Of heroic annuals and all that – gather round, chums
‘‘Isay, chaps, I’ve snaffled a blinder.’’ My old Upper Sixth chums ceased quaffing their lemonade and nibbling cake at our monthly reunion. ‘‘What is it, Scribbler?’’ enthused Toby Falloon. ‘‘You haven’t thwarted another bank robbery?’’ gasped Jean Cumberland.
‘‘Not today, no, though I did spot some awfully suspicious rotters in a van in the High St.’’
‘‘Oh yes,’’ opined Gwendoline Trubridge. ‘‘I spied them when I came out of my ballet class. Scoping out a bank, I expect.’’
‘‘Or planning to kidnap a scientist working on a top-secret government defence project,’’ Dickie Ackroyd asserted.
‘‘Gosh,’’ I expectorated. ‘‘We’d better tootle up to the abandoned tower at Herring-Gull Point on my Lambretta to make doubly sure. But no, that’s not my coup. Remember I told you about my maiden aunt?’’
‘‘The one who’s promised to leave you her country manor in her will?’’ Rose Pettigrew interlocuted. ‘‘That’s the one.’’
‘‘How’s her base jumping going? You encouraged her to take it up, didn’t you? She’s a jolly good sport for an 80-year-old.’’
‘‘Splendid. She loves it when she stops screaming. Anyhoo, I tootled up to see her on my half-term hols. Took the chance to have the place valued. Save her the trouble, and all that.’’
‘‘You’re a marvel, Scrib,’’ Percy Andrews exclaimed.
‘‘We packed up a few things, just in case – and bless my blue in singlesculling, but she found a carton of old childhood annuals from the 1950s and ’60s.’’
My former classmates were flummoxed. The silence was pregnant. ‘‘You can’t mean Treasure and Favourite Annual for Boys?’’ Dickie gushed.
‘‘Both.’’
‘‘Ideal Book for Girls?’’ Delphine Mayhew speculated, wiping her mouth with a napkin. ‘‘Premium, Modern and Champion?’’ Algy machinegunned.
‘‘The whole shooting match.’’ ‘‘Great jumping kangaroos,’’ Toby promulgated.
‘‘So I lugged them out to the Lambie – gosh, I miss our negro houseboy Koffee at times like that.’’
‘‘With the frizzy hair,’’ Jean chortled. ‘‘And the shiny white teeth,’’ Toby embellished. ‘‘Weren’t they shiny?’’ Del observed. ‘‘He was always smiling.’’
‘‘Frightfully scared of ghosts, wasn’t he?’’ Toby recalled. ‘‘Whatever happened to him?’’
‘‘Last I heard, he’s a despot in some basket-case former colony that failed to heed the lessons of benevolent stewardship,’’ Algy gesticulated. The others murmured in agreement.
‘‘So anyhoo,’’ I continued, ‘‘I’ve been re-reading the annuals. They’re the most appalling nonsense you’ve ever encountered . . .’’
A dozen sets of eyes bore down on me. The silence was oppressive. ‘‘I don’t quite follow, old chap,’’ Dickie snarled through clenched teeth.
‘‘Well, they’re all about private school chums, for a start. Only 7 per cent of children go to what they call ‘public’ schools in England – the other 93 per cent don’t exist in these annuals.’’
‘‘Perhaps they didn’t try hard enough,’’ Percy offered.
‘‘Or it’s rampant snobbery, and we soaked it up in the far reaches of the Empire, too,’’ I declared. You could have heard an Eton tie pin drop.
‘‘All the girls are wizards on the tennis court, or at rescuing a top scientist, yet totally submissive in the presence of boys. The Chinese are inscrutable, Africans childlike, and American Indians are red varmints.’’
‘‘What’s your point?’’ Algy inquired.
‘‘My point is, how did this racist, sexist, elitist tripe warp our characters and our world view?’’
‘‘I don’t imagine it had any effect at all,’’ Delphine hissed. ‘‘Well said, Del,’’ Dickie agreed.
‘‘Besides,’’ Rose appended, ‘‘kids don’t read these annuals now, and they’re the poorer for it.’’
‘‘Interesting observation,’’ I deduced. ‘‘In the latter part of last century, our Anglophile culture was subsumed by American culture, delivering a love of guns, violence and selfishness. Good gracious, the Yanks invented zombies so they could shoot them, decapitate them and chop them up using chainsaws – without a whimper of protest. Our children soak all that up. We’ve bred a generation of psychopaths . . .’’
Heads bobbed. ‘‘You may be right, Scrib,’’ Algy conceded, on collective behalf. ‘‘The old annuals weren’t so bad after all, eh.’’
‘‘Well, comparatively speaking, I suppose . . .’’
‘‘Did us no great damage,’’ Toby postulated.
‘‘True, but . . .’’
‘‘No harm done, then. You think too much, Scrib. Give the old grey matter a half-term hol, yes. More lemonade?’’
‘‘Thanks. Sorry, chaps. Awfully bad manners.’’
The others were quick to appease. ‘‘No offence taken,’’ Jean grinned. ‘‘You’ve got a blue in rugger, and we don’t forget that. Sure, you can be a socialist prig at times, but you’re our socialist prig, and we stand by our own in the Upper Sixth.’’
Cries of ‘‘Hear, hear’’ and ‘‘Nicely elocuted, Jean’’ filled the room as hands slapped my back and refilled my glass.
Rose dampened the camaraderie. ‘‘Hate to be a gooseberry, chaps, but I’d better get back. I’ve been ‘gated’ by the headmistress of my lifestyle village for painting my letterbox a non-permitted shade of beige.’’
‘‘You bounder!’’ Algy exclaimed. ‘‘You cut a ‘gating’ to be here! Even by your tearaway standards, Rose, that’s beyond the pale.’’
‘‘It was worth it,’’ she postulated. ‘‘If she catches me, it could be a public swishing, but I plan to dash across the fields on my way back and rescue a small child from the path of a rampaging bull. Put me in the Head’s good books.’’
‘‘Splendid,’’ Algy conceded. ‘‘Well played, old girl. You see, Scrib: initiative, derring-do, heroism – those annuals were a cracker blueprint.’’
How did this racist, sexist, elitist tripe warp our characters and our world view?