Features / The Ken Speckle Papers: of Hentigowks and Fort Camilla…
…being further extracts from the papers of the Rev. Kenneth Speckle, B.D. (failed) Edin. (1747-18??), transcribed and edited for publication by Jonathan Wills
My journal and commonplace book, writ at Stobuster this first day of April 1826.
In this blessed isle of Breezey, one can always tell when spring is at hand, for no sooner do our brave daffodils bloom in the last week of March than they are blasted by blizzards of sleet. On the first day of April I am alwaysmore alert than usual, for on this day the lower orders of society are wont to take advantage of their betters and attempt to guile and trick them. So it was that this forenoon Sally Geo and her confederates gravely informed me of a somewhat dramatic turn of events in the current parliamentary election.
“Meenister! Is du heard aboot Tattie Pitter?” quoth she. “Whit’s yun aald fule donn noo, Sally?” asked Lowrie Stane, who had looked along the Manse, hoping to break his fast after “pockin sillocks at da Glinter craig seat” since before dawn.
“Weel, he’s staandin fir da parlymint ageen!”
“Nivir! Canna be! He only got twaatree votts da hidmaist time at he stood,” Lowrie exclaimed. “Dan he wis agin ‘unnatural practices’, wis hit no? Whit is hit he’s agin noo?”
“He’s agin da King biddin at Lundin. He’s sayin His Majesty sood com hame fae afar, tae aald Lochnagar!” “An here’s me nivir kent he wis bin awaa!” laughed Lowrie.
At this point I interjected, calling out “Hentigowk!” which is to say “April Fool!” in the old Gothick tongue of these islands.
“Hentigowk deesel!” laughed Sally. “Hit’s da God’s truth at Am tellin dee!”
And so it proved to be, for my old friend Peter Tatoe, a veteran lay preacher and colporteur upon the western shores of these islands, is indeed presenting himself as a candidate for elected office once more, standing in the Monarchist interest against the secessionist cabal of Lady Anna Stokfisk-Gödelåde.
Meanwhile, the King’s Own Party has failed to find a candidate with sufficient wealth, social standing and gravitas, the Tory nominee being a callow youth who but recently attained the age of majority. Truly I fear for the future of the Realm if our forty Zetland families of superior rank cannot assemble a slate of eligible representatives to defend the rights of property and the order of subordination in society.
However, all is not lost, for it appears that the Whig candidate, Lady Pinkrivlins, the Countess Coupkecks, may yet carry the day, despite herself, and save our precious Union. Despite her admitted youthful dalliance with Lady Narkola of the Essenpee, Her Ladyship has, since then, grown in stability and in competence. She is now firmly attached to the Union of Parliaments, the Hanoverian Succession and to the person of HisMajesty. I intend to suggest that she might re-name the fortress of Scharnycrick ‘Fort Camilla’, in honour of the Consortina Royal, formerly Lady of the Bedchamber the Princess Porkyballs. It would be a fitting testament to the loyalty of the Zetlanders and, I fancy, calculated to bring us Royal favours.
The reason that Mr McMerkiaverly, Mr Bigally, Sir Allastir Curmudgeon and the Whig grandee Sir Alick Calamiton still entertain hopes of victory is that the well- known scribbler Mr Thomas Tabloyd, formerly of Mr Keir-Stairmounter’s persuasion, has recently rushed into print, accusing the Commissioner of Supply Dr Hermitage of “vanity”. The suggestion that the standard bearer of the Ranters, Levellers and Diggers might be motivated by considerations of personal advancement is very damaging, as is Mr Tabloyd’s other charge, that the candidacy of Dr Shovego (as he is known in the gin shops of Scharnycrick) is deliberately assisting Lady Pinkrivlins’ electoral prospects, by charming away from the Essenpee those younger and more impressionable electors who may be attracted by novelty for its own sake. In this psephological reading, Dr Shovego is indeed become “the Pied Piper of Scattiness” but he will lead none into secession, for the word ‘independence’ never passes his lips and I suspect that at heart he is “one of us” and devoted to the United Kingdom.
Dr Shovego’s tame pamphleteer, Mr Dan Shriller, has meanwhile put it about that Lady Anna Stokfisk-Gödelåde is a spy in the pay of those evil Scandinavian commercial conspiracies, Det Norsk Piltokmonopol and Det Norsk Myrolje Selskap. This canard is widelybelieved on the more credulous doorsteps although there is of course no truth in it. What need of truth hath a politickal pamphleteer, forsooth, when he treads in the footsteps of that other treacherous Daniel, Mr Defoe of loving memory?
While Sir Alick Calamiton was at Scharnycrick last month, Lady Pinkrivlins invited me to one of her liberal teas. Sir Alick opened the proceedings, saying: “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a council of war against the Separatists. When canvassing, you will be asked what the Whig manifesto contains. Your Ladyship, colleagues, and friends, it is as it has always been and it is very simple. Now, say after me: ‘Essenpee BAD! Essenpee Badder! Essenpee Baddest!’”
This clear statement of policy elicited loud applause from the assembled company, whom Lady Pinkrivlins then addressed as follows:
“As you all know, I remain a woman of the people, despite my great achievements, and I retain my independence, despite being a politickal party candidate for electoral convenience. When the electors ask me about my own policies for government, I reply thus: Zetland has many sheep; therefore I am in favour of sheep; I also favour shops, ships, sealing wax and kail and Kings, in particular our own dear Monarch who, I understand, is about to sail for America, where he will negotiate with our lately rebellious colonists, who are still somewhat unruly. His Majesty, I am sure, will persuade them to recant their mistaken republican enthusiasms and agree terms anent the trade in that vital ingredient of our Sunday Teas, namely, tea.”
Her Ladyship continued: “Above all, I am in favour of sugar, another commodity where our American trade is so vital. My ambition is to see our archipelago become richer still in fancies. Let there be huffsie, millionaireshortbread, fly cemeteries, iced teacakes, gingerbread, Victoria sponge and custard slices! These are the inclusive, cross-party policies that have made Zetland so great under my calm and steady rule. Sunday Teas forever!”
It was during the standing ovation for this rallying cry that I noticed Sir Alick Calamiton’s face had gone grey. He whispered an aside to Sir Allastir Curmudgeon, who shook his head and rolled his eyes. What this may portend, I know not.
Sir Allastir and Lady Pinkrivlins then led the company in singing the Whig anthem, conducted from the megaphone by Mr Bigally:
Oh, it’s time to slay the bad Essenpee,
Essenpee bad, Essenpee bad!
Bad Essenpee’s the enemeeee!
That’s why we’ll slaaay – the bad Essenpee!
The chorus was just ending when there came a furious knocking upon the door of our Lady’s chamber and in burst Dr Shovego himself, his face purple with indignation.
“I heard you!” he hissed. “The dogs in the street could hear you! This is disgraceful plagiarism. You’re singing MY song! How dare you breach my copyright!”
At this, Lady Pinkrivlins motioned to Mr Risible, the Returning Officer, who then explained, at some length, the origin and specifications of the sundry regulations concerning literary and musickal copyright in electoral slogans, songs, anthems and chants. By the time he had finished this fascinating discourse only Lady Pinkrivlins and I were still awake, and she appeared to be in a trance of some sort.
Later that day I asked Dr Witney Garlick (when he was in my study to ask for my signature upon his petition against the Window Tax) if he could explain why Mr Risible was dubbed the Returning Officer. He said: “It is because he keeps returning to the same dreary legalistic minutiae, time after time, in order to prolong his unnecessary employment and to augment his already substantial pension, which we all hope he will soon take and go away.”
So that is one puzzle solved; the other great mystery is what the electors of Zetland think of all this political commotion. That we shall know on the morning of the 8th of May.
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