The Professor Peregrine Papers

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”.

 I turned to say something. Richard found a place to sleep where it is quiet, and sleeps there.

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...

For nebulous reasons, the Professor has been investigating the strange disappearance in 1922 of Puthery Quiddle, then Reader in Paradoxical Physics and Hat Manipulation at West Flotmanby Academy. Shortly after the publication of his infamous paper “Unexplained Disappearances and their Relation to Airships and Tethered Balloons” (Swinithwaite Press, 1921), Quiddle himself inexplicably vanished. Recently, following a particularly lengthy lunch, the Professor indicated that I should follow him into his crumbling garden shed. After locking the door behind us and checking for listening devices with what appeared to be a divining rod, he whispered to me in hushed and questionably portentous tones: “It cannot be a coincidence that Quiddle was seen in earnest discussion with Hanson "Sammy" Carter in a public house close to the Oval during the tour of the Australian Test Team in 1921. It is my belief that Quiddle was spirited away amongst the large collection of kit bags that our Sout...

As we wandered behind the happy throng beating the bounds around Priest Weston, I was momentarily puzzled by the Professor's choice of clothing for this festive occasion. I was wearing my ceremonial blazer embroidered with the colours of sunset over Dungeness Beach while the Professor sported bright green cricket pads and a matching top hat.  When I tentatively questioned his appearance, his answer filled me with shame. “You seem to have forgotten that today is William Beldham Day, my boy. I am wearing the appropriate costume, I think you'll find.” Of course, he was entirely correct. My thoughts turned at once to the exemplary ‘Silver Billy’ Beldham and I resolved to recommence work on my unfinished musical “Gentlemen versus Players and a Twelfth Man” at the earliest opportunity.  At the end of the ceremony we gathered at Mitchell's Fold Stone Circle for the customary reading of the epic poem “The Rather Confused Horseman of Black Marsh”, intoned majestically this year by t...

I had that dream again last night. The one in which we were excluded from the fortress. She warned me at the time that it would continue to haunt me. Years later, I found a note inside a book that she left behind. It read: "There's milestones on the Dover Road."

My dear (indeed, unreasonably expensive) friend Professor Peregrine has for many years been on the very best of terms with Pugil Jabbernowl, Professor Emeritus of Implausible Geography and Dwile Flonking at Stratton Strawless University. Professor Jabbernowl is probably best known in academic circles for his work “The Preston Gubbals Woodland Debate of 1902”. This exhaustive study of the momentous event, covering its causes, outcomes and catering solutions, remains a great classic amongst “those in the know.” Indeed, amid much celebration and egregious wasting of cash, an attempt was made to turn the book into a feature film entitled “Woodland Showdown”. It was never finished, of course. Professor Jabbernowl considers this a suitable metaphor. But, in recent weeks, relations have soured between these two paragons of British Academia. At first, my attempts to determine the reasons behind this falling out came to nought. But, after I concealed his television remote control during the hig...

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.

In the course of an evening stroll to the newsagents to purchase the latest edition of “The Square Leg Fielder's Quarterly”, the Professor began reminiscing about some of his former colleagues. “Professors Brabagious, Ricksteddle and Catterning spent many years travelling the less populated parts of Devon and Dorset in an attempt to complete their work on the tea and water biscuit ceremony reputed to take place annually in those parts on St. Benedict's Day. Everywhere they went, they were greeted by cheering crowds but, sadly, failed to find any trace of the fabled ceremony.”  The Three Professors and Mrs Ethel Slump The Professor paused and stared wistfully at a skein of geese crossing the sky, before continuing in a sad and leaden tone. “Rumour has it that they were often accompanied by a ghost called Mrs Ethel Slump, but I've no time for such tomfoolery. They were last seen setting out to sea on a makeshift raft somewhere near Budleigh Salterton. ”

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 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.

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...

The Professor has always held Steehop Latibulate, Lecturer in Indeterminate Philosophy and Controvertible Vexillology, in the highest regard. His admiration is not based solely on Latibulate's renowned lectures, with their inventive use of cowbells and sealing wax, but also on his less academic undertakings. As the Professor was at pains to point out: “I remember with great affection Latibulate's sterling efforts back in 1983 when he established The First Annual Festival of Walking Up and Down A Hill For No Very Good Reason in Higher Muddiford. Has there ever been a finer example of whatever it was he was on about?”

As I have previously implied , the Professor is the world's leading authority on the cycling tour that the eminent author and madeleine enthusiast Marcel Proust undertook in the county of Norfolk. In the course of a peer review of the Professor's recent paper on the subject (‘An analysis and critique of the Burnham Overy Staithe off-break bowling technique in volume three of “À La Recherche du Temps Perdu”’) a number of scoundrels masquerading as eminent academics or members of the MCC have questioned the reliability of evidence relating to this pedal-based activity. The Professor would never sink low enough to enter into discussion on this point but, on his behalf, I offer a picture taken from the North Creake Gazette. It purports to show Proust playing cards with 2 Merchant Bankers, a Passing Sailor and a Marchioness just outside of Mundesley. I rest my case.  Actually, I rarely carry a case for fear that I may forget where I rested it.

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

Recently, the Professor and I visited The College of Raffish Waistcoat Makers and Bematists in Potterhanworth Booths as guests of the Provost, Professor Tobias Maffled. This hallowed institution is, of course, dedicated to Roland Bell of Blessed Memory and his single, first-class appearance for Surrey.  Following an excellent lunch consisting largely of salmagundi and pottage, we were about to take our leave when we passed a door emblazoned with a finely-worked plaque: “The Morton Bailey Memorial Room and Bar”. Two shrouded figures armed with what appeared to be wooden replicas of The Racing Times guarded the door.  The Provost appeared embarrassed and haltingly explained that access was forbidden to all but a select few. It is said that a game of milking cromock has been in continuous play in there for at least the last 70 years. The players are apparently replaced occasionally in the event of unforeseen insanity or death.  The Professor and I removed our fedoras and bow...

The Professor's family is famed for their alternative version of croquet. The game does include a ball and mallets (they're not fools and they own no flamingos) but it also requires a dialogue prior to each play in which the protagonists argue why the ball should be hit in any given direction. Indeed, there is no obvious need to hit the ball through any hoops since that is considered a distraction. The scoring system, moreover, is a thing of great beauty and emotional resonance, but is also completely incomprehensible to anyone other than Biskan Cannikeeper, Professor Emeritus of Mathematics and Loggats at Knave-Go-By University, who devised it. It is not clear if anyone has ever actually won a game. Although, this is not thought to be important. The Professor's Great Aunt Torrididdle was perhaps the finest exponent of this version of the game. She failed to win a single match but reduced any number of politicians, judges and other turncoats to states of silent bewilderment...

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...