Quasi Men

Since last I wrote, I’ve had another birthday – my 121st. I kept this to myself because I know no-one here on the Pacific Rain Coast well enough to reveal how old I am and when my birthday is. Besides, even if I did know anyone well enough to reveal all this, I wouldn’t for fear this would reach the ears of the police who, for all I know, are still looking for me.

I had said last time that I was reading “Victoria – A Life” by AN Wilson. The Victoria of whom Mr Wilson writes is, of course, the late Queen Victoria of England and all its worldwide Empire. So long have I lived, I often forget that England once had an Empire – the mightiest which mankind has ever seen. I keep having to remind myself that once upon a time all the nations of the world, even the nation of America, bowed down to England in awe. Now, today, the boot is – so to speak – on the other foot, for it is England which bows down to America in awe.

I’m reminded uncomfortably of all this by the publication of the report – painstakingly put together by Sir John Chilcot – that definitively (one hopes) cements Mr Anthony Blair permanently in infamy. The sight of an Englishman, the unspeakable Mr Blair, prancing like a popinjay at the side of an American, the equally unspeakable Mr George Bush, made me ashamed to call myself an Englishman. Would Queen Victoria’s prime ministers, like Mr Gladstone or Lord Salisbury, have pranced like popinjays at the side of Emperor Wilhelm the First or Emperor Wilhelm the Second? Perish the thought. If they had, Queen Victoria would have ordered their severed heads brought to her on a silver platter, believe you me.

I think that had Mr Blair, when a young man, served as a soldier in the British Army, he would have had the perfect passage into manhood, of which he would have had sufficient confidence thereafter, so as not to feel he had to act as a quasi-man when at the side of Mr Bush, who, by the way, seemed also to me a quasi-man.


I wish now to speak of “Brexit” – a neologism so arresting that a man in America, who makes alcoholic beverages and sells them at a profit, plans to  produce a cider and call it “Brexit”. This does make entrepreneurial sense, because cider is so quintessentially the drink of the Englishman, that an American, while drinking Brexit Cider, will be able to imagine he’s an Englishman, and behave all the better for this. But, why stop at Brexit Cider? Why not also Brexit Tomato Sauce? Or Brexit Pork Pies? I’ll surmise this idea is already illuminating the minds of other Americans as faithful to the word of Adam Smith as they are faithful to the word of God.

I have to say, I was most disappointed at the decision of those Englishmen who still live in England, to leave the European Union. If this decision sticks, England will never again be important in the world. As long as we Englishmen remained in Europe, there was always the chance we could become the undisputed leader of Europe, and thereby again throw our weight about in the world.

We Englishmen have to face the reality, though, that the weight which we can throw about in today’s world if we have a mind to, isn’t as heavy as the weight we threw around yesterday’s world when Queen Victoria reigned. We can only compensate for this if we remain tightly in Europe, and take over as its leader. Only then will the men of America regard us seriously.

Since it appears that most of the Englishmen who voted that England leave Europe, now realise they didn’t know really what they were voting for, I can only hope that the government of England will give Englishmen another chance to vote again on whether or not to remain in Europe. I’m confident that this time the Englishman, having now seen how wrong he was the first time, will put matters right the next time.

Once more unto the breach………..


Again, again, I’m having to begin a posting by assuring you all I’ve not died since I last wrote. This is one of the maddening things about being 120 (soon to be 121). I mean, were I 20 (soon to be 21) I wouldn’t feel I have to keep assuring you I haven’t passed on.

I often think, though, what I would be doing, and what I would be like, were the “1” in the “120” not there, so that I’m 20, not 120. What if I’d been born in 1995, not 1895? For one thing, I’d be having a lot more ladies than I currently am. Not finding willing ladies is another maddening thing about being 120 (soon to be 121). It used to be that young ladies found older gentlemen very attractive. But not today, it seems.

Despite this, I’m still on the lookout for ladies. I talk to them whenever I can – in bars, pubs, at bus-stops, and whatnot. They smile, are polite, and all of that, but become ever-so-subtly distant as soon as I begin making…..how shall I say……..overtures?

I’ve still much more to offer than most gentlemen out there looking for ladies. For one thing, I’m a very experienced lover, having over the last hundred-or-so years had many, many scores of ladies in all the areas of the world I was stationed in during my long military career. As a conversationalist I have few equals, for, being catholic in my interests, widely read, and with a cosmopolitan spirit, I’m a veritable Renaissance Man.

Also, I’m still a very good physical specimen because I work-out every day, punching the heavy bag, shadow-boxing, doing calisthenics, running, and suchlike. I was, after all, once middleweight champion of the British Army. You may therefore now wonder why it is that today’s young ladies don’t seem to want to beat a path (so to speak) to my door.   The only explanation is my advanced age. Today’s young ladies don’t know what they’re missing.


Not having had any ladies for so long, I’ve been thinking more and more of Victoria. She was a lady (a fortyish lady, actually) with whom I was passionate. This was in the very early 1920’s. Since, as I intimated earlier, I’ve been passionate with scores upon scores of ladies in the course of my life, why should I be thinking particularly of Victoria? Is it because I’m currently reading “Victoria – A Life” by AN Wilson? Being a biography of Queen Victoria, it serves as a reminder that in her very copious writings (she wrote over 60 million words, the equivalent of 700 novels) she reveals how passionate was her love for Albert. Little is left to the reader’s imagination.

I had first met my Victoria at someone’s rather lavish party in a home in London’s Belgravia district. I was 25. She  was 15 years my senior. I was then unmarried (Gladys was still in my future). But Victoria was very married – to an executive, in “oil” – and she had a son at Harrow. All this didn’t matter to Victoria, who set her sights on me and made her move. I was as helpless as a beetle caught in a spider’s web, for Victoria was the sort of older lady young gentlemen dream about and cannot resist. Her figure was trim, her hair black, her glittering eyes dark and obsidian. She was the controller; I the controlled. She was the predator; I the prey. She was the sadist; I the masochist.

Victoria’s oil-executive husband was constantly out of England doing the things around the Empire which oil executives did. Her son at Harrow was a boarder there. So Victoria was frequently home alone, where we did the sorts of things together behind closed doors in her home, that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had done together behind closed doors at Osborne House. After Albert came John Brown. I have, however, still to get to that part in AN Wilson’s biography………

As for my Victoria, I’ll be forever grateful to her for indulging me in my (secret) wish to be beaten with a whip by a lady I desire. And there was no lady I desired more than Victoria. The more she beat me the more red-hot became my desire for her – a desire deliciously slaked in our couplings after the beatings were finished.

As for Queen Victoria, could it be that, as a prelude to her and Albert’s couplings, she beat him with a whip so that his desire for her become more red-hot? This question isn’t as outlandish as it might sound, because any references to such a thing which Queen Victoria might have made in her journals or diaries, would certainly have been destroyed by her youngest daughter, Princess Beatrice, who, after the Queen’s death, did in fact destroy large swathes of her mother’s writings.

As for my Victoria, she, after some months of our couplings, began to tire of me. Our affair consequently ebbed, then ended. It was against my wishes, but, as I had said earlier, she was the controller, and I the controlled. I was the beetle she caught in her web, and devoured.

But, in the nights, particularly those of late, I continue to encounter Victoria. Whenever all is quiet she glides into my room in the blackness and slides into my bed…………….