Basil Seal Takes Manhattan, but gives it back...

Now where was I...? Oh yes...

Part III

Friday, Friday evening, The Ball, The St. Regis, Mr. P comes to the rescue (somewhere in NYC): Of course you must realize that after the hard work we had put in the night before, Mr. P and I, being of a certain age, were in need of restoration and rejuvenation. It was with these healthful objectives in mind that we both slept most of the day away, waking in time to luncheon, attend Mass and prepare for the Ball...I shan't bore you all with the details of this time of lounging, not much transpired...I did meet a few natives who were milling about and thought it wise to find out the names of their tailors, in order to avoid them, of course. Although to inquire was not really necessary since most people wear clothing with the name of the manufacturer printed upon it. I am not sure where the tailor Mr. Nike has his shop, but he does seem to do a large business in ugly clothing and his clients are a loyal bunch. Imagine paying a company to advertise their product...Now that is genius...But anyway, on with the story...

As you know, I am always one who attempts to remain unobtrusive and lurk in the background whenever possible. That is why, while choosing my wardrobe for the Ball commemorating the American Revolution, I choose to wear my Regimental togs. I mean if it is the War we are celebrating here, then why not wear the uniform of the only real army engaged...So, resplendent in my red coat I collected Mr. P from his room, where he had spent the afternoon carefully dressing in his best evening clothes...I must say he cut a fine genteel figah from his winged collar to his opera pumps. I was impressed. We stopped at the bar in the club in order to prepare for the evening by downing a few rounds of Black Velvet, for medicinal purposes of course. We jumped in the car and went round to the St. Regis, the site of the event, and made our way to the penthouse...I am sure you are all familiar with these kinds of colonial events. Flags and badly cut dinner jackets, not a cuff in sight, flowers and formal shirts with ruffles on them, row upon row of medals and ribbons whose origin is unknown, ladies in what looked like prom dresses or dresses that at one time were part of a wedding ceremony. Believe me, it is ghastly...There was an open bar, which is where you will find Basil Seal in trying times such as these. I must say that mine was the only red coat in the joint and I entered into the spirit of the event as old adversaries meet to discuss old times. The gentlemen about the place seemed to take it all in stride, and as my charm and accent seemed to be overcoming any tension, Mr. P slowing lost his deer-in-the-headlights look and began to drink more heavily. He still kept a weather eye on me, of course, and I noticed that he made a valiant effort to keep me located around the bar area, and not let me wander...Well, we all took seats and made our way through the meal, which was quite good...Mr. P was seated to my left and to my right was, I think, John Hancock's widow...I don't really remember her name, but to go by appearances, she was probably quite fetching before electricity. Mr. P seemed a bit nervous, and I do believe there were little beads of perspiration about the hairline...I shouldn't wonder, I would hate to have to sit next to me on an occasion such as this. He seemed to have difficulty breathing, or was holding his breath, I really couldn't be sure. I suppose he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, well, he didn't have long to wait.

Now as you are all aware, I am a very peaceful and mellow chap, never seeking out conflict or confrontation. Oh no, I always avoid these things at all times. You know that I never say anything that might wound or hurt someones feelings. Well, we were making our way leisurely through our dinner, chatting about this and that and of course doing my best to ignore the colonial harridan sitting next to me. She seemed to be interested in my red coat and I wasn't getting a sense of a lot of brotherly love from her direction. Finally over coffee, her better angels seemed to give up and she began to make comments about the uniform and the British in general to someone on her other side, just loud enough to ensure that I would hear. Mr. P slumped in his chair at this point, knowing that the die was now cast. I gave him a wink, and ordered two Black Velvets for him and turned to my neighbor...

I smiled and introduced myself to her as Sir Banastre Tarleton VI...And went on to regale her with my most illustrious ancestors exploits in the war...His bravery, his courage his ingenious ways of dealing with rebels. I mean, the church burning thing really didn't happen, but since Americans learn their history from movies instead of books, they don't know that, but anyway, it was a splendid idea wasn't it. And of course you know that this liberty and freedom from tyranny was just a bunch of eye wash...I mean the war was really about a few rich colonists wanting to keep as much money as possible for themselves. I mean, sure they found it convenient to use those thugs The Sons of Liberty as their hired muscle, but really, copying out a few ideas from texts on the Greeks and the Frog philosophers doesn't a government make now does it? And I'm sure all the slaves liked that bit about all men being created equal, that was of course, all men are created equal except those that are not...Hey, didn't Orwell say something about that once, he was English you know...Anyway, we got bored with the whole thing in the end and decided if you wanted to be friends with the Frogs, well good luck to you...I mean we owned the rest of the world anyway, so what do we need with beaver pelts and coon skin caps...I think it was in 1812 or thereabouts that we did stop back by and burn your capitol down, and generally make your lives more miserable than they already were. I think we broke all your dishes too...A very good evening to you madam...

I headed back to the bar at that, having noticed that Mr. P had slipped away sometime during my friendly chat with Dolly Madison. Things progressed on schedule and ran smoothly, well, except the part where I proposed a toast to the Queen, but anyway things were winding down when I noticed that Dolly was eying me from across the room. And she wasn't alone, there seemed to be a rather large group of Revolutionary War Widows present at the evening's festivities and it looked like they had a Tea Party on their minds...I wasn't worried at this point, I could see that there were probably only two good legs available in the whole group, and what with my superior ankle work, to evade, would with me, be the work of a moment. Mr. P had still not surfaced, I assumed the strain of being here with me had sent him to see a man about a dog...I stood enjoying my Black Velvet, when I noticed that Dolly and the Blue Hair Brigade had spent the last hour preforming a double pincer in my general direction. Well, at this point I had blue hair to left of me, and blue hair to the right, so it seemed like up the middle was the way out for yours truly. I finished my Black Velvet, of course, did a quick scout for Mr. P, and began my dash for freedom. They were still sharp as tacks and they divined my tactics in an instant. Those on my flanks, the ones with walkers anyway, were in no position to stop me, but they sent a flying column of farm wives (I am assuming farm wives, from their average size it might have been livestock, but I am not sure on this point) to head me off. Now the only thing I had to do was reach the large table running across the end of the room, use it as interference and I was down the back stairs in a flash. I could see that it was going to be touch and go...I mean, it isn't easy to run with dignity and bearing from a horde of Revolutionary War Widows, try it sometime. I headed left at the table, reversed in the face of several tons of colonial farm wife and noticed that the canes and walkers moved a lot faster than I thought. Nothing for it now, it was up and over the table or nothing. At this point Mr. P appears again...Where he came from I have no idea, but as I performed a peerless Astaire over the table, Mr. P stands up and tips the huge punch bowl over into the path, well onto the women in the path, and throws me a wink to boot. I hit the ground running and was sure Mr. P would be torn limb form limb in a moment. I mean he probably just ruined around 50 old prom dresses with one bowl...But as I glanced back from the back stairs door, he was no where to be seen...Good man yourself, Mr. P. I flicked a piece of lint from my red sleeve, shot my cuffs and headed down in a very dignified manner.

Well, I had a very good time with Mr. P, The Fiendish One, KCC, Mr. Cusack and all the RCBfA. Although I didn't get to meet Dawn Eden, the trip was a success anyway. But I think I'll give NYC a rest for awhile. Thanks to Mrs. P for being such a good sport about the whole thing. I owe you one. Thanks to The Fiendish One for the use of his club and car and influence with the NYPD, and to KCC for his hospitality and kindness. Hat tip to Mr. Cusack for his hospitality and service as a tour guide. Let's do it again sometime...