“This club is nothing more than a tedious, irrelevant and frivolous waste of space.”
Many of the mems around me appeared to swoon at this statement from the guest of honour at this week’s rightly semi-famous Speakers’ Luncheon. To say the man was just this side of a nihilist would not be a stretch. Therefore to hear such a screed from him would only be natural.
We all turned and stared at Rufus Red-Hede, for as chairman of the Speakers’ Luncheon he was responsible for the choice of the speakers, and he must have known Roger Guillotine, also known as Revolting Roger, would have little to say that would be acceptable to the club membership.
The last time this sort of thing happened an aboriginal called Chief I Have Lost the Horses demanded that the club be turned over to his nation because he felt it was on their land. He would not leave the podium, in fact he made quite a point that we should go from his new building, and quickly, too. It was all very embarrassing when the front page of the newspaper produced a picture of the beaded and feathered chap being thrown out the front door of the club. That one incident took some time to cool down, I can tell you.
Another chap before that was a tenured professor from the University of Victoria whose salary is well north of $100,000. He fancied himself a modern Leon Trotsky. He made many of us push back from our dessert of the club apple crumble when he went into great detail about the fact that when the so-called revolution comes we would all find ourselves on the perennial meat hook. I mean to say a mem does not want to hear that sort of claptrap during lunch.
Several irate mems threw buns at him in disgust as we are a two-way street as far as emotions are concerned. He left in a fury wearing several pads of butter, shouting that he would return to carry out a mass liquidation. A well-aimed sesame seed bun struck him in the neck as he was running down the front step, eliciting a closed fist from the Red Professor.
We also had a controversial environmentalist called Noah. That’s it, just Noah. His advance man Nimrod told us Noah felt he would be remembered more if he went by a single moniker. He is, of course, but more for being an idiot.
Now as you can imagine, there are all sorts of ways to start a speech at our lunches, with most kicking off with an amusing story of some sort to warm up the crowd. Not Noah. He stood up to the spirited applause with which we always welcome our visitors and announced he would drink his own urine in an effort to support recycling. Several of the hard-of-hearing started shouting “What did he say?” and “Wee-wee?” and “This is a dining room, isn’t it? Am I in the WC?” Then he drank a yellow liquid and several of the more sensitive mems were sick, sending waiters scrambling to clean up.
Noah started laughing and said the glass contained only apple juice. He wanted to test our reaction to leaving no footprint on Mother Earth. What did he expect us to think? A late arrival, when finding the speaker was Noah, wanted to know if he was really that chap that built the Ark, why had he saved two mosquitos as the newly arrived had just been bitten by one on the way to the club? He was shouted down as several of our more fit mems started to manhandle the modern-day Noah to the front door. He kept protesting that his drinking apple juice was much appreciated in some quarters. He asked for a boxed lunch before leaving but none was forthcoming from the stony-faced kitchen staff.
That is why we had turned to Rufus, who promised to keep a weather eye on who would be invited. I have offered several times to make myself available on subjects widely ranging from “Cats will kill you” to Dogs are good.” I am still waiting, but I have no intention of drinking my own urine in order to be asked.
I even thought I would speak about the scandals I have been privy to over the decades. For instance the time we hired a chef who could not make a Yorkshire pudding for love or money and so bought them from a nearby French bakery. Besides almost bankrupting himself to supply the always dire need, the results were not up to code as the French prepared something that looked like a round croissant that just lay there. Anyway things like that are always in my oratorial quiver, but no follow-up from Rufus.
Waiting, waiting. I am trying not to take this personally, but it hurts nonetheless.
Copyright The Major’s Corner 2015.
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