‘Hail the conquering hero’ I sang to myself, as I perused the English papers,
which extolled my virtues as a resourceful master spy.
 
Everywhere I went in polite society, people wanted to meet Major Bertie Bluemantwit, late of the British Army intelligence section, who’d served with distinction in the conflict in South Africa against the Boer.
 
An article in The Times entitled Brassed Off described how I’d nabbed a band of enemy guerillas,
led by a rascally chap called ‘Van Der Leberting-Deepermanmallmoat, or summat like that,’
as my sergeant, Smithwick, from Lancashire called him.
 
My spies and I had learned that they had their own brass band, a sound I hate,
as I was forced to learn the euphonium by my Gilbert and Sullivan music-mad teacher,
at Harrow school, with the amusing name of Millicent MacMuckfall
 
Bribing natives to find out where they rehearsed, I laughed merrily, blowing raspberries through a pretend trombone, as the captured guerillas were hauled away in chains, vowing revenge.
 
Bedecked with medals, I returned to Blighty in good health (apart from a dose of the clap
acquired at Madame Bushont’s bordello, where I could be seen lying supine, addled by morphia)
and a war hero to boot, but wallowing in my own stench, for I’d naturally expected matrimonial passion from the woman I’d married before heading off to fight for king and country at the siege of Bulawayo.
 
So you can imagine my reaction when I found this vision I’d cherished through shot and shell
to be strangely remote, no longer content to be treated as my prized possession,
and what’s more, attracting a stream of admirers, much to my chagrin,
one of whom was Inspector Lebert-Deepmoat. 
 
Now, where had I heard that name before, or something like it?
 
A resourceful chap and former leading light of the French Surete,
on secondment to Scotland Yard, he’d unmasked con-man Phillip De-Marlowe,
who had ingratiated himself with the missus by claiming an expertise in art.
 
But the copper proved this fellow was really Simpson ‘Smilealot’ Shuffingham,
late of Her Majesty’s Prison, Isle Of Wight.
 
I was enraged at my wife’s infidelity, which you may say was hypocritical.
I was a Victorian man after all, but my jealousy took a back seat when I
received a message from a Major McWhittie, subtly hinting that my
immoral pursuits were known, and my wife’s lawyers would be informed if I
did not meet him at the Peckish Parrot pub in Whitehall.
 
I listened as he outlined his ‘urgent’ mission, which was to investigate a group of Germans
holed up in their embassy.
 
Pondering how to achieve this aim, I was startled to find a hand inside my pocket,
and looked down to see a tramp I’d known as Captain ‘Cuddly’ Cotlingham,
a former Guards officer down on his luck, due to booze and
an untimely admiration for Bolshevism.
 
He disappeared into the crowd, but I hid in a doorway and observed
him pinch a watch in the blink of an eye, and I realised that with his ability
to pick a pocket we’d make a good team, and so quickly gained a valuable recruit. 
 
Cotters was tasked with ingratiating himself with Frau Honstat, secretary to the German ambassador,
whom I’d seen welcoming agents into the country under the guise of a German Oompah band.
 
He positioned himself so the genial Frau would pass him on the street and she,
struck by his dignity, dropped a coin in his hat, then took to giving him the leavings of her master’s table.
 
After they’d got down and dirty in a stable, he learned the ambassador’s guests had left for Scotland.

That evening Cotters and I boarded the Edinburgh train, where my eye caught
that of a Miss Phillicent Portside-Standish, an actress touring with Gilbert and Sullivan’s Mikado.
 
In an effort to impress, I said, ‘I bet you have many admirers.’
 
‘Indeed,’ she answered, but it can be very annoying, I’m now being bothered by some musical Germans, whom I suspect are up to no good.’
 
Could this be the clue I needed, I wondered - were these chaps enemies of the state?
 
The next day I thought I saw Inspector Lebert-Deepmoat, closely followed by that
confidence-trickster he’d sent to chokey.
 
What on earth were they doing here, seemingly in train, I mused,
and apparently using the cover of rugby fans singing their way to that feast
of kicking and slipping in the mud, called The Calcutta Cup?
 
Then, what should hove into view but a German Oompah band, playing Wagner’s Ride of The Valkyrie.

Retiring to The Haggis and Thistle hostelry for a much-needed pick-me-up,
I glimpsed that con-merchant Sims-Shuffingham embracing my acquaintance from train,
when I was approached by a very attractive lady.
 
I soon found myself being flung around a dance floor, at a form of entertainment the Scots call a ceilidh.

The next morning I woke in her bed, while downstairs those mysterious chaps
I’d been trailing were stuffing themselves with porridge,
while looking at revealing photographic prints of I and my dance partner.
 
Then in strolled Miss Phillicent Portside-Standish, singing ‘We little maids from school are we…
Oh, excuse me, I’m rehearsing.’
 
I bowed, saying, ‘That’s my favourite G and S number.’
 
‘It’s mine too,’ agreed Sims-Shuffingham, that bleeding trickster,
closely followed by Frau Honstat and Cuddly Cotlingham,
who sobbed, ‘Sorry boss, they lured me with bottles of brandy.’
 
‘What’s going on?’ I spluttered.
 
‘Why, surely you recognise your old foes from Bulawayo,’
quoth a bearded chap caressing a trombone who, taking off his beard,
revealed himself to be Inspector Lebert-Deepmoat, or more accurately,
the leader of that band of ravaging Boers I’d nabbed, the big boss Boer guerilla,
whom my sergeant had introduced as ‘Van Der Leberting-Deepermanmallmoat, 
or summat like that.’ 
 
‘You laughed as we were hauled away in chains,’ he cried, ‘but we Boers don’t forget,
and when we were let out for a day to play at the mayor’s charity ball,
we stole onto a cruise liner, paying our way by playing twice daily, and soon docked in Southampton...’
 
‘However,’ broke in Miss Phillicent Portside-Standish, whose real name was Maggie MacMuckfall
– now, where had I heard than name before, I asked my myself – ‘we will not harm you, if you join
our band on our tour of the highlands and islands.
 
‘I persuaded the others to spare you, for I know you’re a wizard on the euphonium.’
 
Well, you can imagine I felt a right fool.
 
Then Phillie added, ‘By the way, my mother sends her regards, she loved teaching you at Harrow school.’