09 Apr 2025 A Visit from the ‘Boys’ in Blue (Article in the Country Squire Magazine)
Having spent the best part of an afternoon amidst betting shop habitués, Reggie decided to call it a day and cadged a lift from the races back to town. Poor Reggie had placed what was left of his student loan on Freedom of Speech at Risk and the filly finished plum last.
‘It all seems rather prophetic’, mumbled the Very Rev’d Eoghan scrolling through X whilst waiting at the lights. The Very Rev’d was today dressed in mufti: that is to say, tweed de pied en cap. The Cheltenham Gold Cup was one of those few sporting occasions to which he graced his presence. The Very Rev’d had always been favourably disposed to Reggie and on hearing of his heavy losses had insisted on driving him back to Aunt Daphne’s. Ambling back to town in the Very Rev’d’s elderly Volvo, they spoke of the day’s highs and lows as well as Blighty’s circumstances which seemed ever less propitious in this topsy-turvy world.
Back in the Big Smoke, Reggie soon set about laying the table for supper whilst the Very Rev’d took care of the pre-prandials. It was that time of the evening when one should cast aside all the cares and distractions of the day and indulge in a little frivolity, thought the Very Rev’d to himself as he weighed up the Fino vs the Amontillado. He scrolled through the latest tweets and his eyebrows became increasingly exercised about something or other.
And then there was a knock at the door. ‘Who the devil might that be?’, moaned Reggie. ‘Dash it, I am just about to serve up the Beef Wellington!’ which he surveyed with approval. Reggie makes for the hallway and opens the front door with a huff:
‘Good aftern’n, Sir. Duz a Reverend Egg han liv ‘ere?’
‘It is Eoghan as in Oh-in, but most people simply call him Very’, says Reggie somewhat taken back by the unexpected visitors. ‘Why, yes, he is just about to dine on the Duke’s finest Wellie! Might it wait?’
‘No, Sir’ it’s urgen’. The two ‘boys’ in blue brush past Reggie leaving him standing aghast on the threshold of his aunt’s residence and march into the parlour with a sense of purpose.
‘Ello, Mr. Very. We ‘ave cum to…’ says the portlier of the two gentlemen, children’s colouring pencils surging out of his breast pocket.
‘I say, might you chaps fancy a sherry?’, interrupted the Very Rev’d. Arms windmilling, he spins round with crystal decanter in hand.
‘No, fank you, Sir. And u had better not drink eiver for we are arrestin’ u on suspicion of impropa use ov electronic communications act. This is in relation to sum comments u made on X (formerly Twitter, inn’it) page’.
‘By golly, are you really?’ ‘Oi, Reggie, cum and take a butchers at this’, shouted the Very Rev’d slipping into faux-cockney to accommodate his visitors clad in LGBTQ lanyards, wristbands, stickers and pins.
Sherry in hand, Reggie was there pronto.
‘I am being arrested for a tweet, Reggie. Yes, did you hear that right? A tweet. You had better pull up a chair.’ ‘I say, are you sure you chaps don’t fancy a sherry?’, continued Very.
‘The time is twen’y to seven, that is six for’y. U do not ‘ave to say anyfing. But it may ‘arm your defence if u do not mention wen questioned somefing wich you later rely on in court’.
Reggie shifted uneasily in his seat. They looked at one another with a sense of things-being-not-altogether. Very was not at all impressed with the goings-on. ‘What beastly scandalous nonsense!’, he bellowed.
‘Go and fetch my dog collar, dear boy’, he implored to Reggie. Enraged and having dispensed with the cockney parlance, he turns to the ‘boys’ in blue:
‘What scoundrels you are bursting in to Aunt Daphne’s residence like this with your ridiculous Orwellian pantomime just as we are about to say grace!’
‘What on earth have I written on X that is criminal?’
‘Mr. Very, we’ll go frough all the details down at the station, but u said somefing along the lines of ‘freedom of speech is at risk’ which many people foun’ offensive.
‘Oh, heavens, but that is our filly!’, pleaded Reggie and the Very Rev’d in unison.
‘That is enuff of that kind of talk. Now, let’s be ‘aving you Mr. Very’.
Handcuffed and dog collar embarrassingly askew, Very, was led out of the stricken household unprepared for all eventualities towards the rainbow decorated police van. He did not wish to husband any bad thoughts. Instead, he turned with a grin and waved at a flustered looking Reggie:
‘Fear not, dear boy. I reckon Freedom of Speech at Risk is going to be a winner after all. You had better get yourself down to the races at Cheltenham tomorrow! Best of British, old chum’