars and thought we might trash the room ! I told Harold not to wear that Ozzy Eastbourne T-shirt. On arrival, the receptionist proudly handed us a remote control for the non-existent TV, but frankly, with a view like that, who needs TV? This is the perfect spot to chill out after a frantic Jubilee (you never know who might be reading this!), sitting on the terrace with a beer, a pair of swans paddling lazily across the lake, an immobile man fishing in a rowing boat, the sun setting gently over the forest. You could feel all your wrinkles smoothing out. It was a bit like taking your girdle off. Harold’s comment, not mine.

The only thing which lets the Hotel Nidzkie down is the restaurant. The cooking was quite lamentable: I didn’t know it was possible to spoil boiled potatoes, but they found a way to do it. Harold waited 40 minutes for his main course, by which time I had finished mine and polished off a bottle of wine, which in itself had been quite difficult to obtain – the waitress informed us that the wine list “didn’t work” at that time of year. Some guests made the mistake of querying their order. Within seconds the chef had appeared – a large shaven-headed character with no neck who looked like a Millwall fan on community service – and threatened to force-feed them by alternative means. We decided to pay our bill and slip away quietly, thanking them profusely for a lovely dinner.

There are some good, simple restaurants down by the lake, which is a 10 minute walk down an unlit cinder path over an unprotected railway line, unless you drive there. The local speciality is freshwater fish: “okon”, or perch, and “sandacz” or pike-perch, are the best, served decorously with oven chips. The Kormoran restaurant is situated on the lake, luckily just upwind of where the yachties tie up to empty their vessels of smelly socks and a week’s accumulated methane. On the main street in Ruciane are a number of open-air restaurants serving simple fare – grilled fish and meat, chips and salad - and packed with weekenders. We didn’t see another English-speaking person during the whole weekend and only one quiet German couple who ate their soup very nicely.

If you’re a tad nautically challenged you can do what we did and board a rustbucket of a motor launch skippered by an inebriated old sea-dog who managed to reduce the wooden jetty to splinters before chugging out into the lake. Once on lake Nidzkie, however, it was blissful. The lake opens out to a huge expanse of water dotted with tiny wooded islands. All very Swallows and Amazons. The captain dropped anchor at one point and disappeared downstairs (“below” - Harold), leaving us to bask in the sun. Over an hour later he still hadn’t appeared, and Harold was fishing in his safari jacket for his screwdriver, convinced that the engines had failed and we were about to experience Titanic in miniature. However, I had noticed that the ice-cream lady was also missing, which was scandalous, as we were being fried to a crisp with no chance of a cornetto to cool us off. We waited so long that one group of people flagged down a passing launch and hitched a lift back to terra firma. Finally the skipper reappeared, whistling, and revved up the engine. We were all a bit pink from the sun, but the ice-cream lady was positively crimson lake. Puts the phrase Going Down with the Ship into a whole new light.

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING

I’m in a frightful rush this week so only have time to tell you about a super little place where I had lunch recently, while Harold was having his weekly CAT scan. U Szwejka is a very pleasant (and large) establishment on the corner of Plac Konstitucji (next to the MDM hotel) where the service is extremely attentive, and – this in itself is a reason for going there - they force free alcohol on you! No sooner had I found a cosy little table in a corner where I could look out over the square, than the waiter appeared with a bottle of Bechkerowka, that revolting Czech aperitif, which I politely declined in favour of ordering lunch. He went away and came back with a match to light the candle. He went away again and came back with his notebook. After some perusing of the extensive menu, I ordered the Kotlet De Volaille (Chicken Kiev to you), which seemed like a fairly uncomplicated request. However, there then ensued a question-and-answer session which made The Weakest Link look like a fireside chat, and brought a steely glint to my eye that Ann Robinson would have been proud of. Would Madam like chips or salad with that? Madam chose salad (a girl must watch her figure!). Which sort of salad would Madam care for? My Polish broke down at this point and I had to ask him to explain the different types of salad in English. I chose a “mieszana”, or mixed salad, well there’s bound to be something in that I like. Was this the end of the interrogation? Certainly not. What kind of dressing would Madam like on her mixed salad? I stopped him at “winegret” (the 2^nd on his interminable list of salad dressings). I was starting to perspire gently, wondering what the next question might be, and whether I would answer it correctly or have to do the Walk of Shame. Thankfully, he closed his notebook and went away. Then he came back with a basket of bread. On his next visit he brought a totally unsolicited plate of cottage cheese and sausage meat, which equally went untouched. He came again and took it away. I know I’m a woman who likes attention, but I was starting to feel faintly embarrassed. I looked apologetically at the next table and smiled weakly.

On his next visit, hurrah! He brought my Kotlet, which was of generous proportions and accompanied by a huge plate of chopped crudités, elegantly served with a sauceboat of vinaigrette dressing. “Smacznego,” he wished me, bowed, and went away again. I quite missed him at first; I felt we’d really bonded over the past half hour. But the music at U Szwejka soon had me singing away between mouthfuls (most inelegant I know, but I was facing the street so the other diners were spared the sight of salad dropping out of my mouth). For fans of the early 60’s (yes, all you Dekada barflies, that means you) this is the place to hear those hits that most members of the House of Lords are too young to remember: Chris Farlowe, Del Shannon, Kathy Kirby, and when I heard Freddie and the Dreamers singing “I’m telling you now”, I almost invited the chap at the next table to do the Twist.

When I called for the bill, my waiter brought it with a complimentary glass of wisniówka which he placed before me in a determined manner. I was not going to get out of this one so easily. What the heck, I thought, and swigged it back in one, before paying the bill and leading the bar staff in a conga line out the door to the strains of Herman’s Hermits. U Szwejka also has a large eating/drinking area in the cellar, if you want a discreet place for those secret trysts (but beware the couple at the next table – they could be the Wayne-Boughs!). The staff are young and charming and the service excellent, and if you’re as old as Harold, you’ll enjoy the sort of music on a weekend provided by the 3-piece band. His version of “Jealousy” played on a cucumber is unmatched in the annals of popular music.

HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES

by Major H. Wayne-Bough

What a long tedious winter it’s been. I could tell the memsahib was bored when she started embroidering rude messages into her tapestry, some of them directed at me. Is that what is meant by cross stitch, I asked. She pointed to a cushion cover which depicted a flock of XXXX’s in flight over the word “OFF”. I figured she was suffering from a touch of metal fatigue, and brought her home some reading matter to cheer her up. “Here we go, old girl,” I said, “This’ll put the lead back in your pencil.” She gave me a look which would freeze vodka, and rolled the brand new copy of Soldier of Fortune into the shape of a dangerous weapon. It was high time for some distraction.

The Orient Express ball came along in the nick of time. Milady dug out her cloche hat and lisle stockings from the trunk in the attic and gave my old mess uniform the once-over with a damp cloth. I could hardly keep up as she swept into the Marriott moulting ostrich feathers, me staggering behind buckling under the weight of two Louis Vuitton trunks, a hatbox and a Yorkshire terrier called Tinkerbell. If that wasn’t bad enough, every time I went up to the bar, the head barman kept giving me a tray of drinks to take round. By the time we sat down at the table I was quite worn out. When I woke up after the speeches, Milady was schmoozing up to the French Ambassador, so I sneaked out for a smoke. I wandered down the corridor and happened upon the Servants Hall, where they were all jumping up and down in a demented fashion to their primitive tribal music, calling for someone called Alice. Although they all looked like characters from Breughel, they were good sorts really and let me stay and watch the cock-fighting. They even gave me a plateful of the roast pig that they were turning on a spit. Bawdy wenches were weaving through the throng balancing tankards of mead on their ample bosoms whilst handing out free tickets for the local massage parlour. A toothless crone sat in the corner, dishing out shots of laudanum. A makeshift opium den had been set up in the pantry, and a dusky houri was being auctioned for charity. This was my kind of party. I dragged a fulsome wench onto the dance floor and showed her my cummerbund. She was speechless. The loud music and heady smell of woodsmoke quite went to my head and I danced like John Travolta on Prozac. There was a bit of excitement when a herd of wildebeest stampeded across the room, but I was whisked to safety by a large bearded character daubed in blue woad. She told me her name was Tiffany and offered 10% diplomatic discount between 5.00 and 7.00 p.m.

My pungent pals took quite a shine to me, inviting me to share a serving gel with them. Now Daphne can detect the scent of another woman 100 yards away through three locked doors, and this one had a personal odour that would penetrate a gas mask, so I declined politely, but accepted a game of flaming-axe-hurling, which I won by a head (the Banqueting Manager’s, as it happens). The chaps hoisted me up on their shoulders and carried me around the room, chanting in guttural demotic. Finally, I was one of the lads! I felt I had to stand them a round of drinks, whereupon they elected me their new chieftain and sacrificed a bullock in my honour.

It was a night to remember. I must have danced myself to exhaustion, as I woke up on a bed of straw, where the peasants had kindly laid me. Someone had even been thoughtful enough to take off my uniform and boots and had lent me a smock to sleep in. Unfortunately the kind soul who took care of me didn’t leave a card, but Daphne swears she saw a very similar uniform to mine at the Russian market last week. Anyway, I quite like the smock, it’s very comfortable, and Daphne’s promised to cross-stitch my name and address on it.

FLOGGING A DEAD HORSE

After the gluttony and over-indulgence of the holiday season, a restaurant review would be rather over-egging the pudding, so we’re refraining from eating out until our tummies have all returned to normal size (with a little help from Playtex in some cases). On Christmas Day we had a sumptuous eight-course feast featuring delicacies from as far away as Auchan and Billa, accompanied by a bottle or three of very palatable chateau-bottled ruby nectar; after some perfectly immoral cheeses had been redeemed by a large glass of Harold’s favourite vintage port, we finally prepared to push our gluttony to the limit with one of Imelda’s incendiary Christmas puddings, which had to be ignited first to burn off the fumes. Harold took out his authentic army-surplus Zippo lighter which Bodger had sent him for Christmas, with “Kabul Harriers” engraved on the facing. Unfortunately, the fuel must have been syphoned off from Sellafield, and the pudding did a fair impression of Joan of Arc. We gave our After-Eights to the nice firemen - shame about the curtains - and settled down in front of the telly with a large box of Rennies, where we promptly fell asleep. Christmas viewing is not what it once was. I woke up in the middle of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, and tottered off to bed around midnight, leaving Harold snoring away in his chair, still wearing his singed paper hat and dinner jacket (his trousers were still wrapped around the charred remains of the Christmas pud).

On New Year’s Eve we were invited to join a family party at the stud farm of Fergal and Deirdre O’Blarney, the well-known horse trainers. They live for horse racing, as you can tell when Deirdre fires a starting pistol in the kitchen, and Fergus shouts “They’re off!” as the whole family races for the table. Fergal’s Uncle Dermot, a retired jockey, was sitting next to me on two cushions and a copy of the Warsaw Yellow Pages. He cleared his throat noisily and often into a large Irish linen handkerchief with “Hotel Bristol” embroidered in the corner. He suffers from Tourette’s syndrome, that disorder where people keep shouting out odd words at inappropriate moments. It made it quite difficult to keep one’s mind on the oysters, which require great concentration to eat, especially after several pre-prandial Jameson’s. I had just loosened one from its shell and was about to daintily slide it onto my tongue, when Uncle Dermot bellowed “Fork!” and caused me to start violently. The oyster flew off the shell and into Uncle Dermot’s pint of Black Velvet*. I had to distract the old fellow for long enough to switch glasses with him, so turned to the assembled company and announced: “Uncle Dermot wants a fork!” which made them all laugh like drains. While they were all mopping their eyes and picking themselves up off the carpet I managed to snatch Uncle Dermot’s glass and replace it with my own, which left me with the dilemma of how to retrieve the offending mollusc. There was no elegant way of doing it without drawing attention to myself, so, noblesse oblige, I took a deep breath and a big swig of Black Velvet, swallowing the oyster whole. It was not a wholly unpleasant sensation, and I made a mental note to invent a new cocktail for my next drinks evening.

Still wondering how asking for a fork could cause such hilarity, I asked Uncle Dermot if he would like a knife as well, to which he replied that he didn’t need a fork and knife or a fork and fork. (Uncle Dermot also seemed to repeat himself unnecessarily, no doubt one of many after-effects of falling off horses at high speed). We got through the rest of the meal without further incident (if you discount Harold’s table manners), and as Deirdre invited us to trot round the paddock for Irish coffee, I drained my glass of Black Velvet … and found a very forlorn oyster lying sadly at the bottom. Uncle Dermot shouted “Horse!” and reached for his handkerchief once more. I’m afraid I passed on the Irish coffee, being first past the post to the bathroom.

After the hangovers had worn off, we set off for a few days in the mountains, where Harold was determined to conjure up the spirit of Sven, his alter ego from a parallel universe. Sadly, the the snowbound Swede refused to be summoned. Invoke as he might, (Harold standing on the mountain top with arms stretched to the sky chanting in Old Norse brought the black slopes to a standstill) there was no response from his nebulous Nordic nemesis. The vicarious Viking had vanished. Harold was nonplussed. Then, in the middle of the night he sat bolt upright in bed, took off his goggles and announced that Sven had been called up for Salt Lake City but said goodbye and thank you for the music. In that case, I said, you won’t be needing to wear your ski boots in bed any more.

It’s rather sad to see the end of Sven, especially as I hadn’t got round to penning part II of The Sven Files. He’d sort of grown on me. I will never be able to listen to Abba again without thinking of him. This is where the story ends, this is goodbye. However, I’m sure some other exotic spirit seeking a temporary home will be squatting in Harold’s subconscious before very long. Perhaps a Sioux Chief, or a Hell’s Angel … it’s quite exciting, a bit like living with The Village People. In the meantime, readers, if an elderly chap wearing a beige cardigan and a Washington Redskins baseball cap comes up to you and demands imperiously: “Do you know who I am?”, please tell him and point him in the direction of home before his batteries run out. Thank you so much

NO PAIN, NO GAIN

Since our return to Blighty, Harold has been keeping himself amused pottering in the shed, creosoting the fence and reacquainting himself with the local ales, such as ye Olde Speckled Knobwilter. However, I felt the calming effects of domesticity were starting to pall when he turned up at the Wednesday night quiz at the Scud & Sixpence dressed as Madonna and burst, quite uninvited, into a rousing rendition of “Material Girl” (karaoke night was on Tuesday), so I bundled him on the train and off to London for a weekend of retail therapy.

We had a bite to eat in our favourite little Italian deli, the Lucky Spot on North Audley Street, before hitting the shops. My goodness, hasn’t Selfridges changed since 1972? We went in for a box of Harold’s favourite cigars and found ourselves in a high-tech nightmare. Harold is not good in stores at the best of times, but got quite disoriented and started to hyperventilate, so I had to sit him down at the oyster bar and spoon half a dozen fines de claires down his neck before he calmed down. To our relief, we found the cigar counter exactly where it used to be, although the young man serving, who had obviously been drafted in from the food hall, thought a panatella was some kind of Italian bacon.

Our next quest was to find Harold some new kit. After years of pierogis and golonkas the tarpaulin is a little tautly stretched across the midships. Needless to say, when we finally found the menswear department there was nothing to suit him. Where is one to find a nice beige cardigan these days? I knew we should have stocked up in Warsaw. He spent a long time lurking hopefully around the leather trousers, but I caught him in time and dragged him off to Debenham’s.

We were sorely tempted to go to see the new Harry Potter film, especially since the mystic midget’s features were staring down at us from every billboard. I had the strangest feeling I’d seen that child before, and quite recently, but couldn’t quite remember where. The film was fully booked anyway, so we went to see the new production of “The King and I” starring Josie Lawrence - and then went for supper in Chinatown, where Harold had fun folding his crispy pancakes into fans and singing “Getting to Know You” to the inscrutable waitress. When we got the bill, however, Harold said Lee Ho Fook very loudly. “Same to you mate,” snapped the waitress in an accent that put the Ching in Chingford, snatching our fifty quid and marching off smartly.

On Sunday we went for a wander round the British Museum, where we walked for miles through the various halls. The interior courtyard is quite lovely, with the reading room still unchanged (apart from computer terminals at the reading desks) – V.I. Lenin was still sitting there, muttering about upgrading his browser. I left Harold playing Indiana Jones in the Egyptian Rooms while I went to see the free exhibition on the Orient Express, to get myself in the mood for the Pink Ball. There’s a real carriage from the original train, all beautiful marquetry and damask interiors. I sat down on a banquette and closed my eyes … in a trice I was travelling in luxury through central Europe with my faithful old retainer Imelda, blowing Sobranie smoke callously in the face of the suave and besotted millionnaire playboy Count Sven of Svenland, whilst graciously accepting a glass of champagne from the deferential Austrian steward Harald. Chief Inspector Fatty Fortescue was investigating the mysterious disappearance of my priceless diamond ring, and the chief suspect was Myfanwy Llanfairpwllgggggh, a lady druid who was travelling to Budapest for a wizards’ conference. I was the only person who knew that Myfanwy was in fact the mistress of Brigadier Bodger, and they were planning to elope together after Bodger had poisoned his wife Cynthia. However, their plan was foiled by the sudden arrival of Harry Potter who denounced the culprits, swiftly followed by Mrs Akiko with a tray of sushi, and as I bit into a succulent fua-gua I nearly choked on my diamond ring …. I was woken abruptly by the curator who told me that I was snoring like a wildebeest, which was strictly prohibited while the train was standing in the station.

Harold had been gasping for a curry since we left Poland, and so we ventured, on the advice of our friendly neighbourhood chemist Mr Patel, to the Chinatown of balti restaurants in Whitechapel. The restaurant owners are very friendly, practically dragging you in off the street with offers of free bottles of wine, free popadoms, etc. (I gather business hasn’t been too brisk lately for some reason). We chose a restaurant that looked as though it might have decent toilets, and Harold ordered the hottest vindaloo they could concoct. I know my limits when it comes to Indian food, and stuck to the cream of tomato soup and mixed grill. Harold thoroughly enjoyed his balti, scooping it up with naan bread in the time-honoured fashion. I noticed beads of sweat forming across his forehead, and asked if he was all right. He made a noise like someone drowning, but nodded happily. A bit later I was a bit worried by the steam coming out of his ears and the tears streaming down his face, but he assured me in sign language (he couldn’t actually speak by now) that he was enjoying every mouthful. When he finally finished his meal he managed to croak, in the few seconds before he made a dash for the men’s room, that it was the best curry he had tasted since the one in Doolallabad in 1951 which left him with second-degree burns. Frankly, I prefer my dinner to come with a little less … pain. But each to his own, I suppose. For the record, we went to the Sheraz in Brick Lane. Get off at Aldgate East and follow your nose.

LET THEM EAT CAKE

Our old amigos Vi and Desmond Hornblower made a whirlwind visit last week on their valedictory tour of the region before being put out to pasture. I must say they’ve slowed down a bit since those heady days out in the tropics, when Vi once danced the can-can in a dugout canoe going over Victoria Falls and Desmond was known in the local dialect as “Little White Chief With Huge Set of Congas”. He got on the wrong side of a Tsetse fly whilst up-country in Umbongoland a few years ago, and has suffered from narcolepsy ever since. Vi wheels him through airports and pours him in and out of taxis, although frankly I’ll never understand why she doesn’t just leave him at home in bed in front of reruns of “It Ain’t Half Hot Mum”. He’d never know the difference. He falls asleep at the most embarrassing moments: in the middle of a game of charades, for instance. We wasted half an hour shouting out titles like “The Big Sleep!”, “Goodnight Sweetheart!”, “A Night at the Opera!” (that was Harold of course), and so on, before we realized Desi really was on an awayday to the Land of Nod. Then he woke up halfway through dinner, screamed “The Horror! The Horror!” and passed out again face-down in the ratatouille. Vi doesn’t seem to mind at all, she says as long as he’s still got his share options, she’s quite happy to keep him tucked up in bed while she devotes herself to charity work involving some young Romanians - strapping young lads to judge by the photograph, in which one of them was clutching Vi with obvious gratitude, although it was unclear why they were both wrapped in towels. I’d never have thought of Vi as the charitable type, but it shows how wrong you can be.

The Major and I have been so caught up in the summer social whirl that we haven’t had much chance to review any restaurants lately. We did however pay a visit a while back to Bazyliszek, on the old town square, a most elegant establishment where the food is excellent and very reasonably priced, despite what the Insider says. The menu is very traditional old Polish fare - barszcz, golonka, duck with apples (happy Harold!), pierogi, etc., but all presented very elegantly, none of this faux-rustic pseudo-peasant business that’s very trendy in some quarters. Comfy chairs, nice classical piano music, chandeliers and lots of mirrors tilted at useful angles to check one’s tiara is still in place (or in Harold’s case, to look down the waitress’s cleavage), quite our cup of tea as you can imagine. You can keep your smalec, if you want to dine with the hoi polloi you can always go to the Pink.

On the subject of food, my dear friend Imelda (the Dowager Duchess of Southend) has published a cookery book! Let me share with you one of her award-winning recipes, her signature dish, Scotch Fruit Cake:

IMELDA’S SCOTCH FRUIT CAKE

Ingredients:
1 cup water 1 cup sugar 4 large eggs 2 cups dry fruit 1 tsp baking soda 1 tsp salt 1 cup brown sugar lemon juice nuts 1 gallon whisky

1. Sample the whisky to check for quality
2. Take a large bowl
3. Check the whisky again to be sure it is of the highest quality
4. Pour one level cup of whisky and drink
5. Repeat
6. Turn on the electric mixer, beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl
7. Add one tsp sugar and beat again
8. Make sure the whisky is still OK. Cry another tup. Turn off mixer
9. Break two legs and to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit
10. Mix on the turner
11. If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaterers, pry it loose with a drewscriver
12. Sample the whisky to check for tonsisticity
13. Next, sift 2 cups of salt, or whatever
14. Check the whisky
15. Now sift the lemon juice and strain your nuts
16. Add 1 table. Spoon. Of sugar or something. Whatever you can find
17. Grease your oven
18. Turn the cake tin to 350 degrees
19. Don’t forget to beat off the turner
20. Check the whisky again
21. Go to bed.
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Fruit cake is the expression that best describes Imelda. She is truly a relic of another age. She was at Woodstock, Haight-Ashbury, on the Magic Bus, on a kibbutz, had an affair with a Black Panther or three, danced down Oxford Street chanting Hare Krishna, and rode pillion with the Maidstone chapter of the Hell’s Angels. She even claims to have been engaged to Che Guevara but I’m not sure I believe that. (She says he had some unsavoury personal habits). The eroding effect on her brain of far too many substances over the years, not all of them legal, have left her a little, well, vague. She gave up herbal remedies after the demise of Janis, Jimi and Jim (her pet hamsters, who became convinced they were lemmings after nibbling on one of Imelda’s psychedelic muffins and launched themselves off the sixteenth floor balcony of Ravi Shankar Towers), and her anaesthetic of choice now comes in amber liquid form. And I don’t mean Lucozade. She has a little trouble distinguishing fantasy from reality, and makes outrageous claims, such as being the reincarnation of Marie-Antoinette. It’s a little hard on Imelda’s neighbours. The sheep do leave such a mess in the courtyard, you see.

THE LAST ACTION HERO

by Major Harold Wayne-Bough (Retd.)

Daphne is away on a course entitled “Cross-Stitch and its Potential as a Tool for World Domination”, so I’m filling in this month. The old girl has been a bit off-colour lately, I’ve even had to fetch my own piwo and sandwiches while watching the cricket. I don’t know if it’s her time of life or whether she’s still not forgiven me after Bodger’s regimental reunion, to which I was kindly invited – although where Bodger’s concerned, I use the word “invited” loosely - I was bundled into a Land Rover with a sack over my head, driven to an unspecified location after dark and forced to drink gallons of beer, when they know bally well I’m a G&T man. The next thing I remember I was in a cell handcuffed to the wall and a female officer in very high heels was exercising police brutality on me. Frightful business. We’re doing it again next month.

I am often asked about Bodger. Some people question whether he exists at all. This is a perfectly reasonable enquiry, since one of Bodger’s principal goals in life is invisibility. Sometimes he’s more successful than others - camouflage kit in a discotheque, for example, hasn’t really worked since the sixties. He is, however, a master of disguise. He prefers to masquerade as a woman, since they elicit less suspicion. And because he likes painting his toenails. But once again, his methodology is questionable - if you want to blend into the crowd in a Delhi bazaar, you’re not going to pull it off by dressing as Marilyn Monroe in “The Seven Year Itch”. The fakirs recognized him immediately and shouted “Welcome back, Bodger Sahib!”. But it’s an ill wind and whatnot. He was offered a the lead female role in a Bollywood blockbuster.

Bodger is the soul of discretion. You won’t find him selling his stories to the tabloids. (He’ll tell them to anyone in the pub, though, for a pint of smooth). He’s hung up his balaclava now, but has been quite an action man in his day. I can’t say which regiment he was in, but I don’t think I’ll be breaching the Official Secrets Act if I tell you it’s the one where they wear ladies’ underwear. Needless to say, Bodger isn’t his real name. But I’ve probably said too much already. You never know who’s listening. Sometimes I wonder if Bodger’s a touch paranoid, but a basic knowledge of morse code can come in quite handy once you’ve mastered a few key phrases, such as “See you down the Scud & Sixpence once she’s dozed off”, and “Don’t move, you’ve got a scorpion on your nose”.

Bodger’s regimental motto is “Be Prepared” (Who Dares Wins, surely? - Ed.) and to this day, he keeps an RPG in the shed, in case the Argies come marauding over the back fence. Useful against slugs, too. Although he was too old to take part in Gulf Wars one and two, he organized the local Neighbourhood Watch into nighttime search-and-destroy patrols. They were disbanded when they took the owner of the local kebab shop hostage, but were let off after a warning from the local constabulary to stay off the White Lightning. Mustafa stopped the old OAP-special doners after that.

Bodger’s tales of derring-do, especially after a few jars, are always good value. There’s one I particularly like about being stripped naked, covered with marmalade and left next to a beehive. I think that was on his stag night in Dunstable. He barely made it to his own wedding. And once at the altar, he would only state his name, rank and number. Myfanwy had to stab him in the buttock with her bayonet before he coughed “I do”. Mrs Bodger is a woman of infinite patience and loyalty, as can be seen from her tattoos (“Who Glares Wins” on the left shoulder and “What Time Do You Call This, Then?” on the right), always at Bodger’s side, gripping the chain only as tight as is necessary. She has accepted without complaining all the inconveniences of Bodger’s profession, such as live hand grenades in the tumble dryer and tunnels under the herbaceous borders. Not many women would put up with their husband being away for months at a time without a clue where he was. Especially when he only went out for a packet of Hobnobs. Myfanwy waits patiently, chain-smoking Woodbines and gazing steadfastly through the razor wire, until the warrior returns. She never asks questions, and always abides by the Queensberry rules. A bit like Lara Croft in an anorak. Bodger’s a very lucky man.

The Memsahib’s just called in and asked me to thank all (both) those fans who e-mailed her, although I could tell she was seething with jealousy that one or two of the young gels have asked for a photograph of yours truly! Unfortunately the only recent one is of me and the regimental goat at Bodger’s night out, and I don’t think that would do at all. Oh no.