A Viscount Speaks

In Remembrance

Chaps,

In remembrance of all the brave British and Commonwealth troops who dished the Hun in two world wars, not to mention the Argies, Boers and Dagos too, I give you Tommy Atkins:

TOMMY

by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

  I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

On the proliferation of baseball caps

Chaps,

It is absolutely typical of this rude age that the modern Englishman should spend so much time shopping for clothes and yet dress so badly.  If you walk down any British street, not one in 100 persons passing you has any elegance about him or her - quite the reverse.  A lot of fashions, indeed, seem more like satires on the idea of elegance than are themselves elegant.

The increasing prevalence of one particular item of apparel in Britain puzzles me: baseball caps.  It is not as if they are native to our traditions and a question naturally arises about them, namely: is it possible for a person ever to look intelligent or dignified while wearing one?

No doubt my method of arriving at an answer to this question is deeply unscientific.  I look at all the people wearing such caps in the street and ask myself whether they look dignified and intelligent.  The answer is invariably, "No, they don't." I suppose one day there might be a black swan among them, but it hasn't happened yet.

It is possible to look other things than undignified and stupid in a baseball cap, however, for example menacing and aggressive.  No doubt that is why an increasing number of our police forces have adopted them.  Indeed, it is difficult to see why else they should wear them, since they cannot afford much protection against blows on the head, or even against draughts.  Of course, the police are ineffectual in exact proportion to their menacing and aggressive appearance, until they reach the point at which they are feared mainly by the law-abiding.

Why does anybody, other than thugs, policemen and employees of fast-food establishments that insist upon them as part of a uniform, wear a baseball cap?  Even old people in increasing numbers now sport them.  Is it some kind of perverse desire to look stupid, a form of auto-humiliation?  Is it an attempt to persuade other people that they are humble folk who think that they are no better than anyone else?  Could this explain why even Princes of the Blood now wear them?

And here we get to the nub of it.  For I suspect that the baseball cap is merely the outward sign of England's proletarianisation.  It represents the attempt to subject all Englishmen - even the most noble, elegant and wealthy - to the yolk of pleb rule.  As such, it is the very first item of dress that ought to be banned when feudal rule is restored to England.  Noblemen will not be able to sleep safely in their beds at night until this hideous mode of hat-wear is banished from our realm for good.  

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Oik set for chop

What ho, rugger men!

It can't be true.  Can it?  Have the Crouchback family prayers been answered?  It seems so, for The Telegraph is reporting that Danny Care is set for the chop.  Imagine: no more arm waving at the base of rucks whilst the rugby ball grows mould!  No more irritating gum shield tics!  No more apathetic footballer-style interviews of a Sunday!  No more brainless piling into opposition forwards to concede crucial penalties!  I'll almost miss the ghastly little pleb. 

And it gets better.  The Hask is back.  So too the splendidly aggressive Hartley.  Dare we hope that the vile Argies will be sent packing from Twickers as swiftly as they were booted off Goose Green? 

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

The vulgarisation of social interaction

Chaps,

If the Continent enjoys one superiority over England, it is surely the greater courtesy extended to a chap in everyday social interaction.  The French and Spanish retain a slightly formulaic ceremoniousness that is now entirely lacking from our own rude culture. I attribute the superiority in part to their continued use of the terms Monsieur and Madame and Señor and Señora. It is not affectation, but a deeply ingrained habit. You don't go into a shop in France without saying "Bonjour, monsieur" or "Bonjour, madame".

In the summer, I took a brief weekend trip to Paris with Lady Crouchback and was crossing a street near the Seine whilst reading some Herodotus, as is my slightly hazardous wont, when a man on a bicycle nearly ran me down. "Attention, monsieur! Attention, monsieur!" he cried, not forgetting his manners even in his irritation. I shouted an appropriate apology after him, rather gratified and reassured by the whole episode. Of course, it was tempting to correct the blighter and inform him that I should properly be addressed as "Vicomte" and not as "Monsieur", but it seemed insignificant at the time. Goodness knows what an English cyclist would have shouted in the circumstance; almost certainly something unprintable.

For some reason we in England can no longer use Sir or Madam or My Lord in an unstilted way. Why is this? I suspect it has something to do with our ideological revulsion against any taint of hierarchy. So in large parts of England, especially outside the shires, I am most commonly addressed by spotty young men as "mate". This aggressively levelling and proletarianising mode of address has spread very rapidly. The trouble is that objecting to it (which I have on occasion done) sounds pompous and priggish, in the same way that objecting to obscenity always appears prudish and narrow-minded. There seems to be a Gresham's Law of etiquette: the coarse drives out the refined. The Bolsheviks knew this very well, and welcomed it.

I invite my readers to adopt a more formal tone in their everday interactions, especially with those in the service classes.  If your barber or postman or taxi driver has the temerity to address you casually, then correct him.  For all the momentary embarrassment it might cause, it will do everyone a power of good in the long run.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

"Not Forgotten: Soldiers of Empire"

Chaps,

This magnificent television programme (presented by the equally magnificent Ian Hislop) is well worth watching on the Channel 4 website if you can spare an hour.  It devotes itself to the hundreds of thousands of sons of Empire - of all races, creeds and colours - who flocked to the King's colours in 1914. 

"We say we are grateful that such men fought for us.  But they were us.  That was the point. "

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Another Old Wellingtonian joins the fray!

What ho, chaps!

It's always heartening to have a pick-me-up after a disappointing defeat and what better than to learn that Paul Doran-Jones, an Old Wellingtonian, is to join up with the England squad this week.  The tight-head beefcake, an Anglo-Irishman, joins The Hask to further burnish the reputation of that proud Berkshire institution. 

Doran-Jones has played for England U18s and Ireland U19s and U21s.  He started out at Leinster and then joined London Welsh before pitching tent at Gloucester this season.  It is heartening indeed that he should choose England over his country of birth.  He joins Shane Geraghty and Nick Kennedy as Irish-qualified chaps to have chosen the Red Rose over the Shamrock.  The RFU now really ought to ram home their advantage by devoting some attention to attracting the Ulster chaps to their rightful home.  I daresay that Stephen Ferris, Rory Best & Co would be perfectly delighted to run out at Twickers and sing God Save The Queen rather than have to stand scowling at the home of the GAA during the vile Soldier's Song!

I wish Doran-Jones the best of British.  May he live out the Wellington motto to the fullest:

Virtutis Fortuna Comes Heroum Filii

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Rugger musings

Hullo, chaps

A disappointing day at Twickers.  These are my thoughts:-

1. There really needs to be some type of oik filter at the gates to Twickers.  Think of the benefits: no more ghastly, Welsh-style booing of the kicker; no more watching through one's fingers as the skin-defaced Banahan plods into contact at 2 miles per hour; and best of all, no more Danny Care.

2. The chaps didn't belt out God Save The Queen with sufficient gusto.  Granted, they made a better fist of it than the footballers or the cricketers, but still: these men are representing the Queen.  They ought to sing it like they mean it. (Honourable exception to the superb Hask who, as ever, represents everything that is finest about the Englishman).

3. In terms of game management and solidity, I thought England were streets ahead of last Autumn; in terms of attacking intent and incisiveness, I thought they regressed.  The chaps looked more threatening at the equivalent fixture last year.  The absence of some of our best ball carriers - Stevens, Easter, Sheridan - has left us looking rather toothless around the fringes.  It would help if we attacked the gainline farther out from the ruck.  

4. On the subject of punching holes, did anyone watch the splendidly-named Earl Crabtree and the ferocious yeomen Jamie Peacock, James Graham, Sam Burgess and Adrian Morley make yards and yards every time they thundered into thick-thighed Maori chappies in the rugby league on Saturday?  It was quite magnificent.  Our chaps were smaller than their chaps; they were being double- or triple-tagged in each tackle; and still they went forwards!  Why can't our union players do this?  Partly, I suspect, it is a consequence of league fellows not having to worry about being stripped of the ball and thus being able to run in a more upright fashion.  But I think it is partly also a straightforward question of intent and of being prepared to tolerate the risk of serious injury.  It takes courage to accelerate into contact, but such fortitude is surely a pre-requisite for Test rugger.  If these men won't run hard, then pick men who will.

5. The Hask was simply phenomenal.  He deserves a spot in the XV and he should be made Captain.

6. The absence of a big unit in the English midfield was sorely felt.  There are those who poke fun at Mike Tindall but what would England have given for his beef yesterday?  The absence of a hole blaster meant that there was less space for Geraghty and Hipkiss; and both, in consequence, looked rather ineffectual.  That said, Riki Flutey didn't look much better at this time last year, but he came good when Jonno stuck with him.  Hopefully the same can be true for Geraghty.

7. Dan Carter's tactical kicking will wreak havoc on this England back three.  Banahan must be dropped, Monye restored to the wing, and a solid, positionally-aware full back picked instead.  Alex Goode is well worth a shout if Jonno fancies a punt (unlikely). Failing that, Morgan (if fit) or Brown (who, though distinctly uninspiring, has a hefty boot and a decent positional game) should play.

8. Australia have some good players but they still seem rather weak and clueless in an arm wrestle.  An England XV with a little more experience and cohesion would have won yesterday.  Our Marseille mob would have beasted them something rotten. 

9. The structure of the season is terribly problematic for the northern hemisphere nations.  It is a serious disadvantage to be playing one's first game for months against a team that has just come off a Tri Nations.  Jonno is quite right about that.  I do not doubt for a second that if the northern nations played the southern nations straight after the Six Nations, then the results would be very, very different.  An excuse?  I don't think so.  Look at the incredible transformation in England's WC2007 performance as they went from under-cooked (beasted by South Africa) to nicely simmering (beasters of Australia).  This factor is too easily overlooked.  I wish the northern unions would do something about it, but I shan't hold my breath. 

10. The hysterical rantings of Stephen Jones should be resisted.  I can only assume that he takes 10% of Ian McGeechan's annual earnings. 

11. The equally hysterical rantings of Stuart Barnes should also be resisted.  One of these days, we might read a Sunday Times writer acknowledge the obvious: that teams with more caps tend to have more success (c.f. England 2003, Ireland 2009, South Africa 2009, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc) and that England don't have many caps.  But don't hold your breath. 

12. I shan't make a song and dance of this, but do note the educational backgrounds of England's poorest players yesterday, then draw your own conclusions.

Gosh, even the Germans love the Empire!

What ho, chaps!

I missed this story during the week but apparently supporters of Hamburg SV welcomed Celtic (a vile club who, by rights, should be banished to the League of Ireland) to Germany by displaying this splendid Union Jack:

Is it not remarkable that even Hamburgers - who endured a ghastly time from British bombers during the war - recognise the intrinsic superiority of the British Empire?  It gladdens the heart.  I hope that the Queen was watching, and that she gives serious consideration to extending her realm in Germany to encompass Hamburg as well as Hanover.  Such magnificent exhibitions of loyalty deserve the utmost respect.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

P.S. I recognise that this amusing little escapade (whoever said the Germans don't have a sense of humour?) was motivated by some degree of Protestant religious affiliation with Rangers FC; which, I confess, makes me somewhat uneasy.  But frankly, chaps, nation always trumps religion for me in these matters, and it's simply bloody marvellous to see those ghastly, smelly, disloyal Fenians humiliated so deliciously, so bring it on, say I! No Surrender, indeed! 

Congratulations, Leicester Tigers!

Rugger Men,

That yeoman spirit I was talking about?  You saw it tonight.  Magnificent, simply magnificent.  I haven't seen so many Boers scattered by English beef since Kitchener handed out a few beastings up on the veldt.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

A storm is gathering

RUGGER MEN!

November is a poignant month.  Leaves die and drop from the trees, bright red poppies sprout on the lapels of City gents, and, like a Swiss clock chiming noon, the bronzed colonists of the Antipodes return to their mother country to take on England at Twickers.  It is a time that reminds us all of just how fortunate we are to be born into the freedom-loving British tradition. 

Our guests tomorrow, Australia, share this proud heritage.  Note the splendid Anglo names of the players: Robinson, Alexander, Elsom, Moore, Chisholm, Horwill and Ashley-Cooper (a distant relation of the 5th Earl of Shaftesbury).  Not an unreliable Irish name in sight!  Indeed, the Wallabies are a heart-warming throwback to a better, older Australia in which gentlemen of the Anglo persuasion ruled the roost and were not shy about upholding their right to do so.  They did not jabber on about Asia in those days; the original colonists knew jolly well whom their kith and kin were. 

So note the poppies that will be born on the tracksuits of several of the Australians tomorrow, and note their dignity whatever the outcome.  The quiet, modest tones of Moore and Giteau after their success at Twickers last year would have made Kipling himself purr with pleasure.  Note these things, and tip one's hat to the colonists.  One will not find a finer bunch of men anywhere outside England. 

But we must remember that England's opponents tomorrow are, after all, merely colonials.  They are ersatz Englishmen, but not real Englishmen.  They have courage and pluck, but not English courage and pluck.  They fought gallantly at Bloemfontein and Gallipoli, but they did not fight at Barnet or Bosworth Field or Marston Moor or Agincourt or Trafalgar or Waterloo.  They shed blood for the Empire in the Wars - and we honour them for it - but they did not shed blood at such a rate that an entire generation of public-school educated young men was wiped out; their sisters consigned to spinsterhood for the rest of their lives.  Most of all, the colonial has spirit, but he does not have the yeoman spirit.

The colonial is a frontiersman.  He is a sprightly, audacious soul.  He sets out to conquer, and he does it jolly well.  But Bruce of the Outback does not have the stubborn, redoubtable quality of John Bull.  Bruce, if he finds a spot of land too hostile, can move onto the next valley.  His land is immense; there is enough to gorge on.  No problem, mate.  The English yeoman is, by necessity, cut of very different cloth.  John Bull has no other valley to move on to.  This is it.  This valley, this acre, this plot of land is his life.  He must till it until the day he dies.  The buffeting of the seasons, the ravages of famine and war, the perils of sickness and disease: the yeoman cannot succumb.  He must cling to the soil, his soil, his precious English soil. 

Oh, do not be fooled by appearances.  John Bull is not a pretty beast.  He is not bronzed or lithe or athletic.  He cannot wrestle crocodiles or jump over kangaroos.  His belly is round because he sups English ale of a lunchtime.  His cheeks are rosy, his nails dirty, his bearing hunched and cautious to guard against the biting shire winds.  But what stubborness!  What perserverance!  Century follows upon century follows upon century and still the English shireman clings to his existence!  Still the name gets passed on down from generation to generation: Wilson, Thompson, Wilkinson.  Sons all of them - sons of fathers and sons of the shire soil.

Rejoice tomorrow, chaps.  Watch young Davey Wilson propel his monstrous bull neck into the first scrum, and rejoice that the English yeoman lives on.  Watch Wilkinson and Moody tackle like dervishes without the remotest concern for their own safety, and rejoice that the English yeoman lives on.  Watch the beef of big Jordan Crane; watch those thunder thighs scatter colonials in his wake; watch that voluptuous shire arse withstand contact; watch and rejoice that the English yeoman lives on! 

This is why we watch rugger.  Not for the momentary thrill of victory - enjoyable though it is - but for the stirrings in our ancestral memory that it provokes.  These are our people; this is our land; this is who we are.  England.  The Red Rose.  God Save the Queen.  

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback