The World According to Trunnion: The Boys in the Orange Pyjamas and the Ovaltineys ...

The World According to Trunnion: The Boys in the Orange Pyjamas and the Ovaltineys ...: So there I was was walking along via Grosvenor Square on my way to see my tailor when who should I see ambling towards me b...

The Boys in the Orange Pyjamas and the Ovaltineys Last Stand

So there I was was walking along via Grosvenor Square on my way to see my tailor when who should I see ambling towards me but my old pal Drippy Morgan. Now, I hadn't seen the Dripster in ages and nor he I, but as we always did in these circumstances we stopped and greeted each other in our time honoured tradition.

 

At about a distance of 20 paces we both stopped and faced each other. I then proceeded to form a circle with the thumb and first finger of the right hand which I then raised level with my right earlobe with the other fingers of the right hand extended. Drippy then replied by making a V with the thumb and first finger of his right hand with the other three fingers closed into the palm of his hand which he too raised to eye level.

 

This as many of you know is the official greeting of members of a very special and old society, which at its peak could boast over five million members, the League of Ovaltineys. Myself and Drippy have been members since we were young boys and as far as we can make out are the only two paid up British male members left, having both taken out life membership in 1939 after paying the princely sum of three shillings and fourpence. For this we both recived our badge, which we still religeously wear three times every year on the birthdays of the founding members, Elsie, Winnie and Jonnie. We approached each other satisfied that the basic security checks of the League had been established and shook hands warmly as we sang the theme song outside a large, grey and rather imposing building, which we later found out to be the Embassy of the United States of America.

 

As it was Winnies birthday we decided to celebrate by having a spot of lunch and turned into a sidestreet unaware that we were now being followed, and it was as we turned right into Hay's Mews that it happened. There was a sound of screeching tyres and as we turned to view what was happening, four large men clad in black combat clothing jumped out of a van and ran towards us. Now both myself and Drippy are no strangers to unarmed combat and both received our training in the Army from Staff Sergeant McDuff, but that was many years ago and although we put up a valiant fight, it was not long before they had subdued us and we had been thrown into the back of the van, where, whilst it sped through the streets of Marylebone we were both drugged.

 

I have no idea how long it was before one came too, but as I opened my eyes I was aware that where ever it was I had ended up it certainly wasn't London, it was far too warm and sultry. As I lay on the mattress, a rather uncomfortable one and one I might add that was quite stained, I noticed that my new abode appeared to be nothing more than a concrete cell and that instead of my usual tweeds I was now clad in a rather garish orange onesie. I sat up gingerly and rubbed my head as the after effects of what ever drug I had been administered wore off, as I took in my new abode. It reminded me a bit of the staff accomodation at Flange's but it was far too warm and comfortable and it was then that I heard a tapping from the waterpipe. Eight taps followed by 26 further taps, DM. It was Drippy and he was corresponding with me by using the old Ovaltiney secret code.

 

I waited patiently as he tapped out his message, which I transposed in my head asking me if I was alright and where I thought we were? The drawback with the Ovaltiney code is that A is two taps, B is four and C is six. Unfortunately that means that Z requires 52 taps and the word AND requires a further 54. That meant that Drippy's question asking me how I was took him over 15 minutes to tap out and a further 15 for me to decode. Also his tapping could it seems be heard some way off and it appears that I wasn't the only one to hear Drippy's message. It was then, as I was about to reply that the door to my cell flew open and I met for the first time Captain Buzz Grabenfuss of the US Marine Corps.

 

Grabenfuss had two of his men escort me to an office where along with Drippy we sat, handcuffed to our chairs. After a few minutes the Captain, whose name I had translated into English as trench foot, sat opposite and spoke to us for the first time.

 

"Welcome to Guantanamo Bay" he said in a dull monotone. Myself and Drippy exchanged glances as we realised exactly where we now were, although why was another thing altogether. However, both of us had many a time expressed a hankering to visit Cuba, so apart from the clothing and spartan accomodation it was nice to get away from chilly old London.

 

"Why are we here?" asked Drippy.

 

"You know full well why you are here" replied Trenchfoot "You people make me sick!"

 

"I say old bean!" exclaimed Drippy "That's a bit thick, what?"

 

Trenchfoot sat there for a few moments stunned at Drippy's response, unable to speak.

 

"Is there a problem Captain?" I asked "And how may we help you? By the way" I continued "We have no idea why we are here, but I can assure you that we are more than happy to help any way we can"

 

"You were seen..." he said "...behaving in a highly suspicious manner by communicating in coded sign language outside our Embassy in London three days ago and since your arrival at this facility have continued to pass coded messages using a code that has our people baffled with an algorithm that seems to be unbreakable"

 

"Who do you think we are exactly?" I asked, as I realised that the next few hours might be quite ammusing. For both Drippy and myself had many years ago been trained by McDuff as to how to deal with such an ordeal and at last we had an opportunity to put his teachings to the test. We were going to have fun with old Trenchfoot and we were getting a free holiday at the expense of Uncle Sam to boot.

 

"Fundementalists" he replied passionately

 

"What sort?" asked Drippy

 

"Muslim fundementalists"

 

"Do we look like Muslim fundementalists to you?" I asked

 

"You could be a new type" he replied.

 

"Dressed in tweed" I said.

 

"Exactly" he responded, seemingly warming to his subject "We are trained to expect the unexpected, and dressing up as English gentlemen and talking in sign language is the type of thing you people would stoop to. Plus, we are puzzled by this Ovaltiney League" he said as he produced one our badges from his desk. "If you are not Muslim fundementalist terrorists, then who the hell are you people?"

 

"We are the last of the League" replied Drippy defiantly with fire in his eyes. "Ours is an old and noble organisation formed over 70 years ago. It is predominantly a left wing organisation, with right wing leanings with a middle of the road outlook. We are sworn to promoting malty beveridges and the goodness they provide"

 

"Also..." I continued "We are known to have links with Lord Peter Flint, The Illuminati, The Freemasons, GoB, that's the Grand Order of the Bee by the way, The Rosicrucians, Opus Dei, The Priory of Sion and the RAC"

 

"How many of you are there?" Trenchfoot asked, writing feverishly.

 

"Today.." I replied "...our numbers are few, but once long ago we were numbered in our millions"

 

"I want the names of your contacts" he demanded.

 

"Their real names are classified" replied Drippy, "Known only to a few specially chosen members. We only know them by their covernames, Winnie, Elsie and Jonnie. We think Elsie might be the commander but we could never be sure. All we know is that we used to recieve our instructions via Radio Luxembourg every Sunday at 17:30 hours, but it has been many years since we had any transmission, 21 in fact"

 

"So are you telling me that you are some kind of sleeper agents controlled from Luxembourg?" he asked with a note of panic seeping into his voice. "I've never come across a terrorist network located in Luxembourg before"

 

I looked at Drippy and tapped the right side of my nose with my finger which in Ovaltiney means "Come over to my house after school" which to be honest was not totally relevant to the ongoing proceedings but, when Drippy replied by touching the left side of his nose which means "Look out, someones listening and trying to discover our secrets" sent the poor Captain into appoplexy and with that he made a phone call.

 

Drippy and myself sat there in silence knowing that the unfortunate Captain was going to regret ever having tried to take on the combined powers of the Ovaltiney's and British sarcasm. It seemed incredulous to us that Trenchfoot could be so stupid and believe that two septagenarian Englishmen, clad in tweed could pose such a threat to his national security, but apparently in his eyes we did.

 

We were taken away and returned to our cells, which to be honest as a former public school boy were reasonably comfortable and the showers provided were quite regular, although personally I usually use the towel to dry myself off, not to be placed over the head first. I later learnt that this practice is known as "Ironing Bording" although I couldn't see why. However it was most refreshing.

 

This went on for many days although during our exercise periods we did meet some rather interesting chaps from Afghanistan, who seemed a bit puzzled at our being there, but who seemed pleasant enough. Then one day, whilst discussing the advantages of powdered malted drinks over cocoa with Trenchfoot and their possible use in the manufacture of IEDs, there was a commotion outside in the corridor and both myself and Drippy heard three sharp whistles, the Ovaltiney code for "attention".

The door opened in stepped a US Air Force General who stared at us and shouted "GIVE THE PASSWORD"

 

Both of us immediately shouted "OVALTINEY, OVALTINEY" in reply and waited patiently with smiles on our faces for both of us recognised our old friend Cirus B Hink of the USAF and last of the American Ovaltiney gang. He took one look at us and then roared at poor old Trenchfoot to explain what was going on. Trenchfoot bless him did his best, but he was on a rather sticky wicket and his arguements were brushed aside one by one.

 

Later that day we were released, said our goodbyes to our fellow inmates and swapped addresses with one or two of the gang from Kabul who had expressed an interest in Winnie, Elsie and Jonnie. The Marines rather generously allowed us to keep our onesies as souvenirs which we got some of the more friendly members of the Taliban to sign, what lovely chaps.

 

It was as we made our way to the helipad that Cirus was able to explain what had happened. He said that probably the worst place in London to stand and talk in coded sign language is outside their Embassy. He apologised on behalf of the USA and admitted that his security forces had gone a bit over the top, because for all they knew we could have been deaf and a simple explanation probably would have sufficed instead of our unplanned holiday at their expense. As it turned out, it was Toots Bollinger aging socialite, and the last surviving female member of the Ovaltiney's who happened to have witnessed our kidnapping from her flat and using her Foreign Office contacts had finally tracked us down.

 

As we flew out of Cuba we looked at the island and smiled. "Thank goodness" said Drippy "That Trenchfoot never got around to asking us about the Tufty Club!"

 

Trunnion

 

29th March 2013

 

 

 

 





The World According to Trunnion: New Book on the SAS

The World According to Trunnion: New Book on the SAS: I have just completed writing my new book on the Special Air Service and their little known raid in WW2 to destroy all German held stocks...

New Book on the SAS

I have just completed writing my new book on the Special Air Service and their little known raid in WW2 to destroy all German held stocks of Marmite.

It's called Bovril Two Zero!

The World According to Trunnion: Trouble at Flange's

The World According to Trunnion: Trouble at Flange's: Flange's Famous Fish Pie     There has been absolute turmoil at Flange's this week with a situation as dangerous to the very...

Trouble at Flange's

Flange's Famous Fish Pie

 

 

There has been absolute turmoil at Flange's this week with a situation as dangerous to the very fabric of the club as the now infamous Himalayan Beaver Cheese incident of 1894. The allegation in question was raised by one of our longest serving members, Afghan Jonny Fanshawe, who accused our chef, Gaspard Binoche of putting Seahorse in the club's famous fish pie. This obviously upset the afore mentioned chef who was understandibly quite piqued at Fanshawe's accusation, and was threatening to hand in his spoons.

This I have to admit is not the first time however, that one of Chef Binoche's cullinery masterpieces has been the subject of debate, as anyone who sampled his fig and stilton kebabs will testify. Binoche may be a maverick with the old spatular at times and crosses cooking boundaries with a whimsical stride, but never had he been accused of attempted poisoning, until Afghan Jonny popped in the other day.

Those of you unfamiliar with old Afghan Jonny need to understand that this member is not himself a stranger to controversy, even at an international level. Rumour has it that the former Soviet Union's invasion in 1979 of its neighbour Afghanistan was down mainly to Jonny Fanshawe and something that he said to former Russian Premier Leonid Breshnev's wife in the back of a taxi in downtown Moscow whilst working as the official interperator for the British Cheese Council's delegation. He it is said, then skipped town sharpish with all the Sage Derby he could muster and was later reported attempting to produce this cheesey commestible at a small dairy in the hills overlooking Kabul, with Mrs Breshnev in tow. Next thing we heard was that thousands of Russians were streaming over the Afghan border with orders to return Mrs Breshnev to Moscow, to destroy all traces of Sage Derby and the immediate arrest of Jonny Fanshawe.

Fanshawe it is rumoured, fled to the hills with a loyal band of followers addicted to his Sage Derby and held out long enough to allow old Jonny to once again disappear from the international scene. Afghanistan in the 1970s was actually a recognised holiday hotspot for international tourists, but has been bedevilled with problems since, and this we at Flange's believe is mostly the fault of old Fanshawe and also the reason why Sage Derby was removed from our menu!

Anyway, all of a sudden last week after an absence of more than 15 years Fanshawe popped in for a spot of lunch and ordered the fish pie. Nothing seemed amiss until there was a commotion and a hullabaloo of epic proportions as Fanshawe threw down his fork in disgust and called for Fang, the Chief Steward. We watched as Fang listened to Fanshawe patiently and then wheeled away as if struck in the old solar plexus, knocking over a decent half bottle of the 2003 club port.

Fang ran off to fetch the club secretary, Brigadier (Retired) Sir Arnold Cumley-Topsoil RA CMG GoB MC who when appraised of the situation immediately called for the club's members to sit at a hastily arranged Emergency General Meeting to discuss the allegation raised by old Fanshawe and Binoche was sent for.

Fanshawe had he believed detected an aroma of a particular ingredient in the fish pie, namely Hippocampus Gattulatus, better known as Spiney Seahorse, a relative of the Pipefish and used mainly in ancient Chinese remedies, but whose use is not that well known in British cooking or anyones cooking for that matter. Fanshawe is aware, as we all are in Britain of the current problems our country is facing with the many reports of horse meat making its way into the food chain. Now we at Flange's have been quite happily eating the odd bit of Gee-Gee for some time now and Binoche's Cheval en Croute has been a favourite at the club for many years. But that was the nub of the arguement. In that dish we know that it is there and are happy to munch on in bliss, but, not knowing exactly what it is you may be eating is another matter, and as much as I detest Fanshawe, who in my view is a bit of a rum cove, did in this case have a point.

The doors were closed, curtains drawn and the investigation began. No-one was at first accusing Binoche of knowingly inserting the old Hippocampus into the pie and assumed that the ingredient had been slipped into the mix by his supplier. But it was then pointed out by our only female member, Toots Bollinger, that Binoche is a chef with two Michelin stars and doesn't just pop down to a supermarket for a packet of fish pie mix, he sources his own ingredients and therefore to allow Pipefish into the pie mix is either an oversight of gross carelessness or a deliberate attempt to convert us to Seahorse and Chips.

Binoche finally admitted with tears in his eyes, to trying to make his fish pie more ecologically friendly by not relying on species of fish brought to the edge of extinction by overfishing and was simply using other, more sustainable ingredients. Bollinger did ask him why he couldn't have just used Stickleback, Pike or Whitecloud Mountain Minnow, but Binoche bless him stuck to his guns and argued that Stickleback is rather spiney and no-one wanted a repeat of that incident at Windsor Castle all those years ago when Bollinger had tried to introduce a rather prominent member of the Royal Family to Stickleback on toast. He did have a point and Bollinger sportingly retracted her arguement.

The crux of the meeting boiled down to whether the dish was spoilt by the inclusion of Seahorse. Binoche was told to bring every member present a plate of the pie for us to decide for ourselves. Fanshawe argued that he wasn't objecting to the presence of Seahorse, just that he would like to have known that it was there, and had thrown down his fork in disgust mainly due to the fact that had he known, as he put it "That the damned dish was riddled with Hippocampus" that he would never have selected a Vouvray to accompany his lunch and would have gone for something else with "a more robust nose"

Binoche served the pie and we all sat down to eat his new creation. I had to admit it was a little more pungeant than we were used to but not unpleasant, the exact opposite in fact, but I can see why a Vouvray was a bad choice. Vouvray is a light, delicate wine and not at all up to the job of handling a pie of this magnitude, but all were agreed that on its own the pie was a triumph and should remain on the menu, much to the chef's delight, although he was gently reprimanded by the club for not telling people what he was up to.

The main problem though was what wine to serve with the dish? The Somelier was called and his opinion was sought along with those of us on the Wine Committee. Many plates of the new fish pie were consummed as we tried to match a wine with the dish. After many hours of gastronomic reserch, we finally settled on a 1998 Madiran produced mostly from the little known Tannat grape from a vinyard a few miles to the south-east of Bayonne. I know that the notion of serving red wine with fish to some is abhorrent, but I can assure you the Domaine Pichard served that day more than held its own and was certainly robust enough to handle Seahorse which I can report has a slightly pungeant, gamey flavour not too dissimilar if memory serves to Oscelot and is vaguely reminisent of Ecidna. But, when incorporated into Binoche's fish pie mix and topped with his wonderfully creamy garlic mash it is indeed a triumph!

As for old Afghan Jonny, he has more than restored his reputation amongst those at the club and for the first time in more than three decades Sage Derby has once again regained its rightful place on the club's cheese board.


Trunnion

March 2013

No Room at the Inn?

Pinky's Nativity Set

 

The other day outside Fortnum's after ordering the Christmas hamper, I had the good fortune to bump into my old Regimental chum Pinky Cardew. Now some of you may remember old Pinky, during the 50s after leaving the army he played lead mandolin in a jazz combo known as Pinky Cardew and the Left Heeled Slingers. Anyway, there he was, large as life wearing his usual tweed jacket, pink cordouroy trousers and club tie.

It appears that they have decided to reform and Pinky was on his way home from rehearsals near Sloane Square. Never one to miss a spot of lunch, we popped into my club, Rammal's, and over a couple or three bottles of club claret chatted the afternoon away. Pinky it seems is as busy as ever and was enthusing over the reformation of the Left Heeled Slingers and their forthcoming performance at a benefit concert in aid of Homeless Moldovan Candle Makers.

Innevitably the converstion steered its way into our plans for the festive season. As always I was looking forward to taking the old Sunbeam Alpine down to my villa near Reculver, whilst Pinky would be jazzing it up with the Slingers before flying off to San Marino for a series of Christmas lectures that he was giving on thirteenth century spoons and their impact on Rennaissance warfare.

Whilst waiting for the soup Pinky opened a bag and from it produced a box which contained a monstrosity beyond belief. Pinky it seems had heard of my penchant for tasteless tatt from pound shops and on a whim had popped into his local store to see what was on offer. We were both impressed with the sonic nose hair removers, and the 14lb jar of pickled oysters looked devine, but the icing on the cake had to be the hand painted Nativity Scene.

"I'll shall be putting that in pride of place" he said with a conspirital wink "I wonder if I should buy one for the Officer's Mess?"

I stared at the object with a mixed sense of revulsion and awe. It was truly hideous, but brilliant in its sheer level of unabashed tackiness.

"I should imagine Pinky, dear heart" I replied "That you will incurr the wrath of the Mess Steward and probably find yourself consigned to the rubbish heap along with that thing"

We sat in silence, whilst we consumed our soup, staring at his Nativity scene. It lacked many things, taste for one, but also shepherds, kings, animals and an angel. Apart from that it was perfect. The waiter tried to sneak it away from us as he cleared away the plates, but Pinky was too quick for him.

"You know..." he said as the Somelier poured the Chablis and the braised trout was served "Has it not occurred to you that there are one or two holes in the old story of the Nativity?" As he spoke he motioned with his head in the direction of the abomination.

"Take this effort for example" he continued "Here we have, one assumes Joseph and Mary looking adoringly at their newborn son, Jesus, who has what is commonly known as a "six-pack". I stared and had to agree with Pinky, that the little effigy of the messiah did indeed look as though he had been "working out"

"If we are to believe that this scene is representative of the actual event, then I have to conclude that this is either pre or post visit of the three wise men due to their absence. The story goes that when the family arrives in Bethlehem they are told that there is no room at that inn and one assumes therefore that all the other hostelries are similarly fully booked and as a result end up in the stable"

I sipped my Chablis appreciatively and nodded sagely, enjoying Pinky's train of thought.

 

"I have always wondered" he asked himself "Where, if there were no hotel rooms, did the three Kings stay? One assumes that the shepherd or shepherds would be used to roughing it, but not the King's old boy. I doubt that they had tents as all the cards I've received with pictures of the three wise men showing them travelling rather lightly, not a hint of a camp bed, guide rope or ground sheet between them. I can only therefore ascertain that they had already booked ahead and arranged suitable accommodation, such as the local lodge"

 

I looked at the Nativity at his elbow and chewed thoughtfully on a slice of Battenburg.

 

"Are you suggesting Pinky old friut, that the three wise men were Mason's?"

 

"I am indeed" he replied. "It does make sense though don't you think? Think about it, three foreigners arrive in a strange land after following a star on a whim for hundreds of miles and find themselves in a town with no available rooms. It stands to reason that they would do what any sane men would do and seek out the local lodge" He sat back smiling at his perceptiveness.

 

"So why therefore" I asked "Didn't Joseph, if he is the step-father of the son of God, use his influence and find a better place for the Nativity to take place?"

 

"One assumes that either he wasn't a member, or, he'd been blackballed! Besides, how ridiculous would your standard Nativity set look if it was set inside a Travelodge or a Premiere Inn?"