MANICHAEAN
10-14-2012, 05:17 PM
What’s In a Name?
When Rear Admiral Roscoe H.Hillenkoetter alighted in the rain from his taxi outside the Ritz Hotel in London, he failed by an impressive display of amnesia, to enamour himself to the salacious attentions of the incumbent doorman. Despite the latter holding above his head, an umbrella of imperial proportions, said naval person, paid off the cab with a six penny tip and strode through the doors of the imposing façade, sidestepping the doorman’s advances.
The flunky looked at the cabby, and exchanges of views were made between the two concerning the tightness of their North American cousins. This was unfortunately phrased in a parlance consisting mainly of adjectives derived from the earlier letters of the alphabet.
Not that it would have worried the worthy seaman, as in general he was averse to what he regarded as uptight Brits with attitudes. In addition he was not exactly looking forward, in his capacity as Security Coordination Officer, to this unofficial ceremony of awarding an OBE to a Spanish wartime spy codenamed “Tricycle” at the Ritz bar.
“The Limeys thought it appropriate. Hogwash!” he thought.
Already having set up base camp at the bar, were Lieutenant Colonel Maldwyn Makgill Haldane, nicknamed Muldoon, a small individual of a retiring disposition, and Holt-Wilson from MI5, whose deep patriotism was such that he once confided to his diary that “all my life and all my strength are given to the finest cause on this earth – the ennoblement of all mankind by the example of the British race.” They had both earlier engaged in dinner at Simson’s Grand Cigar Divan in the Strand.
“Where did your chap get his codename Tricycle?” asked Muldoon of his companion.
“Oh it was quite ingenious actually. Carlos, which is his real name, is rather partial to three in a bed sex, so we had to get something to throw Jerry off the scent. The Hun has never understood our sense of humour anyway.”
“How’s your drink? Barman!”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Muldoon.
Two large brandies materialized.
“Look, here’s Hilly just coming through the door. Make that three barman.”
Rear Admiral Roscoe H.Hillenloetter joined the group and pleasantries were exchanged.
“So what are you guys up to?” asked H.
Muldoon, quite florid around the cheeks by now, was the first to reply.
“It’s a bit disturbing old boy. In part of my capacity as censor at the War Office I’ve noted a worrying trend recently among soldiers in the Indian regiments to write poetry, an ominous sign of mental disquiet.”
“Quite so,” said Holt-Wilson.
The American viewed them both. To his mind the English were a race of cold-blooded queers with bad dental work that once conquered half the world but still had not figured out central heating. The warm beer and boiled food did not endear him either. But there was a war on and he had to play his part.
He remembered once being introduced to Holt-Wilson’s wife, who made a point of telling him that her maiden name was Fiona Ffrench, with a small “f” and that she was related to the novelist William Le Quex (pronounced “Kew”). It had not gone down well when he had likewise informed her that he came from Texas and that was with a big “T”.
Eventually they were joined by the awardee Carlos; a quiet man, swarthy and attired in a very un-British suit and beret. A few drinks at a quiet corner of the bar, some remarks by Muldoon to the effect that “When one is asked to avoid superlatives, I find it difficult to do so in describing the sterling work of this operative in the Allied cause.”
The OBE was slipped legerdemain into his possession, warm dry handshakes, further congratulations and the party broke up.
Well, not quite. Muldoon and Holt-Wilson repaired to the latter’s club, a short walk away for further drinks, whilst the Rear-Admiral and Tricycle were left to make their own plans.
Outside it was still raining. The doorman made a point of giving full attention to the Spaniard, escorting him with extravagance to a waiting cab and received a swift fiver in his ever open hand before the door was closed, It was a ritual as closely choreographed as a pas de deux at Covent Garden and to any initiated observer, represented a fluidity of movement worthy of commendation.
The American stood next and indicated that he wanted a taxi also to take him to Hampstead. When one rolled up to the kerb, the umbrella was again produced, he entered, the door was closed and no tip was forthcoming.
The doorman leaned forward to the driver and said, “Hampstead,” then in a whisper, “Take the bugger round the long way, He’s as tight as a duck’s ***.”
When Rear Admiral Roscoe H.Hillenkoetter alighted in the rain from his taxi outside the Ritz Hotel in London, he failed by an impressive display of amnesia, to enamour himself to the salacious attentions of the incumbent doorman. Despite the latter holding above his head, an umbrella of imperial proportions, said naval person, paid off the cab with a six penny tip and strode through the doors of the imposing façade, sidestepping the doorman’s advances.
The flunky looked at the cabby, and exchanges of views were made between the two concerning the tightness of their North American cousins. This was unfortunately phrased in a parlance consisting mainly of adjectives derived from the earlier letters of the alphabet.
Not that it would have worried the worthy seaman, as in general he was averse to what he regarded as uptight Brits with attitudes. In addition he was not exactly looking forward, in his capacity as Security Coordination Officer, to this unofficial ceremony of awarding an OBE to a Spanish wartime spy codenamed “Tricycle” at the Ritz bar.
“The Limeys thought it appropriate. Hogwash!” he thought.
Already having set up base camp at the bar, were Lieutenant Colonel Maldwyn Makgill Haldane, nicknamed Muldoon, a small individual of a retiring disposition, and Holt-Wilson from MI5, whose deep patriotism was such that he once confided to his diary that “all my life and all my strength are given to the finest cause on this earth – the ennoblement of all mankind by the example of the British race.” They had both earlier engaged in dinner at Simson’s Grand Cigar Divan in the Strand.
“Where did your chap get his codename Tricycle?” asked Muldoon of his companion.
“Oh it was quite ingenious actually. Carlos, which is his real name, is rather partial to three in a bed sex, so we had to get something to throw Jerry off the scent. The Hun has never understood our sense of humour anyway.”
“How’s your drink? Barman!”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Muldoon.
Two large brandies materialized.
“Look, here’s Hilly just coming through the door. Make that three barman.”
Rear Admiral Roscoe H.Hillenloetter joined the group and pleasantries were exchanged.
“So what are you guys up to?” asked H.
Muldoon, quite florid around the cheeks by now, was the first to reply.
“It’s a bit disturbing old boy. In part of my capacity as censor at the War Office I’ve noted a worrying trend recently among soldiers in the Indian regiments to write poetry, an ominous sign of mental disquiet.”
“Quite so,” said Holt-Wilson.
The American viewed them both. To his mind the English were a race of cold-blooded queers with bad dental work that once conquered half the world but still had not figured out central heating. The warm beer and boiled food did not endear him either. But there was a war on and he had to play his part.
He remembered once being introduced to Holt-Wilson’s wife, who made a point of telling him that her maiden name was Fiona Ffrench, with a small “f” and that she was related to the novelist William Le Quex (pronounced “Kew”). It had not gone down well when he had likewise informed her that he came from Texas and that was with a big “T”.
Eventually they were joined by the awardee Carlos; a quiet man, swarthy and attired in a very un-British suit and beret. A few drinks at a quiet corner of the bar, some remarks by Muldoon to the effect that “When one is asked to avoid superlatives, I find it difficult to do so in describing the sterling work of this operative in the Allied cause.”
The OBE was slipped legerdemain into his possession, warm dry handshakes, further congratulations and the party broke up.
Well, not quite. Muldoon and Holt-Wilson repaired to the latter’s club, a short walk away for further drinks, whilst the Rear-Admiral and Tricycle were left to make their own plans.
Outside it was still raining. The doorman made a point of giving full attention to the Spaniard, escorting him with extravagance to a waiting cab and received a swift fiver in his ever open hand before the door was closed, It was a ritual as closely choreographed as a pas de deux at Covent Garden and to any initiated observer, represented a fluidity of movement worthy of commendation.
The American stood next and indicated that he wanted a taxi also to take him to Hampstead. When one rolled up to the kerb, the umbrella was again produced, he entered, the door was closed and no tip was forthcoming.
The doorman leaned forward to the driver and said, “Hampstead,” then in a whisper, “Take the bugger round the long way, He’s as tight as a duck’s ***.”