Sir P Speaks: Bon Voyage

Lovely Sir Partridge,

What countries should I visit and why? I ask because though you think your self-published travel books don’t have a fan base, there are those of us who can’t get enough of such titles as Confessions of a Naughty Travel Writer and The Gormley Archipelago: Islands I Have Been To.

In fact, I would like to become a travel writer too. How do I do it?

Also, are you available as a travelling companion?

Yours (always)

Titania Trumpet-Sock

vintage travel 10

Dear T

You’re right of course. I am a superb travel writer and it’s shocking that this has gone unnoticed by the countless publishers I’ve sent my manuscripts to.

No, I will not travel with you because I find your name disturbing and I sense in you a certain fanaticism. I imagine that were we to meet you would remain in a state of catatonic adoration, staring at me for hours with eyes the size of mad saucers.

Still, here’s some advice. I have always ensured I visit countries in clumps and that they have some kind of connection with one another. This imbues one’s journey with meaning, however spurious. For instance, in my book An Eye for an I, all of the countries I visited began with the letter ‘I’ and had vengeance as a national characteristic, namely: Iceland (Viking sagas); Italy (mafia payback); India (Hindu-Muslim tensions etc); Ireland (the Troubles); and so on. Brilliant when you think about it.

Likewise, in my book The Monosyllabic Empire, I spent a fortune visiting the five countries in the world with only one syllable (France, Guam, Greece, Laos and Chad). It turns out that they have little in common beyond this charming quirk of pronunciation.

Becoming a travel writer is quite easy as long as you have little wish to be read. I can only write against the market rather than for it and I have no regrets. All travel books are feats of colossal self-indulgence masquerading as acts of generosity. I have no truck with such hypocrisy. I prefer to nail my colours to the mast. Hence my true masterpieces include Travels with my Tract: Getting Caught Short in the World’s Most Inconvenient Places, and An Aladdin’s Cave: A Voyage into the Treasure House that is the Gormley Mind.

Here’s an excerpt from the latter:

Stone Town, Zanzibar, 14 October 2011

At 7.13am, woke up from fevered dream in which I was on a speeding train crowded with people, one of whom had decided to bring eight Irish wolfhounds. The man released the hounds and suddenly I was under desperate attack. To save myself I somehow managed to hurl most of them to their death through an open door.

At our destination, the dogs’ owner summoned the police and pressed charges. I was led away by a constable who, I noticed in shock and disgust, was none other than myself.

Constable Gormley realised the dog-killing charges wouldn’t stick so as we passed a pub, he asked the owner for advice on how to frame me. ‘Get him on trafficking prescription drugs’ was the publican’s cheery response. Then I woke up.

Spent the rest of the day thinking about why I find coins so fascinating, regretting that I haven’t joined the Navy, wishing gladiators were still an entertainment option, and wondering why life seems so hard when most of the time it really isn’t.

I also favour the 18th century tradition of putting as much in the title as possible. Of all my 34 books, my favourite is: A Long and Dreary Sojourn in Slippers across the Shetland Islands, Taking in Such Unremarkable but Absurdly-Named Villages as Grutness, Drong and Clab, in Near-Horizontal Sleet while Regretting that I’d Ended what was (in Retrospect) a Promising Relationship with a Young Lady who would have made an Excellent Travelling Companion and Mender of Broken Hire Cars.

I hope this helps.

Yours

Gormley

 

Conan Elphicke

Sir Partridge Gormley’s emissions are rendered as coherent as they can be by the ever-patient @ConanElphicke. If you are confused and bewildered, and we suspect you are, by all means send your queries to thecringeblog@gmail.com.

Advertisements

Sir P Speaks: Public enemies number one

Dear Sir Partridge

Why are cyclists the way they are? Why are they so scrawny? Lycra seems like a miracle material if you dislike chafing but why can’t it have a proper use? I mean, cyclists aren’t exactly criminals (or are they?) but can’t something be done? Perhaps you should write a book on this urgent issue.

Yours
Nogbert Frump

vintage-cyclist

Hello Nogbert

Firstly, let me congratulate you for making so little effort to disguise the fact that you’re actually me. As a pathological narcissist, it’s a constant relief that since starting this valuable column I have thus far not had to offer advice to anyone but myself.

As it happens I am indeed tempted to write a novel that deals with cycling and the danger it poses. It would be a dystopian vision of life beyond peak oil when bicycles are the only form of transport, and even they are at a premium. Only the rich can afford them and so find it relatively easy to escape the zombies. Fortunately, there emerges from the pedestrian under-herd a visionary quasi-superhero called Partridge Man who leads a successful rebellion against the cyclist overlords. But then here’s the twist, see – he and his fellow non-cycling humans avoid the zombies need to outrun the zombies. How do they do this? Why, cycling of course. Quickly Partridge Man and his minions are scooting about on their Malvern Stars as smugly and vigorously as the very people they overthrew. How ironic! How original! And an original plot requires an original title. Animal Velodrome?

Anyway, the point is that the above plot raises one of the key problems with hating cyclists: that on paper at least cycling is a wonderful thing – it’s good for you (until you fall off) and it’s good for the environment (yawn). So any serious attempt to ban cycling has to find some way to skirt these issues.

The reason it is necessary to take such a harsh line at all is the deep ideological divide that separates cyclists from normal people. This is most evident on so-called shared walkway/cycle-paths, which provide cyclists with countless opportunities to close in on their stealth vehicles of death, whip past you with half an inch to spare and abuse you roundly for using your legs in a manner inconsistent with their world view.

So, the only way for sanity to prevail is for one to yield to the other. This can be achieved through a grand exercise in reverse psychology. Things need to be made mandatory. In effect, a system needs to be introduced in which anyone who does not embrace cycling and all it represents would be purged. All forms of non-cycling transport, including walking, would be banned. Wearing any clothing apart from lycra bib-and-brace onesies with Goretex over-panties would see you straight up against the wall. Dissent along the lines of ‘Christ, my bum and quadriceps are sore’ or ‘Why do these bloody things keep getting punctures?’ or ‘I have nicely developed calf muscles but the rest of me is emaciated’ will result in you being sent to a re-education camp in Coober Pedy.

It is only when we experience the true horror of a state in which the tedious good sense of cycling is taken to its logical extreme that the scales will fall from the eyes of all but the most ardent admirer of that two-wheeled instrument of torture and woe.

And what obese quasi-superhero would lead the people as they rise up against the state and restore civilisation to the utopia it is today? Well, I think we all know the answer to that one.

Gormley

 

Conan Elphicke

Sir Partridge Gormley’s emissions are rendered as coherent as they can be by the ever-patient @ConanElphicke. If you are confused and bewildered, and we suspect you are, by all means send your queries to thecringeblog@gmail.com.

Sir P Speaks: That vain stab at immortality

Dear Sir Partridge

My husband and I have 10 children. Should we have another one so we can field a complete cricket team? Or should we get a pet? If so, which species and breed? Seven of my children want a border collie; two want a cheetah; one wants a meerkat to feed to the cheetah.

Yours in desporation (desperation and adoration)

Beatrice S

vintage family

It’s funny you should mention this, Beatrice, because of late my legion devotees have been hounding me to breed (usually with them). “Do it for the sake of humanity!” they wail. But I refuse. Here’s why: my cleaning lady told me she once walked into her bathroom to find her two-year-old ‘cleaning’ his teeth with the toilet brush. She took this incident in her stride; I have entirely failed to do so.

Yes, having children passes the baton of your title and/or surname to another generation in the great spiralling relay race our DNA makes us run. But in exchange there is much to be endured. One analogy is that children are hugely demanding, wildly expensive pets it takes years to house train. Another is that they are helpless, fickle, merciless, deranged masters who are as unwilling to pay you as they are unable.

Kiddy-winks are diametrically opposite to how they should be. These are the phases a child, in an ideal world, would pass through:

  • 0–12 months: lounging about in their cot, sleeping more or less constantly and making charming gurgling sounds when required
  • 1–5 years: impeccably behaved, self-vaccinating creatures of delight who excel in all sporting and quasi-academic endeavours, putting all your friends’ kids to shame
  • 6–12: perfectly capable of managing your tax and other financial affairs, mixing you a decent cocktail, and capable of and inclined to cook and clean without any expectation of payment
  • 13–18: never surly, sullen or in any way inclined to interact with the wrong type of boy/girl or express any interest in becoming an actor, dancer, poet, artist, writer etc.

There is also a need to interrogate your ancestry and ask yourself what it really has to offer. I am the eldest of the Gormley mass spawning and neither I nor my six siblings are terrific advertisements for passing on our genome. They are all in varying degrees deranged, profligate and perverted:

  • Pemmican – buffoon, male palm-reader, thinks he’s a hipster
  • Petunia – the brains of the outfit but a bit dry and tiresome, truth be told
  • Puddock – amateur mortician and professional taxidermist (or possibly the other way round), Internet troll and general shit
  • Plenitude – psychopath and femme fatale (sorry, Plenny dear, but it’s true)
  • Prunella – lady drunkard; cockatiel-fancier; psoriasis-sufferer
  • Picaroon – diminutive gigolo and all-round Queenslander

So, my dear, ditch the Beatrice XI idea and opt for a pet. Forget the border collie though. Offer your kids either a stick insect or an orang-utan. If they plump for the former, your troubles are over. If they select the latter, don’t be dismayed. These excellent apes are fantastic animal companions for two reasons: a) they make cheap, if mediocre, butlers, and b) when the time comes, their pelts make exceptional throw rugs.

Luv-dubs,

Gormley

Conan Elphicke

Sir Partridge Gormley’s emissions are rendered as coherent as they can be by the ever-patient @ConanElphicke. If you are confused and bewildered, and we suspect you are, by all means send your queries to thecringeblog@gmail.com.

Sir P Speaks: For he is a gentleman

duel

 

Dear Sir P

I feel unaccomplished. I can’t hold a tune, wield a sword, ride a horse or speak a foreign tongue. I have also occasionally behaved like a bounder and/or a cad. Do I have the right to call myself a gentleman? What is a gentleman, for God’s sake? Also, what is the difference between a bounder and a cad, and which am I?

Am I in fact a true man in any sense? The notion of ‘manhood’ has become extremely confused of late.

Also, I’ve been challenged to a duel. Will you be my second?

Finally, is it inappropriate for a grown man to build models of WWII battleships?

Oh, and what is your favourite country?

Affectionately,

Fuddbut Tromso

 

Dear Fuddbut

As it happens, a number of people have stridently insisted I write a guide to becoming a gentleman. They believe that it would be for the good of the country, that young men are so ill-defined nowadays, and the world at large so wayward and pre-apocalyptic, that what’s really needed is a manual to help an individual forge a robust identity that will survive anything.

I’ve always refused. You can’t teach such things; you can only throw quotes at the problem. So here’s one: the statesman and philosopher Edmund Burke wrote in the late 18th century that “a king may make a nobleman, but he cannot make a gentleman”.

Sadly, I am living proof of this.

Similarly, a treatise called ‘A Discourse Concerning the Character of a Gentleman’ by ‘A Person of Quality’ in 1716 explains, “The Appellation of the Gentleman (says the Tatler) should never be affix’d to a Man’s Circumstances, but to his Behaviour in them”.

So if by any chance you have a pipe, I invite you to stick the above in it and light up. In my mind, to be a gent it is simply necessary to bear those notions in mind, not speak with your mouth full and to be willing and able to rattle off at least three Gilbert & Sullivan songs, whether sober, squiffy or hammered out of your mind.

In days of yore, being a gent was much more demanding. In 1528, one Count Baldassare Castiglione published The Book of the Courtier, a how-to guide for the original Renaissance man. Among an array of accomplishments, Castiglione encouraged sprezzatura – a certain effortless composure or nonchalance. The sort of thing, frankly, that only an Italian can pull off convincingly. And I suspect, young Fuddbut, that you are not an Italian.

Because I have a dictionary and you clearly don’t, I will now explain the difference between a bounder and a cad. Both are morally reprehensible anti-gents, but a bounder is distinguished by being something of a social climber to boot. I, for one, am a cad. As for which one you are, old son, only a good hard look in the mirror will tell you that.

So where does this leave your manhood, or indeed that of any adult male? Life for the modern man is indeed emasculating but then we can take comfort in the fact that this is true for women too. Judith Lucy is doing a good job of explaining this in her ABC TV show, as has Annabel Crabb in her book The Wife Drought, which my parlour maid told me all about while completing my nightly bed turndown service. Harking back to some non-existent golden age when men bestrode the world safe in their shining armour of self-knowledge is the distraction of a fool. You must fashion your own sense of who you are from true self-knowledge, Fuddbut. Anything else is just another kind of identity fraud …

As for your duel, no, I will not be your second, though I encourage you to get one. He or she needs to make sure your interests are well served and that your opponent doesn’t cheat. More importantly, they’re honour-bound to step in should your nerve fail you. As I suspect it will. But I do admire your willingness to take part. Though duels to the death are rare nowadays it is still sometimes necessary to defend your honour with cold steel or hot lead. There are however two things to bear in mind:

  1. You might lose and end up dead or badly injured
  2. You might win and end up badly jailed

Not that I particularly want you to survive. I suspect your DNA lacks the necessary robustness to warrant being passed on. Though your fondness for building model warships is a redeeming feature. After all, a three-foot-long replica of the Bismarck graces my own hallway. It took Chivers, my manservant, two months to build. Time well spent.

I have two favourite countries. One is Burkina Faso because its capital city rejoices in the splendid name Ouagadougou. The other is Iceland because, quite genuinely, their roads authority has a pro-elf policy, which means that no highway is built across an area thought to be inhabited by elves, trolls or any other supernatural beings. Superb.

Farewell,

Gormley

 

 Conan Elphicke

Sir Partridge’s emissions are rendered as coherent as they can be by the ever-patient @ConanElphicke. If you are confused and bewildered, and we suspect you are, by all means send your queries to thecringeblog@gmail.com.

Sir P Speaks: The Problem of First-World Problems

Dear Sir P

I’m worried that all my travails are essentially First-World problems. I no longer feel entitled to complain, or even feel aggrieved. This has left a gnawing, hollow sensation inside of me. Which is itself, I suppose, a First-World problem. And so I find myself wandering around in ever-decreasing circles of self-loathing. How do I continue to complain without feeling like a bit of a dickhead?

Adoringly,

Terrance V

 

Well, dear Terrance, we can’t have you loathing yourself. However, it is a tiresome thing when people witter about the built-in redundancy of their iFads or how their favourite charcuterie has just been closed down. While it’s true that people in the Third World suffer from bunions at least as much as people in the West do, it would be fair to say that bunions are the least of their problems.

graveyard_of_indiscretions

If First World Problems Could Kill

Meanwhile, the issue for us Westerners is, when does a particular problem become legitimately whinge-worthy? If say, your beloved girlfriend dispenses with you, it is a bad thing and you are entitled to moan about it. But let’s call that a Second-World problem (and, dear readers, please don’t email me explaining the proper definition of the Second World; even baronets go to school).

But what about when your hitherto excellent wife leaves you for a lion-tamer or similar and takes the kids with her, plus half the house and Augustus, your Labrador-kelpie cross on whom you’ve doted since he was a puppy? Now, that’s a legitimate, bare-knuckled disaster wherever in the world you happen to live. Particularly when said wife then updates her Facebook status to: ‘Free at last from that fat, inbred nutter’.

Though I’m not very insightful generally I have noticed that most people get around the problem you’ve raised, dear Terrance, by not even bothering to do so. If you’ve not spent your childhood grubbing about on a Manila garbage dump then premature hair loss or unusually bulbous earlobes will seem very problematic indeed. You will say to yourself, ‘I can only address the problems that are before me, not the ones I might have experienced had I been incarnated as a Mumbai leper’. It highlights in a way how animal we remain. A gerbil struggling for survival in the desert is hardwired, like all animals, to utterly preoccupy itself with the fact that it is hours away from starvation. It is not interested in the plight of other gerbils. Such matters are not its business, even if it had the smarts to comprehend such things. We do have the smarts but we also have the hardwiring, so coveting my neighbour’s 65-inch 100hz flat-screen 3D TV fills my magnificent human brain to bursting.

However, there may be some value in putting our own issues into perspective. You can start by doing the following quiz. Which of these problems are First, Second or Third World?

  1. The difficulty of finding a band-aid large enough to cover a graze large enough to justify a band-aid.
  2. Reconciling yourself to sharing the world with cyclists and horses.
  3. You want to call your son Tarquin because you’re pretentious, but you know the name will humiliate him.
  4. The presence on the road of silver or grey cars that hover in your blind spot on rainy days (it’s possible I’ve raised this vital issue before).
  5. A man-eating tiger lives near your house. Be careful, or one day it will eat you too.
  6. You’re so exhausted packing for your family holiday to Hawaii it’s almost not worth going.
  7. The excruciatingly awkward nightmare that is Skype.
  8. You would like to wear your tiger onesie out in the street but you are a fully grown man and you would be mocked.
  9. Should you have your child’s 4th birthday at home and endure the appalling mess 15 children inevitably make, or hold it at a soft-play centre and endure the deafening cacophony of a billion screeching children smacked up on pink sugar?
  10. The Patent Office refuses to patent your exciting new invention called ‘Comfort-Go’ – for when you get caught short in heavy traffic.

What are the correct answers, you ask? Who cares? The reassuring thing is that no matter how First-World, inane, self-indulgent or deranged your questions are, good bloggoids, I will always give them the attention they richly deserve.

Devotedly

Gormley

 

Conan Elphicke

Sir Partridge’s emissions are rendered as coherent as they can be by the ever-patient @ConanElphicke. If you are confused and bewildered, and we suspect you are, by all means send your queries to thecringeblog@gmail.com.

Sir P Speaks: A few of my least favourite things

regular_3110350_0001Hello bloggards,

Since my debut last month, the Cringe’s cyber mailroom has been overwhelmed by pleas for guidance. The following is but one:

Sir Partridge

I can’t decide who to hate. I want cyclists banned from dual walking/cycling tracks because of the sarcastic comments they make as they zip past me. I also want drivers of grey or silver cars sent to re-education camps on the excellent basis that their vehicles are invisible in bad weather. Nor do I like iPhones for reasons I’m a bit unclear about; it’s more an instinctual thing, I think. These are just three examples of the kind of people who would be first against the wall in an ideal world. Oh, and people who get into social media too much, which is everyone, basically.

Also, I would like to see more human-animal hybrids about.

Oh, and why haven’t I been awarded the Order of Australia when I am so inherently decent?

You might like to know that I have invented Birthday Bellows, which children can use to blow out their candles without contaminating the birthday cake with their virulent spittle. Why is the Patent Office so indifferent? I have also invented the human nosebag for people who are too busy to use their hands while eating lunch and so on.

Yours in rage and adoration

Finbarr S

Frankly, Finbarr, I am worried about your brain. And yet the epistolary dead mouse you have laid on my doorstep isn’t entirely devoid of life. In fact, your veritable slew of pet hates perfectly mirrors my own.

What I call hate management is a delicate art. There are so many hateful things in the world that one has to choose carefully where to direct one’s ire. One mustn’t overdo these things …

Humans’ dislike for cyclists, iPhoners and social media nutters is well-worn territory but I think you’re onto something when you ramble on about grey cars on overcast days. They do seem to wilfully lurk in your blindspot, headlights off, blending in perfectly with leaden sky and asphalt like some foul wraith or secret government stealth vehicle. I’m sure I’ve seen a study somewhere showing that they’re slightly more likely to be involved in an accident. I for one drive a canary yellow MG for just that reason and I can safely say that of all the many, many accidents I’ve been involved in, not one of them was because I couldn’t be seen.

I can well sympathise with your views on the Order of Australia. Were it not for Australia’s harsh libel laws I would only too willingly list an easy 100 undeserving recipients. I’m sure you are decent, Figmarr, but that is not enough. It is about being seen to ‘contribute’ to society, however you choose to interpret that word. Most people think I have a knighthood but I don’t. I am but a baronet, a title passed down the Gormley line for generations after it was bestowed on my ancestor by James IV as a sop for sleeping with his wife.

Animal-human hybrids are rare, Figment, because we don’t live on the Island of Dr Moreau. If we did, then it might be fun to have antlers, like those of a moose. You might want to lacquer them, or better still employ someone to lacquer them for you. You might also festoon them with ribbons and so forth.

As for your inventions, they are ludicrous. Except the Birthday Bellows (pure genius). And the human nosebag – in fact, I’m wearing a prototype right now! It is remarkably convenient and dignified. Why the Patent Office hates you and singles you out for special treatment is beyond me. Perhaps they ought to get their hate management procedures in order too.

Sir P

 

Sir Partridge Gormley’s emissions are rendered as coherent as they can be by the ever-patient @ConanElphicke. If you are confused and bewildered, and we suspect you are, by all means send your queries to thecringeblog@gmail.com.

 

Sir Partridge Gormley Speaks

Hello blots,

When The Cringe begged me to become an agony uncle for them, I sent the word out to my enormous fan base. Naturally, I was subjected to a veritable blizzard of need, most of it drivel. Only this missive struck a chord:

Dear Uncle

Firstly, let me say that I worship you like a god.

Now, listen to this. When I got married seven years ago, a distant relative was charged with videoing the event. He has since returned to his native Fremantle and not a peep has been heard from him since. I’ve emailed him frequently asking for a copy of the video but to no avail. I even sent him a crisp $50 note to cover the cost of postage but the bastard simply trousered it.

I’m going to Perth soon for a mutual relative’s wedding where I will surely bump into him. Rather than endure a ‘scene’, is it reasonable for me to simply lift the money from his wallet, should the opportunity present itself?

Yours in righteous indignation

Egbert T

Well, Egbert, you have been betrayed. I can visualise this strange relative of yours. Perhaps he is in advanced middle age, corpulent, fancies more than the odd tipple and is not averse to leering at the young and winsome. He is a cad, and as such the usual rules of human conduct do not apply.

Of course there may be an entirely reasonable explanation for his failure to provide you with what is rightfully yours. Perhaps he has died. Perhaps he never received your funding, or has been forced to hand it over to a bookie. Who knows or cares?

Therefore the simple answer to your question is yes, by all means slip the bugger a mickey, rummage in his hip pocket, restore the cash to its rightful owner, and why not lift an additional crafty fiver for your trouble? After all, you shelled out 50 of the hard-earned and whether he received it or not the bastard owes you a wedding video, which he has presumably either lost or taped over with something unsavoury.

Huzzar!

Sir P

A man who has long needed an introduction, Sir Partridge Gormley is a baronet, raconteur, bon vivant and genteel nutter. With plenty of time on his hands he welcomes queries from anyone who’s confused and dilemma-ed. Sir Partridge’s verbal emissions are rendered as coherent as they can be by the ever-patient @ConanElphicke 

Conan Elphicke

Have a question for Sir Partridge? Email your query to thecringeblog@gmail.com.