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Sir Hugh Jafee, QC, lights your ire:
The (very real) Dangers of Alcohol
Thursday, January 31, 2008
It was at two of the clock on a cold, windy and wet
January 1st in Scotland that I first heard the words
that sent a chill down my back worse than that caused
by the Highland draughts that are endemic to buildings in that awful
place. Still, as Lady Jafee has some Scottish ancestry, we have to show
willing and visit with her awful family every now and then. We don’t stay
with them. They come to my castle in the Glen of McIntertwinie. Of
course, her being Scottish meant that Papa and Mama were distraught
that I would marry so far beneath me, but I wasn’t about to let
something like that put me off my prey. As I said to Papa at the time,
sure, there’s a slight burr in the voice, but it’s nothing that a good
elocutionist with a stiff birch cannot solve. And I was right! To hear her
speak now, you would think she has been no further north than the spas
of Harrogate. But that is by the by. I was telling you about those awful,
dread-filled words I heard shrieked across the stone room that bleak and
featureless New Year’s Day.
“HUGHIE!” She shrilled (and I must admit, when back among her ‘clan’, I
wonder for what I paid that bloody speech therapist – the moment she
sees Angus The Family Gamekeeper, it all comes flooding back…) “We
rrreeaallly mast do something about yoor drinken. It’s getting oot of
contrrool!” As I cast my eyes downward, I realised sadly that the old
harridan was right. I was sitting in a high-backed chair of little comfort,
still in my dress uniform from the night before, obviously, and I could see
that my bib was no longer pristine white, but rather like a study of
colour by one of those modern artist types, with patches of burgundy,
claret, the unmistakeable caramel of century-old armagnac, and the
paler amber, almost urine-like, of the traditional estate malt brewed by
her animal of a father. By God, but she was right. My drinking was a
problem, I had to admit. I mean, judging by the state of my shirt (and I
imagined my collar and dickie, but I could not be sure without either
removing them or finding a looking-glass, the Jafee chins being what
they are), I had thrown the best part of a bottle of perfectly good
booze down my chin without it ever being in danger of reaching my
mouth. It was a waste of inexcusable proportions, and I, dear Reader,
was suitably penitent.
I should note at this point that my jacket, of the family regiment, had
performed admirably and was still a perfect and single red. This is of
course to be expected. The material was first designed to resist even
the most stubborn of staining liquids – blood – and caused the natives in
Africa no end of confusion, I can tell you. So I stood tall, brushed the
crumbs from some endangered bird we had consumed last night as a
palate-cleanser at the end of the meal, and mumbled suitable apologia
to my wife. [I was pleased with bird, though. Nice touch. Sorbets are so
middle-class and, well, French.] She was right, I avowed, to call me on
my unacceptable behaviour the previous evening, and I determined to
show more care in future. Thinking the matter dealt with, I went
upstairs to find one of the maids to draw me a hot bath before that
afternoon’s shoot.
Imagine my consternation, then, when there was nary a maid, nor
butler, nor simple houseboy to be found. I hollered and hallooed until
hoarse, I rang bells above and below without response. I looked in and
for dumb waiters and found only empty vessels (although I later joked to
my wife that I should have perhaps expected that, even if I had found
the staff, hoho!) The only people I could find were the wife’s ghastly
cousins, looking for someone to shave their whiskers before the shoot;
poor girls. It was as if all people from the house without a title to their
name had been snatched away, as if by some bizarre proletariat-fixated
alien. I called to my wife, demanding to know a) where all the bloody
lackeys were, and b) how one was supposed to heat water without
somebody having lit a fire. It was then that I learned that my wife’s
earlier exhortations about my alcoholic consumption were in part due to
my now-forgotten eagerness to give all the staff a holiday because I
was in such generous spirits. I also learned, quite to my astonishment,
that if one opens the right tap (which in some cases may be the left
one) and leaves the water running, it apparently heats itself. Marvellous
things they can do nowadays.
The news about the staff all enjoying a paid holiday at my expense
when they had only been working for twenty-two hours a day (as a
Christmas treat) since December 1st was concerning though. How could
I have done such a thing? Who would cook, clean, wash my clothes,
linen and self? This was a disaster, and one caused, I am sorry to say,
by alcohol. It transpired that after consuming what my darling spouse
later calculated to be the equivalent, in both alcoholic and financial
terms, of the contents of the late Premier Ceausescu’s stock of fine
1984 Premiat pinot noir (and for which bottles I never had the chance to
thank Nikolai properly; I hope he’s listening somewhere), I have of late
developed a tendency to say and do some rather outrageous and out-of-
character things, and then forget all about them the next day. I must
admit, that is what led to me having to ask for her hand in marriage in
the first place, but I had thought it a one-off. Sadly, no.
There is a campaign afoot for people to drink ‘responsibly’. This is what I
had been doing. By drinking, I had made myself responsible for many
things, and they weren’t good. If I were to go around giving the entire
staff a week off every week, the place would be in a shambles. Literally
nothing would get done. I needed to take action. And so I did. I told my
good lady wife to summon more help from the hopeless alcoholics,
degenerates and mating cousins that made up the local village, while I
went to run a bath. The problem being solved, I poured myself a pint of
cognac, and went to draw my own bath. I wasn’t afraid; one must
always be ready to seek out new experiences!
At the first twist of the right tap (which may have been the left), I
yelped in pain. Only now did I notice the grotesque, purplish swelling,
like a small underripe aubergine (what a horrible word! So French. Why
can’t there be a good English word for it? And don’t say ‘eggplant’; that’
s American. Which is worse) that was where my thumb usually was. I
called Lady Jafee to see what was wrong, as she was once a nurse, or a
doctor, or something. She pronounced it gout, of the thumb, linked
apparently to too much exploding goose liver and Armada-salvaged port,
which is my preferred breakfast during Advent, and up to Epiphany. As
you can see, things were becoming impossible. How was I to write for
my expectant audience on matters pressing in the post-Yule euphoria?
So there you have it, dear Reader – my apology to you for neglecting
you through the cold month of Janus. Although the three-fingered
inhabitants of McIntertwinie made passable house staff, they were
unsurprisingly lacking in the required dexterity to change a typewriter
ribbon, and with my thumb gout, I was in no condition to assist. Hence I
have been unable to ‘file my copy’, as I am reliably informed journalists
say. I have also been on a strict diet of Ryvita and 1972 premier cru
Chablis, and only three bottles a day, in order to fight off the gout. And
the staff has only just come back. I could have sworn my wife said I’d
given them the week off, but do you know, I have eaten so much
crispbread since then, I can’t properly remember. Dangerous stuff,
Ryvita. I’m only going to eat things that appear on those charity stamps
for the World Wildlife Fund in future.
The (very real) Dangers of Alcohol
Thursday, January 31, 2008
It was at two of the clock on a cold, windy and wet
January 1st in Scotland that I first heard the words
that sent a chill down my back worse than that caused
by the Highland draughts that are endemic to buildings in that awful
place. Still, as Lady Jafee has some Scottish ancestry, we have to show
willing and visit with her awful family every now and then. We don’t stay
with them. They come to my castle in the Glen of McIntertwinie. Of
course, her being Scottish meant that Papa and Mama were distraught
that I would marry so far beneath me, but I wasn’t about to let
something like that put me off my prey. As I said to Papa at the time,
sure, there’s a slight burr in the voice, but it’s nothing that a good
elocutionist with a stiff birch cannot solve. And I was right! To hear her
speak now, you would think she has been no further north than the spas
of Harrogate. But that is by the by. I was telling you about those awful,
dread-filled words I heard shrieked across the stone room that bleak and
featureless New Year’s Day.
“HUGHIE!” She shrilled (and I must admit, when back among her ‘clan’, I
wonder for what I paid that bloody speech therapist – the moment she
sees Angus The Family Gamekeeper, it all comes flooding back…) “We
rrreeaallly mast do something about yoor drinken. It’s getting oot of
contrrool!” As I cast my eyes downward, I realised sadly that the old
harridan was right. I was sitting in a high-backed chair of little comfort,
still in my dress uniform from the night before, obviously, and I could see
that my bib was no longer pristine white, but rather like a study of
colour by one of those modern artist types, with patches of burgundy,
claret, the unmistakeable caramel of century-old armagnac, and the
paler amber, almost urine-like, of the traditional estate malt brewed by
her animal of a father. By God, but she was right. My drinking was a
problem, I had to admit. I mean, judging by the state of my shirt (and I
imagined my collar and dickie, but I could not be sure without either
removing them or finding a looking-glass, the Jafee chins being what
they are), I had thrown the best part of a bottle of perfectly good
booze down my chin without it ever being in danger of reaching my
mouth. It was a waste of inexcusable proportions, and I, dear Reader,
was suitably penitent.
I should note at this point that my jacket, of the family regiment, had
performed admirably and was still a perfect and single red. This is of
course to be expected. The material was first designed to resist even
the most stubborn of staining liquids – blood – and caused the natives in
Africa no end of confusion, I can tell you. So I stood tall, brushed the
crumbs from some endangered bird we had consumed last night as a
palate-cleanser at the end of the meal, and mumbled suitable apologia
to my wife. [I was pleased with bird, though. Nice touch. Sorbets are so
middle-class and, well, French.] She was right, I avowed, to call me on
my unacceptable behaviour the previous evening, and I determined to
show more care in future. Thinking the matter dealt with, I went
upstairs to find one of the maids to draw me a hot bath before that
afternoon’s shoot.
Imagine my consternation, then, when there was nary a maid, nor
butler, nor simple houseboy to be found. I hollered and hallooed until
hoarse, I rang bells above and below without response. I looked in and
for dumb waiters and found only empty vessels (although I later joked to
my wife that I should have perhaps expected that, even if I had found
the staff, hoho!) The only people I could find were the wife’s ghastly
cousins, looking for someone to shave their whiskers before the shoot;
poor girls. It was as if all people from the house without a title to their
name had been snatched away, as if by some bizarre proletariat-fixated
alien. I called to my wife, demanding to know a) where all the bloody
lackeys were, and b) how one was supposed to heat water without
somebody having lit a fire. It was then that I learned that my wife’s
earlier exhortations about my alcoholic consumption were in part due to
my now-forgotten eagerness to give all the staff a holiday because I
was in such generous spirits. I also learned, quite to my astonishment,
that if one opens the right tap (which in some cases may be the left
one) and leaves the water running, it apparently heats itself. Marvellous
things they can do nowadays.
The news about the staff all enjoying a paid holiday at my expense
when they had only been working for twenty-two hours a day (as a
Christmas treat) since December 1st was concerning though. How could
I have done such a thing? Who would cook, clean, wash my clothes,
linen and self? This was a disaster, and one caused, I am sorry to say,
by alcohol. It transpired that after consuming what my darling spouse
later calculated to be the equivalent, in both alcoholic and financial
terms, of the contents of the late Premier Ceausescu’s stock of fine
1984 Premiat pinot noir (and for which bottles I never had the chance to
thank Nikolai properly; I hope he’s listening somewhere), I have of late
developed a tendency to say and do some rather outrageous and out-of-
character things, and then forget all about them the next day. I must
admit, that is what led to me having to ask for her hand in marriage in
the first place, but I had thought it a one-off. Sadly, no.
There is a campaign afoot for people to drink ‘responsibly’. This is what I
had been doing. By drinking, I had made myself responsible for many
things, and they weren’t good. If I were to go around giving the entire
staff a week off every week, the place would be in a shambles. Literally
nothing would get done. I needed to take action. And so I did. I told my
good lady wife to summon more help from the hopeless alcoholics,
degenerates and mating cousins that made up the local village, while I
went to run a bath. The problem being solved, I poured myself a pint of
cognac, and went to draw my own bath. I wasn’t afraid; one must
always be ready to seek out new experiences!
At the first twist of the right tap (which may have been the left), I
yelped in pain. Only now did I notice the grotesque, purplish swelling,
like a small underripe aubergine (what a horrible word! So French. Why
can’t there be a good English word for it? And don’t say ‘eggplant’; that’
s American. Which is worse) that was where my thumb usually was. I
called Lady Jafee to see what was wrong, as she was once a nurse, or a
doctor, or something. She pronounced it gout, of the thumb, linked
apparently to too much exploding goose liver and Armada-salvaged port,
which is my preferred breakfast during Advent, and up to Epiphany. As
you can see, things were becoming impossible. How was I to write for
my expectant audience on matters pressing in the post-Yule euphoria?
So there you have it, dear Reader – my apology to you for neglecting
you through the cold month of Janus. Although the three-fingered
inhabitants of McIntertwinie made passable house staff, they were
unsurprisingly lacking in the required dexterity to change a typewriter
ribbon, and with my thumb gout, I was in no condition to assist. Hence I
have been unable to ‘file my copy’, as I am reliably informed journalists
say. I have also been on a strict diet of Ryvita and 1972 premier cru
Chablis, and only three bottles a day, in order to fight off the gout. And
the staff has only just come back. I could have sworn my wife said I’d
given them the week off, but do you know, I have eaten so much
crispbread since then, I can’t properly remember. Dangerous stuff,
Ryvita. I’m only going to eat things that appear on those charity stamps
for the World Wildlife Fund in future.
© lizardmagazine.com, 2008
Sir Hugh Jafee, QC, also lights your ire:
Sir Hugh Jafee, QC, also lights your ire:
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