The Captain's Journal: August 2011
This very morning she was spotted astride a Bedouin's dromedary heading out into the shifting sands of the southern Sahara Desert. Good God whatever next? Fawcett.
Hurrah, there has been another sighting of Miss Allie Astell my errant companion at a caravanserai deep in the desert! However I fear we may be too late, for she was seen at the oasis edge, swaying to the savage rhythm of the distant drums. Ye Gads! Fawcett.
I have contacted the British Consulate in Cairo and requested that they send out a search party without delay and for God’s sake rescue the poor girl from an imminent fate that could possibly be worse than death. One can only imagine what would happen to my dear friend and biographer if she fell into the grips of fiendish white slavers. Cads to a man! What? Captain Fawcett.
Be reassured that liberal applications of my patent pomade have allowed me to maintain a stiff upper lip throughout this ghastly affair. Fawcett.
At the risk of seeming unconcerned with solving my dear friend Miss Allie Astell’s tribal predicament, I have left the problem in the safe hands of the Foreign Office who themselves are courting the assistance of the fearsome nomadic blue be-robed Tuareg. For the present I can do no more, and simply must attend to the pressing matter in hand, namely the adequate preparation for my forthcoming adventure. Carry on. Fawcett.
With the departure date for my expedition to the Black Hills of South Dakota drawing close, comes the dreadful dawning realisation that the only possible form of transport, beyond shanks that is, will be a blessed mule train, with the prospectors to include yours truly obliged to ride horses. Damn and Blast! Fawcett.
Now horses and I have never really seen eye to eye, too blasted independent for my liking. I had last ridden at school and I can recall vividly on one occasion jumping a fence and leaving the animal, that for no apparent reason had come to a grinding halt, nonchalantly chewing on a bush whilst I stuck out from the ground like a spent firework neck deep in mud. Fawcett.
My family of course all hunted but I find myself disposed and incline toward Oscar’s sentiment that fox hunting was the past time of ‘the unspeakable in hot pursuit of the inedible’. The Captain.
Painfully aware of my lack of horsemanship and with needs most apparent, I have taken the bit between my teeth as it were and enrolled in Miss Proudfoot’s Equestrian Academy for the sons and daughters of the Nobility in Surrey. What Ho! Fawcett.
Ah, Miss Proudfoot. Now there’s a name to conjure with! For many years she had been the pen behind Aunt Prudence, with her widely admired column published in the popular ‘Gals Own’ weekly. Prudence Proudfoot, for this was she, was well known for doling out sound advice on spotty complexion problems and appropriate behaviour with one's first boyfriend etc. Toodle Pip. Fawcett.
Alas the sweet agony Aunt ultimately neglected to heed her own sage wisdom and on finding her chosen vocation somewhat unfulfilling, fell into a debauched existence a seedy life punctuated with heavy drinking and easy virtue. Fawcett: Note to self to take more water with it.
Y’Gads, I implore, watch over me. With a firm resolve and a freshly stiffened upper lip I enter the paddock in Pirbright sitting on piebald pony. By Jupiter. Fawcett.
Bump! Ooooowh! Balderdash! Doctor! Blast this for a game of soldiers, I’m off! Nursing a sore derriere I return home with my tail between my legs, my bowler hat crushed and my ego severely dented. What on earth is a man to do? Peeved. Fawcett.
It just goes to show that 'you can take a horse to water but you cannot make it drink’ or in Miss Proudfoot’s case ‘you can take a whore to culture but you cannot make her think’. Huumph. Fawcett. Pass the Port.
Fear not dear Chums. Not a lot beats old Fawcett! I may well have found the answer. On hearing about this contraption I jumped at the chance and have just purchased the latest device that should aid me in my quest to improve my riding. What? ;}> Fawcett.
So soon after Master Robert Hine and his cohort of chortling chums noble attempt to affect the rescue of Miss Allie Astell from a white slavers encampment north of the ancient site of Zawyet-el-Aryan were thwarted. Her evil captors obviously thinking the game was up released their prize and subsequently Miss Allie Astell was found slightly the worse for wear wandering in the shifting sands of the Southern Sahara. Rumour that the poor gal was to be heard singing Edelweiss at the top of her voice has yet to be confirmed. Toodle Pip. Fawcett.
Miss Allie Astell’s (my erstwhile biographer and sometime expedition organiser) mysterious disappearance and the need to cope with the ensuing hullabaloo had delayed my departure to the grand ol' USA. Receiving the delightful news that my dear chum is now safe and sound and with these unseemly shenanigans hopefully at an end, I apply a liberal dollop of my patent pomade and with a spring in my step, set off once again in search of my fortune. It is with no little excitement that I board the sleeping car of the Chicago and Northwestern railroad bound for Deadwood, South Dakota. Yee Hah! Fawcett.
While the train speeds along at full steam ploughing its way across the state of Illinois, I make a beeline for the dining car. I pass through carriages packed with gold diggers, missionaries, carpet baggers, music hall artistes, card sharks and soldiers of fortune, all heading west in search of their own El Dorado. How spiffing Fawcett.