#TheMajor #Champagne #CanuckHumour #TheClub Sunday Oct 5 2014

CAN THE CLUB COPE WITH DAS KAPITAL AND CHAMPAGNE?

I think it was Metternich, the great German diplomat, who remarked offhandedly that Italy was no more than a “geographical expression.” It was a bit rough on poor old Italy as the statement drips with disdain, but I suppose the club too could fall into that category, although some would say we were more of a state of mind. We are a mere expression of where we live in dear old Victoria, but we could be anywhere and sometimes I think we are.
When, for instance, I speak to the Brigadier, I could very well believe the club was on Mars, as who but someone from outer space would take the time to listen to his guff? He has two subjects: The verbal abuse he receives from his fourth and much younger bride, and the fact that she threw out his world renowned (his words) salt-and-pepper-shaker collection. That’s it. Two topics and then he falls asleep.
Then there is Asquith, our aged waiter (some say well beyond 90), who comes to work at the club every day and immediately falls into an all-day nap in the guest chair by the front door. The passing parade through the entrance use a nearby hand-mirror to see whether he is breathing. At six bells he awakes and leaves for the day, nodding a friendly farewell to mems and flunkies with an over-the-shoulder “Until tomorrow, then.”
There is a swell of emotion amongst the mems to see him put in a home of some sort, rather than snoozing by our famous entranceway. It is just not on.
We have several new members of somewhat dubious provenance, people of unsure backgrounds, as it were. I suspect several socialists have oozed through the cracks because of the need to entice new mems because of an accelerated death toll. I recall recently walking past a bearded twosome, one of which had Das Kapital sticking out of his jacket pocket, and I distinctly heard the more hirsute of the duo say: “Come the revolution he is for the meat hook.”
I mean to say, in my own club! One shudders at it all. I suppose to their way of thinking, once they have paid the entrance fees, they feel free to butcher the occupants. Nobody in his right mind would ever vote for the socialists unless he is a civil servant or tenured professor, so they must depend on sudden coups or mass deception. Capitalism is far from perfect but it is the system that allows us to afford all the goodies that we expect: Healthcare, pensions, etc.
There are a few new female mems who are determined to do away with our already tattered dress code. It seems they have started a petition to allow black jeans within the portals of our club, which no doubt has sent the founders of the home of homes spinning in their graves. It was a soul-sickening moment years ago when we were forced to see women in trousers about the place, but jeans? Heavens no.
Sadly I am afraid I feel something in my water that says we are doomed. This outrage is led by some harridan called Harriet Toothsome. I ask you!
I tremble over change, especially change led by people who have no business doing so, particularly in the area of tradition.
This same woman convinced the jelly-spined Drinks Committee to insert “Champagne Only Nights.”
Are you sitting down? I could not order a martini in my club during those days and evenings! I fully intended to resign, but what would I gain, except the loss of the one place on earth that signals contentment to me?
I took the high road and sat the frightful woman down to chat about the history of the club and its ideals in the hope of showing Miss Toothsome the error of her ways. I talked brilliantly, I have to say, but halfway through, say around the First World War, she patted me on the head and said she thought I was cute but a bit dim. I was left to puff away in my corner whilst holding a flute of bubbly, with only a distant memory of an ice-cold martini to keep me company.
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