Unmitigated tosh

BRISTOL, ENGLAND

A pretty girl threw herself at my feet. “Ah,” I smirked, all Errol Flynn. Ta-pocketa, ta-pocketa, ta-pock . . . I had to pull myself up short. She was crying out for help. This was no ordinary damsel – this was one in distress.

In an instant Robin Hood morphed into Sir Walter Raleigh. I swirled my cape of concern. Ta-pocketa.

“What ails thee, little one?”

“I’ve got a wet bum.”

Dr McKinley rose to the surface, anxious to examine the patient. Another one for his casebook. Ta-pocketa. If only I’d had my little back bag with me . . .

“Stepper!” the voice rang through my cranium. “Stepper [as some people know me] what do you think you’re doing?”

And then I was just me, a day-dreaming old granddad. Truth is, though, a pretty girl did fall over right at my feet. Alas, the key words are “fall over”. She had been negotiating passage over some wet cobblestones, she looked up to step past me who was coming in the other direction, her pink-sneakered foot slipped as if on ice . . . and down she went, smack on her derriere.

I actually came over all Baden-Powell. All that first aid drill half a century ago kicked in.

“Sit for a moment . . . there, now let me help you up,” said I, none too steady myself. I did a quick Dr Snoddy – in the name of proper medicine you understand – and she looked all right to me, slender and compact in her tight black ta-pock . . . “Stepper!”

Oh all right. “What you need is a hot drink with sugar. You’ve had a bit of a shock.” Ministering angel, me.

Then I knew she was fine. “I’ve got a wet bum,” she said gazing at a young fellow who’d just turned up. He looked a bit like George Clooney. I suppose he offered her a Nespresso.

I passed on, all aglow with my good-turn-for-the-day. This had never happened to me before . . . a desperate girl at my feet, a bona fide first-aid case. Just call me House. “You didn’t really fall over – you were struck down by a rare South American parasite that is particularly attracted to shapely females in pink sneakers. Oh, I know you love me . . .” Ta-pocketa, ta-pocketa, ta-pocketa.

The world-weary surgeon/physician trudged through the cobbled streets of the Bristol tourist area on a soaking wet Monday. My decision to persevere with a walk instead of a ride to the SS Great Britain and Brunel museum, despite the rain, was paying off. There were hardly any other tourists around and I didn’t have to fight for space on the path. I could . . .

And down I went. Hubert Opperman, pressing for victory, had his wheels taken out from under him on the treacherous pave of Paris-Roubaix. Undaunted, Australia’s greatest cyclist sprang back on his trusty Malvern Star and pedalled into the gloom. Ta-pocketa, ta-pocketa, ta-pocketa.

What your grossly overweight, aging fantasist actually did was haul himself slowly and painfully to his feet, while a kindly soul – dry and comfortable in a car – asked him if he was all right. As it happens, I was, apart from wet trousers and a sore, but not damaged, left knee. I was lucky. I could resume my march to the Pole.

With the blizzard raging about him, and instinct nagging him that something was not quite as it should be, Robert Falconer Scott stopped to assess his position. Dammit, instinct was right – he was heading north, instead of south. Wearily, he turned around. This could take some time. Ta-pock . . .

Over the bridge on the river . . . get thee behind me, Alec Guinness . . . and down the railway track on the waterfront . . . you, too, Marlon. Finally, I made it . . . Isambard Kingdom Brunel, I presume, and one of his finest creations, if not the finest: the SS Great Britain, the huge iron steamship that transformed ocean voyages forever.

This was what I had come to Bristol to see. And I had travelled over Brunel’s Great Western Railway from London to get there. It was a fulfilment of sorts, for I have long been a Brunel fan.

The man in the stovepipe hat stood proudly on the deck of his sea monster, the giant steam pistons throbbing slowly beneath him. “She’ll do it in 60 days . . . Liverpool to Melbourne . . . you’ll see . . .” He waved a confident cigar in the doubting faces. “You’ll see.” Ta-pocketa, ta-pocketa, ta-pocketa.

But you know what? This was no fantasy. The Great Britain consistently did the run to Melbourne in only a couple of months. That’s another story – check back later.

FOOTNOTES

• All those who didn’t recognise Walter Mitty ta-pocketing with his machine gun go to the back of the class. Furthermore, do you know how hard it is to avoid double entendre?
• The Stepper, or the Old Stepper, is, I think, P.G. Wodehouse’s only Australian character. It seemed obvious I should assume the name for the purposes of an e-forum run by The Wodehouse Society in the United States.