Turkey votes for Christmas
How Tenji dusts off his old school tie to obtain another Utterpants exclusive
|It was a momentous and historic event when the EU agreed to talk about talks which might lead to a general discussion about the vague possibility of Turkey joining, or not joining, the exclusive EU Club situated in Grade I listed Georgian premises, on the Strand, in London|
"Y’see," said club secretary Straw, from behind a cloud of cigar smoke. "Ever since 1805 when the EU club was formed, we have dealt with Johnny foreigner firmly but fairly. Take your average Froggy, give ‘em a couple of good trousers-down, no nonsense, British spankings and y’ don’t hear from them for the best part of 200 years."
He looked around the wood panelled room adorned with the portraits
of Marlborough, Wellington, Churchill and Nelson. "Yes," he
continued, "we don’t like to boast, but at some time or other,
EU club members have probably given a good hiding to pretty much every
nation on earth."
Straw smiled as he caught the look of surprise on my face; the 1856 vintage was both rare and frighteningly expensive. "Yes," he said, "we like a few of life’s little luxuries. Gives the great unwashed something to which to aspire. Take that little Turk, gallant little feller, put up a damn good show at Gallipoli—God rot him—but a bottle of the 1856 is worth more than all of his wages for the next ten years."
The waiter returned with the decanter and two glasses. He was accompanied
by a taller man in full morning dress. "Ah Fritz!" said Straw
with an affable wave. "What d’ y’ want?"
Straw's face reddened with anger. "Get out!" He spat out
the words with venom.
The German's mouth opened and closed several times.
The Turk stood by our table holding the tray and looking somewhat taken aback. "Come on laddie," said Straw. "Put the tray down and run along. You’re going to have to look a lot sharper than that if you ever want to join!" The waiter made a silent exit.
"Where were we?" asked Straw. "Ah yes, Froggy knows his place; down in the kitchen somewhere doin’ something unspeakable with garlic I shouldn’t wonder. Now, the Boche are a much trickier proposition. See that chap who just came in? Maitre D’ chappie? Bloody arrogant. Tried the same trick on the Hun, couple of good pastings, did it do the trick? Not a bit of it. They came back, rich as Croesus, tail wagging and looking for more. D' y' know what that fat Kraut, Schroeder said when I asked him if he knew the Bishop of Winchester? 'Why? Don't you like him, either?' 'No,' I told him, 'He's an awfully decent feller—but he never passes the port!' Only one thing for it, let ‘em join the club, upped the subscription till their eyes watered and then palmed them off with some bloody toy-town currency—'Micky Mouse money,' that arse Boris Johnson calls it. Swallowed it hook line and sinker. Even got them to buy their own country back off the Ruskies!"
He took another cigar from the box between us and clipped the end. As he struck a match and began to light it, a face appeared outside the window. Between puffs he said: "Don’t worry about Igor there; he’s our Hungarian window cleaner. Works all day for a slice of salami and a cabbage. One of our newer members. Very keen to get a taste of the port—if you know what I mean."
There was a quiet knock at the door and a short fat man in lederhosen
entered. His hair was jet black and plastered flat against his skull
with hair oil. He wore a neatly ironed, button-down, brown shirt fastened
with two discrete, gold
"Yes, yes, spit it out man," snapped Straw. "What is
it? Don’t like darkies, eh? Muslims not to your taste, I suppose?
Frightened he’ll have your job are y’? Come on, out with
The telephone rang in a corner. The Turk entered, answered it and turned towards us. "Mr Straw Sir? There is a Russian downstairs enquiring about how to get on the membership waiting list..."
Story © 2005 How Tenji. Picture and construction © 2005 utterpants.co.uk / 041005