My great, great grandfather, Horace Boatfudge, was a prominent feature in Dublin society. He wrote a weekly column for The Irish Times, called The Pertinent Gent.
February 4th 1904, The Boat Is Sinking Fast
I awake this morning with serious malady, dear readers. Head throbbing, as if someone was reenacting The Boer War in my temporal lobe. I’d been invited to a soiree the previous evening at the Royal Zoological gardens, at the behest of my VBA* Sir Clement Fipplecroft. Clement had recently taken delivery of a new pachyderm, a male called Gaja, and gathered the who’s who of Dublin society to celebrate. I took an early tea in the Gresham with chums Belvedere “Belvo” Rockclimb And Richard “The Cooker” Cook. The other members of the infamous Sackville Seven had cried off, Edward Waltoncake by way of a telegram, citing an aggravation of his gout from a particularly truculent game of rugger the previous weekend. Hipflasks filled, we made our way to a Hansom Cab for the long commute to the Phoenix park...
Halfway up the quays, the smell of hops from that place that brews that horrible black tonic of the working classes hits Belvo’s nose like a shot from a Webley & Scott and he turns green. He demands that the carriage come to an immediate halt, and flops out onto the street, promptly depositing some partially digested roast beef and sherry all over his rather fetching new pair of boots and matching gaiters (4 and 6d from Mervyn’s of Berkeley road). The carriage driver, a rather stern chap of grimy facade, informed us that he would be most displeased to continue the transit with our under par companion, but on removal of my rather corpulent wallet from the breast pocket of my great coat (Brown Thomas, a steal at 11 pounds.), my offer of additional financial appeasement soon soothed his qualms.
We alighted the carriage around nine, where Sir Clement had prepared a most lavish display in the rose garden behind Haughton House. While Belvo and the Cooker took full advantage of the imbibations on offer, Clement insisted, absolutely insisted, that I go for a ride on Gaja. I was more than happy to do so. My former paramour, Evelyn Wanklefont, was also at the party, and I feared that in my intoxicated state, a lustful glance from Ms. Wanklefont would prompt a brief tryst by the Giraffe enclosure, and a self administered dose of penicillin come morningtime. After being helped onto the elephant’s back, Sir Clement providing an accomodating but rather inappropriate push to my posterior, off I went for what I hoped would be a jolly jaunt around the grounds.
Unfortunately, Gaja galloped off like a disobliging locomotive, and by the time the elephant had been sufficiently tranquillised by the zookeepers, he’d trampled all over the night’s merriment. Thankfully, none of the guests were harmed, though Belvo’s carelessly discarded hat (4 pounds from Taylor’s of Ely Place) was irretrievably mangled under Gaja’s considerable hindquarters.
The rest of the evening remains fuzzy as I lie in bed probing my pain addled brain, but i’m sure that a good evening’s sport was had by all. The door to my adjacent water closet has just opened, and Evelyn appears, flushed of face and swathed in my burgundy robe. I fear, dear readers, that I may need that penicillin after all.
HB
VBA – Very best Acquaintance
Myself, Sir Clement and assorted cohorts with Gaja the elephant.
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