Right Boys, PULL!

My Dear Boy,

How very odd that you should ask me of Lord Baden-Powell (Robert Stephenson Smyth to you and I dear).

Well I suppose I was first acquainted with him when he was the 1st Baron Baden-Powell of Gilwell. We sat on opposite sides of the Upper House. We threw glances as well as insults across the floor at one and other. He said that I had the largest breasts, ever, in the Lords’. This is no longer true of course, Lady Grantham of Groceria is the undisputed pap queen of the peerage. And Gorgon to boot!

He had a reputation as a terrible war-monger, more so after Mafeking. There were those who ventured so far as to name him a whoremonger. I, of course, knew different. Not from personal experience you understand, just grains of insight harvested from powder-room tittle-tattle. I’d be hard pushed to suggest he was even a costermonger, more akin to an ironmonger, well iron* certainly. 

He may have been a fierce warrior, sticking steel and the likes into our enemies but, alas, he was not well known for his beef bayonet technique, not among the women folk at least. It is my belief that he’d sampled the delights of the East whilst stationed in India & Afghanistan and found it utterly pointless to give in to the English mores of the time. He’d wander about his estate in toga’s, dhoti’s and the like. He had a marvellous theatrical wardrobe, items from around the world. He even had a mawashi, that’s the thing Japanese sumo’s wear, apparently B-P was partial to a bit of rice, along with pig-sticking – authored a treaties on the matter!

It was his time in these foreign climes, as I understand, that he developed his somewhat exotic tastes. Also his masterly touch, yet oft confusing attitude. He described himself as a passive top, some sort of code I suspect. He was Chief Staff Officer during the British Campaign in Matabeleland then Colonel of the Irregular Hung-like-horses South African Brigade, and Lieutenant Colonel of the 5th Get Yer Drag-on Guards. Perhaps, with hindsight, he may have been a bit army balmy, an old war horse who would rather play toy soldiers with his little play things than go to the knackers yard. Clearly admissible evidence in the upcoming trial of the Lords!

I do recollect him telling me, on more than one occasion, as he was a frightful bore, “My dear Baroness Snapper, nothing in life is quite so exhilarating as to be shot at without result.”+  He was blissfully ignorant of the fact that we women folk rarely where ‘shot at’, or at least ‘shot in’, without result. An offensive brat of some description would usually ensue, after some considerable delay, I might add. However, being Christians it is unthought of to take any precaution against that sort of thing, it wouldn’t be very British now would it? I suppose that may explain the loss of so many in Flanders, Ypres and the Somme. By the by, did you know that B-P was with MI during WWI? (Sorry darling. I know WWI is frightfully gauche, an Americanism I believe. The Great War dear, you know, the war to end all wars!) Well he was, though I never perceived him as being particularly intelligent. Still, times where quite austere during the darkness.

I may be wrong, but I think he trod the boards later in his career, having adopted a stage name, Robert Baden-Powell – the Baden was silent at this point – if my memory serves me. (Not to be confused, of course, with SuperFlyGuy leg-less Doug-las, or Baden-Baden the 1st Reich Roman spring city in Southwest 3rd Reich Germany). He played a Jesuit from Nasareth – small hamlet on the A487. Beautiful place. Lies in the early morning shadow of Mount Snowdon and the evening shimmer of the setting sun across the becalmed, undulating waters of Caernarfon Bay, simply delightful. One of my favourite nephew’s has a small house in Nasareth, overlooking the rent. He calls it the rent, although I’m sure it’s one of those youth clubs where virile, lithe post pubescent boys spend more time than they ought in the changing area and showers. And as for the girls of the parish, what they need is infibulation**,  that should sort them out.

As for dear Bobby’s passion – his boys – I think I’m correct in my quotation from his pamphlet; Scouting for Boys, “The Scouts’ motto is based on my initials, it’s: RIGHT BOYS-PULL, which means, you should be in a state of bodily readiness and take yourself in hand, do your duty++”.

I’m not altogether convinced this is a healthy attitude for our young men to adopt, (though my nephew claims it’s all the rage judging by what he’s witnessed through his bi-noculars). But he was such a dear, sweet man. Had a habit of carrying oodles of Belgium chocolates and the like in his trouser pockets. Had them sent over from Brugge. In fact he actively encouraged the boys’ curiosity by letting them rifle through the pockets of his peculiarly ample khaki shorts. Often whilst he was still in them. (It’s never occurred to me before now, but as I reminisce, B-P does remind me of my nephew a great deal!) He never wore under-garments, you know. A vociferous advocate of naturism, encouraged all boys to bathe daily and stood watch to ensure they did a good job, often having to demonstrate time and time again. He never tired. And as we know cleanliness is so necessary in a Christian society, don’t you think? 

B-P was ever so fond of scouting for boys. Like Lord Alfred Douglas’ father; 8th Marquess of Queensberry. Nearly got his arse kicked in the libel courts by that chap Wield***, you know, Oscar Wield+++. I remember that Bosie, young Alfred Douglas that is, was very close to Mr Wield, but alas I can never quite recall Mr Wield’s profession. It was either a playwright or poet or policeman, something beginning with a P. I know his father was no supporter of the yellow arts, didn’t approve of any of it.

I have conflicting memories of this period, well laudanum was freely available at any decent apothecary. I understand the Saxe-Coburgs had a weekly delivery of opium, cocaine and the like. 

Bosie’s father did like boys though. Especially when they were in a ring knocking seven shades of the vicars vestments out of each other. He concocted rules in a vague and vain attempt to civilise this barbaric spectacle. Personally, I don’t think you are able to better a jolly good wrestling contest to arouse the juices, á la Grecque, of course. Ah, the timeless memories of Oliver and Alan on the hearth rug……

I’m led to believe that pugilism has become a noble sport somewhat. Dandies and Royalty no less. A Mr Eubloke, complete with fop-ish attire and a Prince Hashish or someone of the ilk. Sounds slightly Johnny Foreigner to me, like that cad who apparently owns Herods. Mahmoud All-Faded or some such nonsense. The food hall is quite useless these days. One cannot get a good pork sausage for love nor money. Not a swine in sight – dead one leastwise. And one cannot get serviced unless one wears a yashmac!  

Kind regards,

Baroness Snapper

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