Dated this, the twenty-fifth Day
of the seventh Month of the Third
Year of the Dawn of the Third
Millenium, or so I am Informed
Blotshire, County of Gout
Little Nestor,
I am in receipt of the Videotape of your goalkeeping debut against that bitterest of interschool Rivals, Primpton K.G. -- how unsporting on its part, to so exploit your genius for the Angle; and after the sixteenth Tally, I suspect that malice was actively, as it were, afoot. But tho' I am Vexed and Affrighted, to have in the Hydacott line a great-grandson of such scant athletic promise, I offer to you this Counsel: It is Defeat -- wrenching, punishing, scouring, excoriating, shattering, o'erarching &c. Defeat -- that obliges us to Reflect, to take Stock, to re-examine our place in Creation's intricate Scheme, and also to indulge in whimsical notions of plumping up the Gas bill and never, ever, paying it.
For I, too, Nestor, have sat down to sup at Chez Disappointment (O, and the maître'd, Cruel & Cutting, ohohoho! Yes, Nestor, let us chuckle as we contemplate the Menu! Enough, Nestor.), though it should be noted, that when I was but a squab, and like a Colossus bestrode the pitch . . . why, the Air fair quivered with shouts of Resignation and Despair, it being the Manager's exceptional Cunning to keep me in Reserve, to be unleashed when the Foe's prospects seemed especially Grim, thus inflicting upon him maximum psychological Damage. "Alas, 'tis time to quit the Field!" went the Cry, once young Hydacott arrived on't! And even in Victory -- as in a crucial match in 'Thirty-two, when I leapt into the Fray unbidd'n, thumped home the fatal Ball, and was borne in triumph by a swarm of green-jersey'd Lads -- even then, I sensed that this joy could not last; nor did it, following delivery unto my red-jersey'd Teammates. Adversity ennobles; it is the Seamstress of Humility, a Robe well-fitting those whom the name of Hydacott would Crown. The truest Blade is forged in the hottest coals; the Vase which is cracked, then mended, is all the more Precious; H.M.'s stoutest Trueheart, oddly absented from H.M.'s spring Tea, remains the very soul of Devotion. Mayhap the Summons was mislaid in H.M.'s Royal Mail. Again.
I remember, Nestor, during the early days of the Unpleasantness, when all looked bleak, it was my nocturnal Custom to drop by 10 Downing, to favor the Prime Minister with my reflections on the Matter: "I say, let's go over There and give that Kaiser * rascal a proper scolding!" I would
[ * Lord Hydacott's somewhat spotty recollection of the age's principal actors should be excused; his memory isn't what it used to be, and it wasn't much to start with. -- The Editors ]
exhort him, and then the Constable would exhort me to exhort elsewhere, I was grander than the "bleedin' air-raid sirens." (A sturdy, if impertinent chap, and I trust he was later sent to stand Vigil over our interests in Outer Upper Wogistan.) Still, my oratory doubtless awoke in Mr. Cromwell **
[ ** Ditto. ]
the knowledge that British resolve would not be wanting; that the couchant Lion was not slumbering, but Coiled; and that Lord Bunkapie Hydacott was eager to shoulder his share of kitbag and Rifle, unless of course his Bursitis flared up again, in which case he would be delighted to instead shoulder the office of High Commissioner to the Bahamas.
There was quite a To-do about it, but I finally accepted command of the family Regiment, the 13th Shrieking Hussars, that "troublous Crew/who/turned the Tide/at Water/loo" after Wellington was so kind as to donate it to the Froggies. We soon saw action, m'boy, in the epic Charge of the 13th Shrieking Hussars (you have seen, at Blotshire Manor, the fine oil-on-velvet triptych commemorating the affair). Nestor, I judge you now old enough to hear the Story of that ill-starred Day; how I, Sabre a-glitter, led a thunderous autocar excursion into that wee sleepy Hamlet -- unmarked on our maps, but known to the Natives as Myfoots-under-Yurtyre. Initially repulsed -- such language! -- I ordered the newly liberated Citizen to go alert his fellow Resistance Fighters, whereupon he limped off (with a decided Goebbelesque tilt) and took cover in a nearby Tavern. Realizing all too late his treachery, I gave the signal for pell-mell Retreat, only to find that my Troopers had already improvised a similar Remedy; Sabre a-glitter, I brought up the Rear. By God, we were a frightful Sight, and all scattered afore our Rush, save one tenacious Defender, who simply would not be budged, inspiring in the ranks of the Hussars much Alarum and Confusion. Having before witnessed such Behaviour on the Parade-ground, I knew that only cool Leadership would carry the Day -- dashing to the head of the Column, I myself engaged the Enemy tooth and Nail, in the Process incurring many painful Wounds. Had not the d--d Kriegpoodle absconded with my Sabre a-toothmarked, it would have made a fine Souvenir, which one day might have been your Inheritance, Nestor. Instead I intend to bequeath you my priceless "Fatima of the Ten-thousand Girdles" postcard collection, complete with magnifying Lens.
Crying "Huzzah!" we surged forward, and a spirited Battle ensued on the Steps of the Town Hall, mainly concerning which idiot of a Sub-altern had forgotten the picnic Basket. I did not anticipate a counter-Attack so soon, but this was War, or near enough it, and Fortune is fleeting: that Postmistress was a Master of close-quarters Broomwork, and swept us back in considerable Disarray. It was the last I saw of my trusty bat-man, Smedley; I fear he was taken Prisoner. This could've been no treat, as the good girthsome Woman rather resembled Goering, or his Sister.
So we were well-Blooded by the time we first set boots on Hunnish soil -- vividly I recall that cursed road known as the Gottdamptstrausse, and my Devil-may-care sprint along its entire hellish Length, ducking and dodging, roaring Oaths like a Bedlamite, hoping to draw off any Sniper fire, that the Shrieking Hussars might advance in Safety. Of course, Dempsey's Second Army had secured the area some Decades previous, but one can never be too Careful.
I am your Great-Grampapa,
"Bunky"