The Professor Peregrine Papers

Uncle Leucocholy had a life-long fascination for wind instruments and was said to be a crumhorn virtuoso.  He wasn't, of course, but people said it anyway.  His favourite instrument was, in fact, the basset horn. Sadly, this was also an instrument that he was completely unable to play. Nonetheless, he amassed a fine collection of basset horns which were much admired in woodwind circles.  Unfortunately, he frequently mistook a basset hound for a basset horn and added these to his collection as well. They followed him everywhere.  The story that Uncle L once mistook an albatross for a postage stamp is, I must add, a complete and frenzied fantasy.  At least, I think it is.

Recently, the Professor and I attended the ‘Six Cricketers In Search Of An Umpire’ event at Willingham St Mary. The result of the match was most unexpected, in particular:  Sophrotatos (The Armenian) c. R. Queneau b. S. Stylites 23 I decided to seek the Professor's opinion on a pet theory of mine: “Queneau provides us with a convincing narrative as he fields at first slip but, I fear, he is overly concerned with the conspicuous plenitude of options available,” I suggested. The Professor considered this before replying thus: “I believe it's said that the laudable FJ Durston (of blessed memory) ventured a similar opinion in the bar during a Test Match at Lords. However, everyone present feared that such a filipendulous and acroamatic assertion could be the cause of notable fashery and so it went no further. Although, just last week I did greatly enjoy rereading Long Jack's article in the Extra Cover Almanac in which he discussed, in a far less contentious manner, Mr T...

Some years ago, you may have come across the Professor's paper titled “The Quasi-Quantum Implications of Divarication Patterns in Incipient Coherence Interactions”. This paper became famous, perhaps even notorious, in academic circles at the time, since almost everyone found it incomprehensible. The Professor attempted to explain his theory in a series of lectures where he made innovative use of puppets to demonstrate the more abstract points. They were entirely unsuccessful, partly due to chaotic puppet string entanglement. What is less known, though, is that the Professor attempted to encapsulate his core theory by using the complex metaphor of surprising and unlikely events in a recognisable context. To this end he produced the pilot episode of a sitcom set in 1959 entitled “Whoops! Here Comes The Vicar” in which Beryl and Stan try to live their traditional, comfortable lives with hilarious but enlightening consequences. However, the Professor abandoned the project before it was...

Knowing that his time here was coming to an end, ChopChop began to spend more and more time sitting halfway down the stairs, remembering.  But, in order to chronicle his recent exploits, he found the time to summon the sonnet committee. Finally, ChopChop acknowledged his friends and supporters as he set out on his farewell journey across the Lake of Inertia. This lake is usually hidden by a great fog of doubt and is only visible on alternate Tuesdays in November. Thankfully, he's gone (at least, for now), but whenever I stick my fingers into glue, I find I miss his feathery face and I must admit that his 106 not out for Greenbooth against Little Raveley proved conclusive on that glorious summer day.

ChopChop has an intensely irritating propensity for somewhat cryptic practical jokes and, as his sojourn in this version of reality dragged on, he began to indulge in this pastime. The first report I received was from The Ashby Puerorum Ghost Museum, where an unaccredited, seagull guide had been causing considerable disquiet and turmoil among the visitors and exhibits with his specious attempts to explain quantum theory and his unauthorised cocktail mixology. (Incidentally, I've always been a little disappointed by the gift shop here and can only award it 2 out of 5 stars).  By the time I arrived at the museum, ChopChop had disappeared, of course. Shortly thereafter I received a call from Lord Acnestis, owner of the Victorian country house Lickpenny Hall. It seems that, after summoning a number of guests in mysterious circumstances, ChopChop had arrived during dinner in the guise of Inspector Toucan and solemnly declared that there had been no murder or crime of any kind, that the ...

Not for the first time, our discussions have inadvertently led to the summoning of the Overlord of the Birds. Fortunately, these visitations do not last long but, in the meantime, we need to put up with him. However, let me put your mind at rest: he's always peaceful and respectful, despite having the changeable head of a bird, and he has a wealth of improbable anecdotes, a heartfelt love of cricket and an admirable distrust of politicians. Admittedly, he's also excessively fond of practical jokes, is slightly too obsessed with dancing and is prone to stealing food from your plate when you're not looking. Incidentally, ChopChop is a name that he refuses to acknowledge but, I think, secretly enjoys. ChopChop's appearances follow a broadly predictable course and began this time with him meeting up with old friends, including Max the cat. (The Professor has on occasion offered the opinion that the cat may be "pulling the strings". The occasion in question is usua...

On a recent road trip in his reliable, old Citroën Deux Chevaux, the Professor was keen to show me Meldrop Hall where, many long years ago, he remembered meeting the celebrated scholar and renowned tasseographist Lord Smither Conjubilant, Baron of ‘Somewhere Just Outside Hamnish Clifford’.  At that time the Professor was researching the role of pace-eggers in the development of both early forms of British tasseography and left-arm orthodox spin bowling. He began his tale thus: “I was welcomed at the door by a curious footman with undeserved deference and a cup of rapidly-cooling silver needle tea. After climbing the interminable stone staircase, I came across the Baron ensconced in a bartizan with a local artisan. As I recall he was busily arranging gewgaws on a rickety shelf.” Sadly, as we approached the hall in the Professor's vintage Bentley, it was clear that the house was now in ruins. We continued forward on foot through the abandoned gardens to the front of house where the P...

Among the Professor's collection of old cricket balls, mostly signed by obscure county cricketers, there is a single snooker ball. My curiosity was piqued and I questioned the Professor on its provenance.  “Ah yes, that was a parting gift from an old colleague of mine, Doctor Ulceby Cross. I paid him a visit just before he left for pastures new and he threw that very ball at me while calling out in that playful, bantering way of his, ‘Get lost, you pompous windbag.’  He had a reputation of being somewhat standoffish and irritable, but I knew him better than that. For instance, he frequently carried a snooker cue as he went about his daily business and is said to have used it to keep people at arm's, or rather, at cue's length. But, in fact, he was simply expecting to be challenged to a frame or two at short notice. Although, I confess that I can't recall that ever happening. I believe that his air of unfriendliness can be put down to his continual and profound contempla...

I came across a set of notes in the Professor's archives (stuffed into a shoe box, if you must know), which appeared indecipherable and made up largely of symbols. Stapled to these notes were a series of mysterious photographs. It is my duty to record here the Professor's attempt at elucidation. “I was invited to speak at a Symposium at Berck titled ‘Thyme on our Hands - Aspects of Herb Cultivation and the No-Communication Theorem in the Works of Antonin Artaud’. There was a great deal of lively and insightful discussion which, on the second day, somehow metamorphosed into a series of visionary experiments described as ‘Alternative Uses for a Bicycle in the Age of Entanglement’. I cannot imagine a more expressive tribute to the work of Louis de Broglie."  "However, attempts to achieve flight were abandoned following a near miss with a sand yacht and an incident involving delicious but unquestionably odoriferous cheese. Such happy times. At least, I think ‘happy’ is th...

One sunny, summer day many years ago, taking a slow train through suburban London to her house, these are the things that we enjoyed seeing from the train window. Scene 1 : A weightlifter in a garden proving to be a source of fascination for birds Scene 2 : A woman in a quiet street pushing a large wheelbarrow full of flowers, in a floriferous manner Scene 3 : A colourful statue of a cow Scene 4 : A vision from the 1930s with pots and pans suspended above a joyful husband and wife   Scene 5 : In a garden, two men dressed in Victorian clothes staring at something that they consider intractable As dusk began to fall and we neared our destination, she whispered to me, “Love is the man in quiet shoes walking close behind you as you make your way home.”

I had heard many rumours concerning the Professor's great uncle, the widely-respected ecclesiastical scholar, the Reverend Prebendary-without-Portfolio, Glanton Pyke. While briefly trapped in a defective lift between floors at The National Pith Helmet Museum, the Professor eventually confided the vexatious story to me.  “Following his recovery from a sudden crisis of faith, Glanton began to invest an increasing amount of his time in researching the role of the lithophone in the development of modern liturgical music. He was determined to see this project through to its conclusion, in spite of warnings from colleagues and a passing onion seller that he was neglecting his long-held ambition to be appointed to the office of Suffragan. After some years, he triumphantly presented his conclusions in the legendary lecture hall at The Monkton Up Wimborne Seminary and Butterfly Observatory. It's said that on that day many tears of joy were shed, many lives were changed and Nottinghamshi...

This year I accompanied the Professor on his annual visit to Grammersow Hall, the crepuscular stately home in Moreton on Lugg. Following a bracing constitutional around the grounds, I came across the Professor deep in thought at the entrance to the Ice House. After some minutes had passed, he spoke:  "I come to this place on every Saint Jude The Uncertain day. It was here that I last set eyes upon my great friend Admiral Quilkin  * . He marched into the Ice House, giving me a cheery wave as he disappeared. But he did not return. Some say he's playing glockenspiel in a reggae band on the outskirts of Tromsø. But I recently received an anonymous letter claiming that he'd been spotted buying blotting paper and safety pins in a shop just outside Wrangle Lowgate. That does sound the more likely option." "But Professor," I felt compelled to ask. "If he failed to return, then could he still be in there somewhere?" The Professor's expression became ind...

The Professor and I were greatly honoured last year to make the acquaintance of Dr Twanketen Overmorrow, visiting Solivagant Scholar and noted exponent of the contrabass clarinet. Her discourse on the inference of quantum effects in the elegies of Sextus Propertius will never be forgotten in these hallowed halls and surrounding parishes. However, late one evening, following a notable dinner based upon a series of variations on Battenberg cake, she confided to us that she had been troubled and intrigued by dreams relating to the works of Guillaume Apollinaire. She described a recurring dream as “debout devant le zinc d'un bar crapuleux designed by James Ensor”.  The Professor recommended an increase in jasmine tea consumption and a reduction in the amount of liver sausage prior to retiring for the night. However, on subsequent evenings, we did hear plaintive notes of the contrabass clarinet drifting through the air in the early hours. Shortly afterwards, at the end of her sojourn, D...

Eventually, having allayed his initial and understandable doubts, we met with the Inspector Diddlecum in a small, private bar close to Elva Hill Stone Circle. At first, the conversation was faltering and the Inspector remained reticent, but once the Professor realised that they shared an interest not only in early Scandinavian mead halls but also in variants of the White Lady cocktail, we were able to begin a useful dialogue. It seems that, despite our best efforts, the jockey's adventurous spirit together with a troubling fascination for the works of Schopenhauer were still causing him to seek out the most complex locations and enigmas without a single thought for how to find his way back again. We left the bar with heavy hearts shortly after the Inspector began a karaoke version of Wittgenstein's Tractatus (abridged). In the taxi on the way back to the railway station, the Professor confided in me: “I've never trusted Schopenhauer. I believe that he kept poodles as pets a...

Early last Absolu, Daglet Scribacious was convinced that he had seen Dorothea Tanning on a passing train. To his considerable regret, he failed to attract her attention.   That night, he dreamed of dancing with Ann Radcliffe to the music of Mozart.  The next morning, the Professor and I insisted on buying him a double espresso or three at his favourite coffee shop. We conversed at length on the weather, our favourite umbrellas and the best way to cook toad in the hole.  It was so much safer that way.

Some years ago the Professor's work “Sylvan Ascendance” caused a considerable amount of perturbation almost amounting to a prototypical brouhaha. The question of how apparent levitation could be achieved was discussed at length by art critics, aeronautical engineers, savants and other rampallions.  In preparation for this work, the Professor was known to have instigated a process of non dualist meditation and trampolining but was also rumoured to have been seen installing a system of wires and hoists. He now refuses to discuss this brief period of his life in any way. Although one night shortly before the last winter solstice, following a tasting of aged Calvados, he did disclose to me in confidence that, “I'm damned if I could remember how to get the unfortunate participants down again.” Shortly after this mystifying spectacle, the Professor moved on to take up the post of Principal Curator of Unexplained Trinkets at the Pudleston Bauble Museum.

While, once again, trying to establish some degree of order in the Professor's papers, I came across a number of old postcards of Paris concealed beneath a biography of Evelyn Rockley Wilson.  The Professor leafed through the fading cards and, of course, began one his anecdotes:  “These cards remind me hardly at all of my meeting with Daniel Brereton in Paris one autumn evening. He'd just finished working his shift at ‘Le Maillot de Lumière’, the bar somewhere in Le Marais.” “He's no bartender,” I suggested. The Professor ignored my interruption and went on, “We strolled though a local park of fountains. As we walked on we became so deeply absorbed in a discussion concerning the diligence of lightning that we paid no attention to our surroundings. Eventually we looked around and were surprised to find ourselves facing a castle that had no meaning at all.” “He's no bartender,” I repeated.

The Professor's celebrated book, ‘Cor Blimey! The Country Wife Goes To The Sand Dance’, dealt with the popular depiction of philosophy, literature and fulminology in the period from the English Civil War to the outbreak of the Second World War. However, the Professor recently confided in me that, if time had allowed, he would have included some later phenomena such as the recorded output of Mr Paul Anka, the later works of André Masson and the repertoire of Thelonious Monk from 1955 to 1965.  It was, however, the omission of the work of the Scamander Duo that he regretted most keenly.  Their performances reflecting on major philosophical works prior to the 18th century and, in particular, their critique of Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes resonated strongly with the Professor. Unfortunately, their masterpiece ‘Look Out, Missus! It's a Bellum Omnium Contra Omnes’ was comprehensively ignored when first performed in 1957. This may have been in part due to its 7 hour duration, although ...

Professor Withington Marsh has for many years been a trusted colleague and intellectual sparring partner of Professor Peregrine. To this day, Marsh is a strong advocate for the concept of the collective unconscious and believes that recognition of archetypes may hold the key to a truly fulfilled existence. (“He's so Jung, at heart,” the Professor likes to joke at dispiritingly frequent intervals).  Central to Marsh's current research is the belief that taking an opportunity to relate ancient, familiar and resonant tales in a leisurely manner will provide a new understanding of their importance, lead to a more satisfying “inner life” and present clues to the probable winner of the Grand National and other noteworthy horse races. I admit to a degree of scepticism but, one wet afternoon last summer, the Professor and I agreed to join Marsh in an attempt to validate this theory. 1 - We commenced by recounting the well-known, simple tale of the gardener and the crab. I confess that...

Uncle Leucocholy's entry into Paris has become legendary, possibly because he took disproportionate delight in telling and retelling the story to anyone who could be persuaded to listen. “Oh, the dark meetings on the Champs-Elysées,” he would mutter, darkly. He sidestepped questions about why he descended by parachute. “Ah, the faces looking up at me from the crowd. Bien sûr, Pierre and Guillaume,” he would enthuse. He adamantly refused to explain the suit of armour or his reasons for being in the city at all.  "Ha ha," he would exclaim, reconditely. Despite the cloud of ambiguity that invariably surrounded him, everywhere that Uncle Leucocholy ventured, people would be inclined to cry “Hooray!”. There are many things in this world that I do not understand.