The Return of a Ragged Hajji

This the diary entry beeth for the twenty-first day of December—the tenth month of the year were it not for the machinations of egocentric Roman emperors of centuries past—of the year twenty-hundred and six:

“Tis our forth day in Medina in the warming heat of Arabistan according to our own grand master plan. Shortly we shalt depart for Mecca and the wondrous House. Planned months in advance and carefully financed—ihram sourced a month before departure, luggage packed two weeks before—but though we plotteth and planf, Allah always the best of planners beeth. Here sitteth one in mine own study, warming mine own self against the icy air beside the heating pipe, the fog outside coveringeth the hill across the valley, the house across the street obscured by this hanging haze. Our voyage by winged airship wast Sun Day last, but leave without us said ship didst. Awaiting our visas, the day of Tues wast the flight next available, but still our visas failf to materialise. We planned, hopefully, for Wednesday, but even if it hadst all comf to pass our winged machine wouldst hafe been grounded by the heavy fog suffocating Heath Row. Now we planf for the day of fried fish, our visas secure we believe, but the meteorologists think the fog wilt holf for an other day or so. Perhappens we shalt fly on the pagans’ day of Saturn. Perhappens not. Perchance we shalt fly to Mecca direct and there shalt no Medina beeth. Perchance not. We plotteth and planf, but Allah the best of planners always beeth. And indeed Allah ever wit the patient beeth.”

Mine dear sirs—sirs of the lady variety inclusive—tis a remarkable fact that upon our merry way we finally stepped on the Eve of Christmas, not before a false start hadst comf to pass, making our way to the air field at Saint Anne’s Stead at one half of a day’s notice. Twas indeed lovely to meetf our companions once more, each joyous face beaming despite the draining tensions that hadst comf to pass in the course of the week past and the many miles travelled by some of them to get to the runway on time. Hark, an evening of further delays couldst knock our patience not, for we knew wit certainty that at last we hadst been called.

While preparing for Hajj, moste of the advicementations one hadst receivefed hadst semt overwhelmingly negative to mine sometimes less than jolly self, mine well-meant counsellors insisting that they only intenfed to prepare mine self for the inevitable. Yet, good though their intentions wert, their guidance merely filled mine self wit gloom, undermining mine emotional preparations for this incredible expedition. When one set out on mine own journey, forethere, this character instant wast determinf to moan or fret not and to counth the blessings of our Lord instead. And harky hark O hark many of these there wert, even afore our arrival: the kindness of splendid comrades who dropfed every matter in order to takf us to the airfield, the generosity of flyular staff who tookf our splendid selves back to the main terminal for eatering after the commercial vendors hadst closed on Christmas’ Eve at our own satellite gate and the wheat-based delights from a French named and Arab staffed eatery. Not to mention the beautiful company.

And on.

Pack ye bags

Alack!

Mine dear sirs, sirs of the lady variety and fellows fat and totherwise, tis wit some regret that I note the neglect that hast befallen this noble wordular gathering, our splendid Copious Footnotes. Alas, tis a jerking of the tears witin in mine right eye. Mine dear chaps and esses, explain to me what hast comf to pass if ye will. Wast it not only in the erroneously named month of September of the year preceding this whence I, master El-Bowes of the hamlet of Chess, pronouced this journal open wit mine very own typing digets. But look at us! Tis a saddening day.

What'er didst happen to our noble gesture to restore to its place and standing that olde friend and comfort that fell alonge the wayside so many moons agone. Twas the prize in the eye of mine potato. Does it thus fall to mine self to remind ye of that small book of ours named "The Driving Range"? Shalt I be forced to blow the dust from that aging volume and print it anew upon The Othello Press? Tis it really so?

Once upone our time, tis not it a truth that two mindes didst meet acrosse the keyboards, one Sir Wilkinson-Smythe of the Old Bengal Club, the other a Timotheous Theodopulus Bow Esq formerly of Rhodesia upon Hull? And wast not many a joyful wurde exchanged and merriment behelf all around? Well?

Alas, tis a mourning hour in the townships, hamlets and shires of olde Blighty, for we hafe failed in our commencementation of the new era that wast surely meant to comf to pass. Alas, the days of olde hafe passed us by perhappens. Tis now an age of much seriosity, toil and engagement. Alas. Tis a lowly moment. Alas. What shalt become of us? Alas, I knowth not.

Thine wit salamutations aplenty but pangs of regret all the same,

El-Bowes, sad sir of the Hamlet upone the river Chess in the Shire of Bucking in the occaisionally united Queendom.

Annotatiation

O for the memories of olde! Imagine mine surprise upon encountering the noble Turk of Finchley during mine return to Londonistan this very Saturnday past. Mrs El-Bowes and I arrived at the Eastern mosque at a late hour, as is the tradition of the Muslimanic souls of this very age, wandering into the splendid edifice wit great togetherness, whereupon we were all but at once separated. Taking mine merry self off to the prayer hall, I stood for mine mid-afternoon salat amongst folk mainly of Bengal descent. Yet twas upon mine return to the Muslimanic gathering of men and women of non-Muslim lineage that I spied a certain master of an olden age. I stood at the door for fifteen moments, wondering twas it really he? Pray seeth. Wit goodspeed I wandered on, skirting to the furthest end of the hall wherst I hoped to catch his eye. Across the table he peered back at me, a perplexed expression of curiosity aroused in his beaming face. Thence all of a sudden he didst shoot to his feet. ‘Tim Abi!’ exclaimed he. What merriment. Tis hast been nigh upon seven Gregorian years if not more and happenstance hast decreed that he now a Barrister bist and an academic furthermore. And what of me? Lo, tis no matter. The good sir served mine joyful self wit one bowl o soup and a Turkish casserole and what a merry old dialogue camf to pass. Twas during mine departure later that very even wit mine marvellous wife, howere, that the true sparkle of reminiscence didst push through the fog of mine remiss. O for the memories of olde! O for those days in Londonistan at the tail of the century and even beyond. Hark, what utter merriment!

In those heady days of the late nineteen hundreds, in years proceeding even the conception of Greenwich’s Millenium tent and Clare Short’s intention to rid the world of poverty by the turn of the decade, it was decreed that I should take up a studying post at the School of Oriental Intrigue in the heart of olde England’s capital. O for the memories of olde! Speak not of Melfillipian conspiracies; pray, whence the moment comf thence shalt the adventures of El-Bowes in Londonistan spill forth, just as did ‘Unto the Blackened City’ of six years agone. Hark, what unreserved merriment!

Gentlemanly Conduct

The Togiamahgithcow Principle

Smythe, Mine dear olde boy, there beest a well knowne saying in the elephant trade conveyed thus: ‘The entrepreneurs who feeds his elephants caviar beest a fellow of folly!’ What canst Bow meaneth by this, mine presumptuous ears heareth thoust ask. Canst thee not seeth nor comprehend? Beest thine mind already dull at this juncture of our gathering? Good sir, for one bound to rise from the ranks of commondom a thimble worth of perception is surely requisite. Stay with it olde boy! The meaning, plain to see for all concerned surely this beest: ‘The occupational gentleman is a missionary and his gospel is the coinage of worth.’ Dost thou not now comprehend? In any case, mine imperfect self shallt hither proceedeth upon an explanatory path for the benefit of all budding gentlemen and the odd gentlelass. Hark, tis truth of surety.

Good sirs, Togiamahgithcow beest neither the Welsh hamlet three miles north of the pleasant market town of Lampeter nor a socialist sovereign of the upper reaches of our fair tectonic plate. Nay, far from it! Togiamahgithcow beest the very key to our task; the winding pin in the hand of our metaphoric lock-smith, the passwurde in the magazine of the passwurder’s armoury. Tis truth! Let it be knowne from this instant forth that the duty of a noble sir is to sell his wares to the best of his ability, whether to like-minded courtiers or unto the common man. Keep in minde the moste useful of reminders and never let it slip from thine mind: ‘The occupational gentleman is a missionary and his gospel is the coinage of worth.’ Canst thoust now be in any doubt?

Whence a kinde sir, such as thine merry own self, coins, founds, fashions and establishes what to all couldst be callethed worth, he is philanthropoligically bestowing upon his patrons the raison d’être to make a purchase, grande or less than, from thine moste esteemed personage. Wert thee to persist and indeed main tain this notion which we shalt henceforth baptize ‘worth’, in turn thee wouldst bestoweth further and continued incentive upone the patron to make a pur chase further and on from thine ever more noble selfe. In the process, the kinde sir shalt hafe earned respect from his patrons who shalt trust said sir like the elephant trusts his handler whence rewardedeth with sweet Tanganyikan ground nuts. Whence the kinde sir hast earned bothe the confidence of his patron and respect from him in turne, he shalt be set upone the road to success, the patron continuingeth to maketh due acquisitions from said gallant soul, thus augmenting his returns. Hence, Togiamahgithcow!

A wurde of caution, howe’r, good sir, now beest the time not to be sendingeth a telegram to Harrods off for thine celebratory camel hair evening jacket. For, alas, try as we mayst, capitalism furnishes our patron not with just one avenue of venture, but, alas, alas, whole hosts of streets, lanes, by waters and backwaters. Good sir! Tis thine duty to taketh the Togiamahgithcow principle to heart and thence truly make a mint of it. How dost one fulfileth such a brief, mine self heareth thoust asketh. Tis a profound question indeed. Good sire, let us proceed onto such matters with good speed.

The like of us, but different...

http://www.theslingshot.com/
http://www.thechap.net

Alas dear sirs and on, tis doth seeme that mine sometimes less that merry self ist losing a bility to converse in the pure Smythian tongue. What beeth wrong? One canst not fathom the words to communicate upon this lightening causulated tablet. That which passes across mine brow doth penetrate not and re-emerge rendered in finery. Alas, what hast become of mine humoured fingular ranting?

This summer

Smythe olde boy:

Summer hast descended upon our merry selves, so pray good man, whence beest thine departure for these Inglish lands? We art looking foreward to thine arrival at our wee hamlet situated upon the river Chess. Twouldst be grande to have a reunion of many a folke of olde within our courtyard one sunny afternoon. Yay! The good knight Abdul Baasit, sir Abdi of Finsbury, The old Nomad, sir Shakheel and on. Twouldst that not be moste splendid? We couldst consume delicious barbequed Turkish tucker and sip on mint tea, reclining on our lawn. The lady folke couldst gather in the lower garden and we upon the upper, wherest chatter and good company wouldst be beheld, and we couldst pray there two at an appointed hour. Tis a delight to mine mind just to contemplate thus. Hark! Let us agree upon it, wot? Let us extend this invitation to Monty furthermore and to any others of the olde clan.

Thine wit fond bestowals o peace,

El-Bowes

Hearken

Dear old chaps and chapesses

Where ist everyone? Tis has been a week of most unsettling quiet. Tis has indeed been noted by a stranger at our door, enquiring of our whereabouts.

Bowes, art thou in Rhodesia? Mineself dost not need to remind thee that thine master ist not returning; the elephants didst trample upon him moste finally. I plead thee therefore do not embark upon any search that ist doomed to failure and abandonded abandon.

Perhaps tis the climes upon thine shores. Hast it caused thine merry selves to retreat indoors, asunder from all forms of epistular compositional devices? I hafe heard of a tree striking the back of mine cousin's house in the north of london, oh dear london. I couldst not hafe believed if it were not that I hafe witnessed the very same happenstance in the great storm of 1987, or was it 1986, I canst not recall with any degree of follyproof accuracy.

Dost thine selves recall the speaking clock? At the third stroke, the time sponsored by Accurist willt be nine o ' clock precisely. Bally fine thing that Accurist wert the sponsor and not a more long-winded variety of sponsor, lest it did not fit and thyme were to fall out of sync.

Thyne with awaitings

Thyme Gentlemen (again)

Salmutations!

Look: New fangled digital clock. Hurrah!

Thine,

El-Bowes