When Paul Julius Reuter broke the news of Lincoln’s assassination in Europe only 12 days after it happened, he stunned the world and became synonymous with swift newsgathering thereby creating the most famous press service in the world.
Now a sub-cretinous teenager can announce to her 14,000 one-cell followers that she has a new shade of lipstick, instantly causing reactions in the millions like a mistral amongst a vast wheat field. For what? For nothing. That is the world we have become. Sigh.
When the club runs out of Hoot Mon marmalade from Glasgow, that is a headline to glower over. I am told by the head of the club financial committee, Mike “Minos” Ducat, that there are new Canadian import duties on the golden spread because Scotland has raised duties on our maple syrup, causing a minor trade war. “Minor” to some, but not to those of us who depend on marmalade to kick off the day. The news hit us like a lead musket ball to the groin.
That fool Ducat simply said, “Try the club jam. It is made right here in Victoria.” Jam is just jam, whilst marmalade bubbles up in the mind as a god-like creation, suitable for only the most discerning of club mems. However we don’t have 14,000 “followers,” so the passion engendered for the favourite club spread languishes far below the surface of the world’s consciousness. We are not even close to that new shade of lipstick. We do not “trend.”
Another way of communicating is by example, no matter how bizarre. For instance General Franco, the late and unlamented dictator of Spain, a perfectly dreadful little man, ruled his country (1939-75) after winning a bloody civil war. When he thankfully died, he had returned the Bourbon royalty to power, which is what I thought the civil war was all about. Very odd.
Franco was a man of small stature and unhandsome visage. However his ego knew no bounds. To prove his masculine prowess he would organize enormous hunts in the mountains near his homes, where he slaughtered large numbers of birds and deer. Even Eisenhower had to admit, “The little guy sure can kill.”
Another practice that the petite bully liked to inflict on his cabinet of nodding heads was not to allow bathroom breaks. It was said that the puny general could go up to nine hours without the need to answer the call of nature. One can only imagine the bug-eyed cabinet after some three hours becoming restless, then sweaty and finally stampeding for the WC, leaving the dictator blissfully victorious. One can also conjure up an image of the size of his bladder. As big as his ego, I guess. It should be on display in the despots museum. Nine hours!
Those clubwomen Mrs. Hynde-Quarters and Mrs. ffrangington-Davis have their own way of communicating their needs, namely a withering glance followed by a boxing of ears, causing a frantic rush to the men’s room, where we cower before lunch.
We discuss what our response will be and then draw shoelaces to see who will deliver the news to them. The male mems scoot in to lunch just as the club soup (ham and pea) is served, because by then the two harridans have their feedbags on and are in a state of concentration. Peace reigns until after lunch when many of us will dart outside for the recommended post-prandial walk, leaving the poor chap with the short lace to impart our views on the clubwomen’s demands.
More than a few of us have tried to use the internet to speak about the lack of civilized discourse found therein, but we get “flamed” as they say, by so-called “trolls” who never appear to leave their computer’s side. The One-Armed Colonel received more than a thousand replies to his question, which was a hot topic here at the club: Do away with butter tarts, what then?
The most appalling responses came back to him, which left the poor mem quivering in the corner at the far end of the senior reading room under the Queen’s picture. He did not even know what some of the words meant until he asked a young chap from the kitchen. The colonel has taken to his bed in shock.
Anonymity has always bred a shelter for the most dreadful portion of our society and now with the internet, it is on a scale too good to be true for those people. One can say anything to anybody and get away scot free. Terrible. I would much rather have our discussions in the club, even the men’s WC, than over the internet. At least I can see the other chap’s face when he calls me a damned cat-hating moron.
Copyright Major’s Corner 2015
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