Hansclapp explained that Samoa’s nominated hero, Chief Gagana Faleolo had built a hospital for his nation’s sick children made entirely from guano. The guano had been sourced from Nukulau, a small island off Fiji where the rare cave-dwelling birds produced the stuff in huge quantities. Chief Faleolo had collected, shaped and rowed each brick over in a boat of his own design. During these trips he had capsized twice, been attacked by sharks, and had his penis torn off by a squid. His Commonwealth tour would focus on innovative building solutions, sea survival and the importance of avoiding squid.
I got it. It was a neat idea. Each national hero would use knowhow and skills learned in the field. There’d be gifts and goodwill, symbolic gestures and hands across the ocean.
“Where do I fit in, Gruber?” I asked.
Hansclapp gave me a shy smile. “Well, Victor. If you’ll permit me, you have a certain infamy across London. And a lot of your work in the war was of a particular nature…”
“Go on,” I said.
“You’re the living embodiment of all Britain stands for. You are a privately educated war hero. You have verve, stamina, wealth and standing.”
“But there are plenty of chaps like that,” I countered.
“Let’s just say that your gifts are focused in one specific area Major Cornwall. Women adore you. Am I right? And, you adore women, yes? You are, if you’ll forgive the vernacular, a ‘true swordsman’.”
I couldn’t argue with that. This guy had done his research. “Well, there are lots of Commonwealth nations who are simply not making love properly.” I shook my head sagely as if the very idea of it broke my bloody heart.
“They need your help Major Cornwall. You are to be England’s hero. For want of a better title, you are our travelling sex professor.” I was already nodding earnestly at my heavy burden, but inside my afterburners had ignited. This was exactly the kind of assignment I needed to repair my reputation.
Attlee said, “It’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard. What say you Cornwall?”
I was still trying to process Hansclapp’s proposition. It was almost too good to be true.“Are you telling me the Government is going to pay for me to travel around the world teaching ladies how to make love?” I said, trying to maintain my poker face. “Every nation in the Commonwealth?”
“That’s right. You’re a lucky man Major Cornwall,” Hansclapp said, smiling. “I have arranged all of your travel arrangements and have your itinerary here.” He popped open the briefcase and removed a thick pack of documents. “All you need to do is say yes.”
I was trying to contain my rising levels of adrenaline and still maintain an air of decorum. I quickly thought up a question. “So you’re saying I’ve been chosen out of EVERYONE in Britain. EVERYONE?” I said it slowly just needing to hear it one more time.
“Yes, Major Cornwall.”
I breathed in slowly. This would make Trevelyan’s skit look like a Sunday picnic. This was serious. A one-off. The boys at the club would be still talking about this one at my funeral.
“Exactly how many countries are in the Commonwealth?” I asked.
“Fifty-three.”
I let out a slow whistle. Attlee, meanwhile, was getting impatient. Presumably he had better things to attend to. “Well Cornwall. Is this your cup of tea or not?” he said, trying to wrap things up.
“I suppose,” I said, trying to play it cool. “But just one more question.” This time I was genuinely curious, “Who chose me?”
Hansclapp replied, “I did Major Cornwall.” His smile seemed warm and natural and in no way menacing at all.
I strutted back to my central London flat. None of it made any sense, but I was far too blinkered to unpick the whys and wherefores. I was about to embark on a sexual pilgrimage that would take six months to complete. I was going to fly around the globe making state-sponsored love to the world’s beauties. I didn’t know what I’d done in a past life to deserve this, but it must have been pretty special.
Scoundrels Club, one week later
Literally the whole club had turned up to wave me off. I was on top of the world. The Commonwealth tour lay ahead of me, fifty-three countries and a place in Scoundrels’ history assured. As Baxter loaded our bags onto the sidecar, I shook hands with Lunk and a few of my closest pals. Through the cheering crowd I could see Trevelyan. He was standing back, observing. When I caught his eye he stepped forward graciously to wish me luck. “Just when I thought I’d pulled off the ultimate skit, you go ahead and do this, you sod,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you came up with it, but I doff my cap to you Cornwall. It’s genius.”
I winked at him and climbed onto the motorcycle – my 1939 Brough Superior. “You want to know the best bit?” I said pulling my goggles over my eyes. “It wasn’t even my idea!”
I fired up the Brough and Baxter settled down into the Alpine Grand sidecar, clinging onto our bags. Trevelyan scratched his chin ponderously. The cheering and flag waving had increased now so he leant forward to continue our conversation over the din.
“Who is the genius who came up with it then, you lucky bugger?”
I revved the bike a couple of times and laughed.
“You’ll never guess.”
“Go on.”
“Hansclapp,” I shouted. “Gruber Hansclapp!”
I dropped the gear into first and pulled away, punching a gloved fist into the air. The Scoundrels crowd cheered. As I sped off I looked into my side mirror. To a man, they stood, holding their glasses high in the air to me. A toast to that lucky bastard, they were surely saying. That lucky, lucky bastard.
All apart from Trevelyan. He was simply standing still, a man apart. At the time I shrugged it off as severe jealousy, of which he was often guilty. But it might have been more than that. He had a very troubled look on his face.
__________
As a qualified pilot I’d suggested that I fly myself around the world, taking Baxter with me to carry my bags and look after my dietary requirements. Baxter was such an able manservant that his knowledge extended to just about everything, and he had placed me on a mineral rich diet of oysters, wasabi root and whale placenta, to keep my libido in tip-top shape.
Although I hadn’t bothered reading any of the fine details regarding my Commonwealth tour, I imagined it would involve me meeting the most beautiful and nubile women from each nation. Spending a couple of days in their company (or longer if need be) at the most palatial and luxurious accommodation available, so I could teach them almost everything I knew about sex.
As such I had taken my responsibility seriously, and spent the nights leading up to my departure devising a series of multilingual sex tutorials including diagrams, sketches, photos, informative quizzes, and some relaxing audio recordings of me whispering seductively. My notes were comprehensive. It was my intention to ensure that each person I met would become familiar with everything from the basics like flirtation, titillation and foreplay, to more advanced techniques such as noshing, nose-bagging, back-trap flim-flamming, fair weather motor-boating and The Hungry Aardvark.
Of course, the prospect of visiting over fifty different cultures, each with their own sexual subtleties, meant that I was also on a voyage of discovery. I had even scheduled in extra recovery days following my trip to Samoa, because if the rumours were true I would need time for my bones to fuse back together again.
__________
We arrived at Brize Norton later that afternoon. Gruber had arranged for us to borrow one of the R.A.F.’s planes and as an accomplished pilot I would be flying myself. It was a clear evening with pale blue skies and a light breeze. A good time to fly. We loaded the plane, climbed aboard and set our course. Then just as we were about to take off, Baxter reached across and gave me a gift. It was a small box wrapped in paper.
“For you sir,” he said. �
��For good luck.”
This was completely unexpected. Baxter usually kept his own counsel. I opened it there and then, tearing back the paper. It was one of Trevelyan’s Tackle Chappies still in its original box. We both burst out laughing. I pulled back the cockpit and lobbed the piece of tat out onto the tarmac.
“Bravo Baxter, but I won’t be needing that, thanks.” I looked down at the discarded box, the image on top of it stared back at me. It was a picture of Trevelyan grinning like a fool, sitting in the cockpit of a Spitfire with one hand on a gin and tonic, and the other saluting some W.A.A.F.s. Then underneath, in large red writing it read “Keep Your Chappie Happy!” Then in a smaller cursive font it said, ‘I never fly without mine.’ And it was signed, ‘Major Trevelyan.’
I gave Baxter the thumbs up. The props hummed into life and then we were off. As we left the rolling countryside of Oxfordshire behind us and settled into the flight my thoughts turned to the task ahead.
I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be selected for this trip. This would be the skit of the century. I could see the look on Trevelyan’s face now. He looked almost sick with envy as I’d pulled away from the club. I’d been handpicked over everyone else in Britain, including him. Ha! It really was too good to be true.
__________
My first stop was Malta, the land of dark-eyed beauties with dusky Mediterranean complexions. I could think of no better place to celebrate all that was good about the Commonwealth. However, upon arrival my expectations were somewhat dashed. I was met at the airport by an old man holding a dirty piece of paper with my name written on it in pencil. He was our driver.
Baxter and I squeezed into the back of his decrepit cab and attempted small talk as he drove us to our accommodation. Regrettably the chap hadn’t bothered to learn English, and thus we drove in awkward silence. I comforted myself by admiring the beautiful Maltese scenery, until eventually I could see no more as the sun went down. An hour later and we were no longer in the countryside. Rolling hills had been replaced by snarling dogs, tatty shop fronts, garish red lighting and tough-looking women loitering in doorways.
Our taxi pulled up alongside a small hostelry that was situated above a shop. A neon sign dangled lopsidedly on a wire and flickered with maddening irregularity. If there was a shabby end of town then there was no doubt we were in it.
Baxter said nothing but I could tell he was disappointed for me. I bit my tongue for the time being and paid the driver. I gestured to the sign. “It appears they do rub-downs, Baxter,” I said, trying to put a positive spin on our situation.
We walked in through the doorway and up a flight of stairs passing a drunk who was lying across our path. He had failed to make it to the top. Or bottom.
The taxi driver turned out to also be the hotel owner. He handed us a key and pointed to the room. The only room. I bade him a frosty goodnight and with a heavy heart placed the key in the lock. At that moment there came a faint sound from within, like sand falling through a giant hourglass. Baxter looked at me and gave a confused shrug. He clearly had no idea what waited behind that door. I on the other hand had survived the horrors of Wan Booli Camp, and knew exactly what had made that sound. Cockroaches. I opened the door to reveal a moving carpet of black filth. Thousands of them scuttling back to their cracks in the walls. The room was as bad as I expected. One space consisting of a sink, loo and a ‘bed’, which was simply a wooden pallet with no mattress or bedding.
“We’re not staying here, Baxter,” I said. “There must be some kind of mistake. I’ll find us another hotel for tonight and call Hansclapp first thing in the morning. This is really not up to scratch.”
Unfortunately there was no time for that. For a figure appeared in the doorway. It was my first liaison, and I felt a wave of nausea.
“Which one’s Cornwall?” she said in what sounded suspiciously like an East End accent. For a brief moment I considered making Baxter take the hit for me.
“That will be me,” I said, reluctantly stepping forward.
“Wel-cumm to Molta.” She was no more Maltese than I was a Messerschmitt pilot. As she came into the room Baxter couldn’t look me in the eye. Then she said something with so little feeling that I began to wonder if this was all some kind of huge joke.
“Teach me the art of lav makin’ so I may teach my na-shan,” she said, as if bored of her own voice.
A fine sweat had beaded on my forehead. I presented her with a set of commemorative steak knives, especially commissioned for the occasion. This ceremony now felt redundant in the context of what was about to take place. Each set of knives had been engraved with the Commonwealth flag and a few words I commissioned myself. These ones bared the prophetic legend I shall never forget you. How true.
My tutorial took place while Baxter faced the wall, but it was clear that neither of us enjoyed it. She didn’t pay attention to the slide show and fared badly in the written exam. And when she said, “Fank you. You ave awoken a fire wiv’in me that will nevva be kwenched,” it felt overrehearsed and insincere.
After she left I apologised to Baxter and resolved to sort this mess out in the morning. No matter, I thought, one swallow does not a summer make.
I had another fifty-two countries to go.
__________
My next stop was Pitcairn Island in the Southern Pacific. Only now did I notice the inefficient plotting of my journey. Rather than travelling the shortest route, it seemed I was flitting around all over the place, without rhyme nor reason. By the end of the trip I’d have circumnavigated the world several times over. I couldn’t understand why it had been arranged this way. Nevertheless Baxter and I set off with renewed hope.
We arrived on the island in good spirits, despite a very near miss on arrival. The elders had foolishly allowed the children to line the road with homemade lanterns in my honour, and at thirteen thousand feet the main road looked a hell of a lot like a runway.
I pulled my bruised body from the burning wreckage and gave the village leader a severe dressing down. That evening we enjoyed a basic meal of fish and bread, and washed it down with an excellent Chablis that I managed to save from the plane. I knew I needed my energy for tomorrow and so bade Baxter good evening and retired early to catch some sleep. My dreams were filled with buxom beauties, sultry seductresses and elfin-like nymphs.
The next morning I woke ready for action but my initial ebullience was instantly dashed when I was introduced to Lulu, who would be Pitcairn’s representative.
Put bluntly, Pitcairn is not blessed with ladies of good looks. This was an unfortunate but I suppose inevitable consequence of an ever-diminishing gene pool. Everyone is related to everyone. Incest is not so much commonplace, as inevitable.
Lulu was a terrifying, mad-eyed Neanderthal. Her wet, saggy lips hung camel-like, quivering in anticipation, slowly peeling back to reveal a single rotten tooth. Worse still, I could see she was keen, like a prizefighter itching to get in the ring.
“Good luck sir,” Baxter offered, his grim countenance betraying his innermost fears for me. I was quietly having a panic attack but needed to show willing.
“Baxter,” I said discreetly, “can you just double check for me to see that Pitcairn is indeed still part of the Commonwealth please?” My mind was swirling. How had this happened again? Baxter checked his notebook to see if Pitcairn was still part of the Commonwealth. Sadly it was. “Well then,” I said to myself, “for Queen and Country.” There was nothing else I could do. I knew that this encounter would take all of my experience, all of my mental strength just to survive it. I was to be dragged into the heart of darkness, a place so far up river I might never return. I regulated my breathing and began to fill my mind with images of beautiful women. Vera Lynn, Greta Garbo, Vivien Leigh, Ginger Rodgers, Bette Davis…
Lulu pointed to a small thatched hut and spoke. “Where Tom off. Bitey-Bitey.”
&nb
sp; I smiled nervously. She pointed to the hut again. “Where Tom off. Oh dear.” I had no idea what was happening. Then she yanked my arm and dragged me into the hut. Joan Fontaine, Katharine Hepburn, Olivia de Havilland, Ingrid Bergman, Barbara Stanwyck, Celia Johnson…
I shall not go into detail about the encounter except to say that it should have been stopped long before it did. Lulu’s appearance belied a speed and strength scarcely seen outside the animal kingdom. For a lesser man her lovemaking would have been fatal. As it was, I barely survived. In the days that followed I spent many hours sitting alone contemplating life. This trip had turned into a nightmare.
__________
There seems little merit in detailing the specifics of the next eight months. Suffice to say that they did not go as I would have wished. They were arduous. Physically and mentally demanding. Nowhere near the sexually liberating pilgrimage I had hoped for. I’d been bowled a googly, no doubt, but I also seemed to be the victim of rare bad luck. It seemed that each country I visited took a little piece out of me. I was slowly being broken down, dismantled, brick by brick, day by day. Until by the end, there was very little that remained.
Malta had set the tone but what followed was barely credible. Fifty-three disastrous sexual encounters: a litany of mishap and misfortune that defied the odds.
In Belize I had gamely agreed to take part in an ancient Mayan fertility ritual, but during the rectal administration of psychoactive drugs I was attacked by a jaguar, and was not only maimed but spent two days screaming at winged reptile-monkeys flying over my head.
In Vanuatu I was introduced to three beguiling women who had refrained from sex for several weeks prior to my arrival. They had pledged their devotion to me as long as I could prove my masculinity. All I had to do was leap from a ninety-eight foot tower wearing only a penis sheath and a couple of vines around my ankles. As they anointed me in coconut oil I predicted that the vines would be too long. It was just the way my luck was going. They were. I smashed into the ground, shattering my left clavicle and splitting my scrotal sac open.
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