The Professor Peregrine Papers

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...

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.

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.

The Professor at one point in his past became the mixologist at the famous, hard-to-find “Middle of Next Week Bar” just outside of Moulton Eaugate. Connoisseurs of exotic and lovingly overpriced drinks flocked to to try his “Uncertainty Principle Spritz” and “Categorical Syllogism Daiquiri”.  However, following a number of minor explosions and an embarrassingly large number of swans a-swimming appearing at Christmas, he was asked to leave. The Professor has written (on paper previously used to wrap a piece of Lincolnshire Poacher): "'The one thing I regret is that swans cannot speak." Subsequently, the Professor took up the position of Chief Archivist, Inattentive Researcher and Occasional Beadle at the Society for the Preservation of Devil Among The Tailors.

October 4th 1926 Rue Lafayette, Paris André Breton sees Nadja for the first time. A new day. I put on gloves of foam. Much later, à la station balnéaire, I became gloves of horsehair. Time for tea. I'm putting the kettle on. Effrontément.

Following the prickly pear incident, Uncle Leucocholy insisted on dressing as a deep sea diver whenever close to cacti. When asked about this behaviour he would always reply, “L’objet d’art, par définition, est le crocodile empaillé”.  It is interesting to note: Uncle Leucocholy did not speak French. Uncle Leucocholy could not swim. Uncle Leucocholy once wore a pair of faux crocodile shoes to a performance of Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition”.

For many years the Professor has enjoyed the pastime of riding the derny bike in order to pace struggling amateur cyclists in pursuit of their keirin racing dreams. Lately, however, he has expanded this hobby into new areas in an attempt, as he puts it, to “uncover profound consequences and increase the chances of being offered girdle scones”.  On a recent visit to The Tytherton Lucas University and Sandpaper Repository, I was greatly cheered to witness the Professor heading across a somewhat neglected meadow pursued by Professors Nippitatum and Spong as they debated an obscure aspect of the ‘pataphysics of 'pataphysical modes.  I cannot recall witnessing a more heartwarming and inspiring sight in recent times.  Well, possibly apart from Mr Norman ‘Nongermane’ Griffonage playing his celebrated forward defensive stroke for several, uneventful hours on the cricket green at Muchlarnick on a fine summer day and thus allowing the visiting team an entirely inconsequential draw....

It has been drawn to my attention that I could actually “do something useful” rather than accumulate arcane jottings on the life and times of Professor Peregrine. In my defence, I offer a small indication of the onerous nature of this honourable task in the shape of a week's entries from my diary.  Monday The Professor showed me a draft of his long-awaited article on string theory. Disappointingly, it seemed to dwell overmuch on the (theoretically) best containers in which to save string.  Tuesday The Professor was jubilant as he announced that he has added the 12-inch record of "The Umpire's Lament" to his collection of rare vinyl from the 1980s. The use of analogue synthesisers is, he claims, unparalleled in the field of leg-spin bowling.  Wednesday Nothing much happened that I can recall, although I did take the cat for a walk. I do not have a cat. The Professor is not answering his phone. Thurs day The Professor left a postcard in my letterbox under the cover of d...

I came across Professor Peregrine descaling a kettle. As is his wont when undertaking such dangerous tasks, he was wearing his faithful, timeworn wicket-keeper's gloves. Amid much imprudent splashing of liquid and fracturing of kitchen items, this activity brought on one of the Professor's legendary nostalgic moods. “Do you remember Binky Theddlethorpe?” he asked, with a faraway look in his eye. I didn't. “And do you remember that fine match in which he took eight wickets while also eating his way through at least the same number of ham and piccalilli sandwiches?” I didn't. “In that case," the Professor went on. “Neither do I. Pass me the abrasive fish slice, if you'd be so kind.” Following a subsequent, exhaustive search in the archives of The Thorpe Malsor Cricket Club and 24 Hour Laundry, I can confirm that the illustrious Binky Theddlethorpe was reputed to be “unplayable” while bowling within the confines of a neolithic landscape.

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.

After finding the Professor hiding out in his garden shed pretending to look for an esoteric barometer, I insisted that we return to discussion of the artistic side of his illustrious career. The Professor is known for his loquacity on most subjects but oddly silent on both his artistic endeavours and his idiosyncratic stint as a Lasker Morris adjudicator.  During his time as visiting lecturer at the Odstone College of Fine Arts and Herb Strewing, the Professor created a memorable, site-specific work at Barton in the Beans. The work entitled “Intimation Wall” required that a specific wall should be observed for an entire week. The Professor pointed at the chosen wall early on the Monday morning before wandering off somewhere for the remainder of the week. The observers were told to expect a “precipitous manifestation” during the ensuing days. People came from far and wide to play their part in the experience and, at the end of the week, absolutely nothing had happened. The Shackers...

 Uncle Leucocholy insisted on dressing as a Cossack whenever he was near the sea.

The Professor is very much the archetype of a rational man (he denies this) but, the other day, I did venture to ask him if he had any experience of the paranormal. His answer sent a chill down my spine. “Some years ago, while taking an afternoon constitutional in the walled garden of Lord Parvanimity of Foddington's estate, I came across the ghostly figure of a cowled monk. He pointed directly at me and declared in a portentous voice that I should repent before it was too late.... or something like that. Anyway, we got chatting and it turned out that his name was Brian and that he was doomed to walk poorly-attended gardens and deliver vague messages of impending doom.  We went off to the local pub (The Trombone and Gooseberry, I believe it was called) and, after a few pints of fine local ale, parted on good terms. As he drifted off into a cloud of diaphanous mist he gave me a tip on a horse called Elozable Mineshaft in the 3:30 at Chepstow the following day. I'm not normally a...

I had been pressing the Professor to reveal more of the details of his questionable family history with patchy results. Eventually he pulled a faded photograph from a dog-eared copy of Wisden (circa 1949, I believe) and began to tell a sad tale:  “Let me tell you about Great Uncle Purlicue. His notable skill was to entice an audience to a remote, bucolic location on the pretext of delivering a speech of national importance or distributing free tickets to a Minor Counties match with associated hog roast before unexpectedly removing his hat and delivering a heartfelt rendition of ‘Who Were You With Last Night?’.” The Professor stared wistfully from the window overlooking his fine display of prize dahlias, statuettes of first-class umpires signalling wides and enamel buckets before going on in subdued tones:  “Sadly, Great Uncle Purlicue was so successful at gathering a crowd that he was accidentally elected to various positions of dubious authority. This proved to be his undoing...

I have often urged the Professor to cast a little light upon some of the less documented periods of his life. Eventually one Tuesday afternoon last spring, as he sipped a cup of particularly doubtful Lapsang Souchong, he recalled a quite unexpected episode of many years ago:  “I must confess that there was a disturbing period of approximately 3 weeks in which I was pursued by a robot. At the time I was attempting to publish my now-famous and, dare I say, groundbreaking paper entitled ‘Formidophobia in the Sermons of the Reverend Mawkin Barcarole’. I was so unnerved by this paranormal episode that publication was delayed by some months. I surreptitiously took this photograph at the time.” I studied this image for several minutes before venturing to suggest: “Forgive me Professor, but I can't help noticing a striking resemblance between the robot in this photograph and Professor Atrabilious of Kirmond le Mire University, dressed in a ludicrous costume. Professor Atrabilious is, I bel...

One day recently, as the Professor was working on his paper discussing the social and metaphysical ramifications of deploying a deep square leg, he suddenly looked up from his endeavours and asked me if I knew the story of the year his brother * entered the International Hedge Climbing Contest in Claxby Pluckacre.  I did not. To this day, I still do not know the story. * The Professor is widely believed to be an only child.

To assist in my biographical efforts, the Professor helpfully jots down a few notes whenever he recollects random incidents from his past. Sadly, most of these notes turn out to be shopping lists, receipts for dry cleaning or scorecards from long-forgotten matches. However, written on the back of a leaflet for gutter cleaning services, the following words proved to be particularly instructive and illuminating. I hope that others will be as moved as I by his account. “I remember my father saying to me when I was still a callow youth, ‘Treasure the words of Maharaja Jam Saheb of Nawanagar and remember his sterling service to the county of Sussex.’  With that, his genial but confused demeanour became stern and momentous.  ‘But, at the same time, never forget the contribution of a man such as Mr George Brann and his partnerships with Mr C B Fry at Lords. And while you're at it, open another bottle of that fine sherry, my boy.’ The Professor's Father Takes Guard I refreshed his gl...

To further my understanding of the Professor's baffling family tree, I sent him a note enquiring about the life of his Great Uncle Quidnunc. The Professor's reply arrived the following day together with a half-eaten Eccles cake. I present that reply in full together with a facsimile of Quidnunc's original design drawing: "Great Uncle Quidnunc avoided almost everyone, including me, for most of his life, except when he understood that there might be a little spare cash on offer. He preferred to live a scholarly life. In his will, however, he was generous to a fault and I inherited the only completed example of his Inverted Solleret Pantomorphic Machine. The paper he authored concerning the theory of this device was described by an anonymous academic and quodlibetarian as 'The grand piano of theoretical physics but without the pedals and the bit that holds up the lid.' The gift was accompanied by a simple note, written in large, capital letters: 'WHEN NEAR THE...

As is widely acknowledged, the Professor has a considerable knowledge and appreciation of some of the lesser-known wines of the world. His enthusiasm for the Hebdomadal and Gallimaufry grapes is legendary. Following extensive research into his family history, he now attributes this oenophilic passion to the influence of his great-great-whatever uncle Nefandous Peregrine who was for many years chief sommelier at the renowned and highly-exclusive Balatronic Club at Chilton Candover.  The club remains exclusive to this day and is housed in a fine, Palladian building which is invisible to anyone with a lesser rank than Viscount, although Barons, Baronets and the occasional Thane are able to vaguely make it out on alternate Thursdays in the month preceding Michaelmas. Sadly, Nefandous Peregrine was eventually accused of unsportingly using spiked loafers in a hotly-contested Beaujolais Nouveau race and was forced into early retirement. He was last seen at a Dadaist cabaret sharing an imp...