England my England - a Gentleman’s memoir
It was hot. Damned hot. The day started early with the booze delivery, the Pimms tanker stirring up the dust. One just knew that it was going to be a scorcher. Friends were gathering to watch an association football tournament and had to be protected from the brutal rays of the sun, lest they develop tans and so be mistaken for manual workers or, worse, television presenters.
My handyman, Swiftgasket, aided me in the raising of the pavilion on the small lawn. Blessed shade thus achieved. Close examination of the pavilion proved that it was not in fact the Oatbury and Oddfather ‘stormaster 600’ that my grandfather had liberated from Henley many moons ago, but instead a modern erection. It appears that it came from a local DIY superstore. I can only assume that in addition to turning out dogma, repression, noodles and exceptionally gifted concubines, the Chinese have developed gazebo technology far in advance of ours. The resentment your average gazebo manufacturer no doubt feels for the wealthy west was, however, evidenced by the thing being an absolutely bloody fucker to get up and get level without wreaking havoc on the bedding plants.
Up it went though and up it stayed. There’s something civilized about being under large canvas. So different to being in a two man tent up the side of some ghastly mountain with a storm raging unabated outside for three days and the sudden discovery that you’re down to the last of the Bovril. Instead, one has hardly had time to bang the final tent peg into the ground before fizz and fruit are being forced upon you and you’ve no option but to collapse in a chair and wonder if the bloody thing is going to stay up in this breeze?
Stay up it did. I’ve hardly known it so quiet as it was during the match. I was able to read the review section of the paper quite undisturbed and, more importantly, speed-drink all the decent booze brought by guests.
My handyman, Swiftgasket, aided me in the raising of the pavilion on the small lawn. Blessed shade thus achieved. Close examination of the pavilion proved that it was not in fact the Oatbury and Oddfather ‘stormaster 600’ that my grandfather had liberated from Henley many moons ago, but instead a modern erection. It appears that it came from a local DIY superstore. I can only assume that in addition to turning out dogma, repression, noodles and exceptionally gifted concubines, the Chinese have developed gazebo technology far in advance of ours. The resentment your average gazebo manufacturer no doubt feels for the wealthy west was, however, evidenced by the thing being an absolutely bloody fucker to get up and get level without wreaking havoc on the bedding plants.
Up it went though and up it stayed. There’s something civilized about being under large canvas. So different to being in a two man tent up the side of some ghastly mountain with a storm raging unabated outside for three days and the sudden discovery that you’re down to the last of the Bovril. Instead, one has hardly had time to bang the final tent peg into the ground before fizz and fruit are being forced upon you and you’ve no option but to collapse in a chair and wonder if the bloody thing is going to stay up in this breeze?
Stay up it did. I’ve hardly known it so quiet as it was during the match. I was able to read the review section of the paper quite undisturbed and, more importantly, speed-drink all the decent booze brought by guests.
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