The Professor Peregrine Papers

Recently, as we perused, with much admiration, Ezra Gloppened's recent publication "Goo! : Butter Churns and their Role in the Peasants' Revolt", I ventured to ask if the Professor had ever considered an alternative career.   "I haven't always been attracted to the academic life," the Professor admitted. "Many years ago, I did spend some time on the road with my band The Inadequate Zarf. Ah, happy days! Except for the less happy days, which, come to think of it, was most of them." I was unsure about the veracity of this statement until I chanced upon a copy of The Inadequate Zarf’s classic album "Physalis In My Pocket" in a bric-a-brac sale at the Sandford Spence Schultz Home for Fractious Umpires. My favourite track is, without doubt, "Ruckus In The Olfaction Department", featuring the Professor's solo on bass harmonica, an instrument of which he has little or no knowledge.

I found these postcards in a manila envelope on which was written “Deep Extra Cover” and “lost tuning fork”. The Professor has no recollection of these postcards.  But, then again, neither do I.

I cannot deny that Uncle Leucocholy loved a pataphor almost as much as Sussex Pond Pudding and games of Wink Murder. And so it was inevitable, perhaps, that he would assume the identity of a member of The Macrosmatic Brass Band whenever he found himself near a windmill. His performances at the celebrations for 29 Gidouille are still remembered fondly in a few arcane parts of Belgium.

Walking back from an agreeable lunch in that fine hostelry “The Trumpet and Monocycle”, the Professor and I engaged in a labyrinthine discussion on the merits of pickled eggs and Breton's use of the phrase “le jeu n'en vaut pas la chandelle” in the first Surrealist Manifesto.  We came to no firm conclusions.  This was due, in part, to my umbrella bursting into flames.

I came across the following photograph, stapled to a receipt for spoon rests, as I tried to make sense of the Professor's treasury of learned papers and other tea chests. The Professor considered the photograph with some interest before beginning to explain.  “Ah, the Case of the Disappearing Bails. A cause célèbre of the 1960s. At critical moments during significant matches, the bails would suddenly and inexplicably vanish. People were up in arms and stiff letters were written to the MCC, various members of the House of Lords and other incorrigibles. Eventually, Chief Inspector Drongway was called in to investigate.” The Professor stared absent-mindedly out of the window at a passing milkman before continuing: “Everybody had the greatest faith in Drongway of the Yard, so called because he owned a small yard behind a pub where he kept his valuable collection of Edwardian unicycles. However, no arrests were ever made. The belief expressed by journalists and other wastrels was that t

You may well have heard of the Parisian Painting Machine, constructed in an attempt to relieve the “Grande pénurie d'art” in the 1890s. (This was, history leads us to believe, an entirely imaginary painting shortage invented by M. Tartempion, who found he had in his possession a gargantuan surplus of canvas to sell). As luck would have it, while the Professor was undertaking a field trip to aid his research into the pataphysical implications of white holes, he came across what he believed to be the derelict remains of that very machine in a barn just outside Purse Caundle.  After many months of  restoration work and not inconsiderable piles of cash, I'm pleased to say that the machine has recently produced a particularly unpleasant cup of espresso and the following “fine art” rendering of a bucolic landscape complete with waterfall. M. Tartempion would have been so proud of this spectacular success.