MAKING EMLAUGH

Waikato Times, Volume 118, Issue 19762, 18 December 1935, Page 24 (Supplement)

MAKING EMLAUGH

MY CHRISTMAS ADVENTURE

i Told With Tears and Laughter

(By GEORGE ROBEY, Britain's Hon. Minister for Mirth)

j A robin stood on the sill outside my bedroom, tapping his beak against the win-dow-pane. . , As my head cleared, I realised with mounting spirits that it was Christmas. Over a lone, late breakfast I remembered that I had promised to .open the new children’s recreation rooms and library at Pulchington. Splendid! So uplifting for the children. Voices sounded from the drawing-room, and I went to investigate. Too late I saw that the visitors were our neighbours, Samuel Smoothy and his bigger half. “George has only just got up,” my wife apologised. “George dear, Mr and Mrs, Smoothy have come to say that they can come to our Bridge drive to-night.” My face relaxed in a pleasant smile. “What’s up, old trooper?” Sam Smoothy inquired. “Toothache?” Maintaining my dignity, I explained that my face gave no pain. Smoothy professed surprise. , “Well, you’re behind it,” he conceded. Blatant little pest! “George dear,” said my wife, “it’s nearly eleven o’clock. Time we were getting along to the ceremony at Pulchington.” “We’re all going,” Smoothy announced, with great heartiness. “Don’t trouble to get out your Mostin Minor, George; I’ve got my Dalrymple-Twelve here.” A few minutes later we set off. Undoubtedly my overcoat with the skunk collar was the correct wear for a dignified occasion, but it was physically uncomfortable in the unseaonably warm weather. However, I suffered smilingly. Charity—and especially Christmas charity—should be shouldered cheerfully. “Sam!” screeched Mrs Smoothy suddenly. “Look where you’re driving. You’re making George quite fidgety.” “Not guilty,” Sam laughed. “Its his new Chi-istmas woollies.” Involuntarily I writhed again. It was with relief that I alighted at Pulchington, and, amid cheering, assisted the ladies fi-om the car. Presentation to Mayor. I was presented to Alderman Spavin, the Mayor, on the steps of the new recreation building. Children cheered and waved flags. Adult voices exclaimed: “Goo’ old George!” A local garage man thumped me on the back. Fur flew. Made mental note to order wife to put more mothballs in coat next summer. An infant burst into tears—said Guy Fawkes was funnier. The Mayor and I chatted briefly. With pride he indicated a sausage balloon moored in vacant land across the roadway. Attached to it was a fifty-foot advertising a charity performance of “Red Riding Hood,” to be given in the Town Hall on Boxing Night. In a small basket swaying under the balloon, an enterprising cameraman was shooting pictures for the “Pulchington Pictorial.” A fanfare of bugles rang out. I inserted the Silver Key in the door, and, in a loud voice, declared the building open. A slight contretemps occurred hereabouts. The key ( merely bent in the lock, but, after a halfhour’s delay, the local locksmith and two firemen effected an entry. My speech to the children in the library was, I venture to assert, both apt and uplifting. The ill-timed laughter I attributed to the presence of Sam Smoothy, who had installed himself uninvited among the mayoral party. To say the least, it is distracting to the orator who has his peroration punctuated by the chuckles of a congenial idiot and such sotto voce remarks as “Watch his eyebrows!” and “Better than a cabaret!” The next part of the programme went down particularly well. The oranges and buns which I distributed in the recreation rooms adjoining were disposed of by the juveniles, and we prepared to depart. Meanwhile, a vast crowd had collected outside the new building and blocked the entire roadway. “A rumour has got around town, ’ I heard Smoothy tell my wife, “that George is going to give a signed photo in a silver frame to all-comers.”

The advertising balloon had been hauled down, and the local press photographer

alighted to get a close-up of me. Someone called for a speech. Nothing loath, I began to address the crowd, but there were no steps before the recreation building, and judging from the uproar, the majority of those present could neither see nor hear. Then Smoothy had a brain-wave. “What about the balloon basket? Put him aboard and hoist him’aloft a hundred feet.” Suggestion Hailed. The suggestion was hailed with enthusiasm—by the crowd, I mean. Despite feeble protests I was ushered through the throng and into the inadequate balloon basket. To the cheers of the vast concourse I went aloft, higher than appeared necessary. The basket swayed sickeningly in the rising wind. Peering over the edge I tried to express myself in a few dignified sentences, but ribald laughter, led by Smoothy, made it impossible for me to obtain a hearing. Then suddenly a heavier gust of wind struck the balloon. There was a report like the firing of howitzer. The mooring-rope snapped asunder! The Mayor, the reception committee, and the crowd promptly receded. Any man of wisdom would probably have done what I did. I crouched on the floor of the basket, wedging myself firmly. When last the balloon was travelling more steadily, I peered cautiously. A strong-south-westerly wind was carrying us through clouds over the North Sea. . Fortunately, I am a man of resource. After five hours, it occurred to me that if I could open the under part of the balloon and release some of the gas, it would descend to earth. There was a cord close to hand which obviously operated the mouth of the bag. I pulled it, and there was a h ; ss of gas. A large, snow-covered island was below. I saw villages and what looked like a herd of pink guinea-pigs on the countryside. Again I jerked the cord, and the final outrush of gas stupefied me. When I came to my senses a fat, flaxenhaired individual was running from a motorsledge toward me. “Wachschorrs!” he exclaimed. “Mine’s a double,” I said faintly. \ “Hoch!”

“N-no. Never take hock. Just four fingers of the “old-and-bold.’ And load me to the nearest stove, please.” I Donned The Striped Bathing Costume. At great speed we drove up to a chalet, and my friend in need pointed urgently to the clock. By signs he indicated that Iwas to remove my clothes, and then he returned to bring a striped bathing-costume. This seemed an unnecessary adjunct to a hot bath, but I donned it smilingly. Meantime, two or three men appeared, and amid an excited guttural chattering, I was ushered to the door. Someone fringed my chin with a long white beard held in place by a strip of elastic. Another thrust a heavy sack into my hands. My protests went unheeded. I was pushed into the sledge and driven rapidly among some pine-trees to an open space. There were the pink objects I had seen from the balloon —boys and girls in slips and costumes, the bright scholars of a freshair school! “Hoch! Hoch! Santa Klaus!” The headmaster approached. “For Heaven’s sake,” I wheezed, “wh-what is it all about?” In amazed tones he exclaimed: “You are not Kapitan Wachschoors? Donner! It is der mistake, nein?” “A dozen times over!” I croaked. Explanations followed. The school was expecting a famous German airman, who was interested in open-air teaching, to come and distribute the Christmas toys. The driver of the motor-sledge thought it surprising that the Kapitan should arrive by balloon instead of by ’plane, but had taken it as a festive gesture. However, in the airman’s absence I agreed to take the role of Santa Klaus. Then, having distributed the toys, I was conveyed back to the chalet. What matter that it was three days before I was restored to my sorrowing family? At least, I had avoided the Bridge drive and Samuel Smoothy!