THE YIPPS

You may have heard rumours that the H of L is falling down, built on rocky ground, so to speak. Well, the rumours are true; the old girl is in dire need of a face-lift. One has to creep past certain walls, holding one’s breath for fear of a gargoyle detaching itself and flattening the old noggin. Well, Mr. Phips has decreed that it will not do and has rallied the Lords into action.

We are required to walk the streets once a month, looking resplendent in our ermine and shake a bucket at people. I happen to know that nothing enrages the public than a Lord shaking a bucket in their general direction. Believe it or not, but the General P is under the impression that we are entitled layabouts who leach off the public teat. Ridiculous, I know.

So it was with this in mind that Lord Quentin and I snuck off to the ‘Bishops Bar’ instead of hitting the streets.

“Phips can jolly well get out there himself.”
“Indeed,” said I.
“Bloody cheek asking us to give up our precious time!”
I nodded agreement while sinking my teeth into a Melton Molbry pork pie.
“If you think about it, he can’t tell us what to do. I mean, he works for us, and we work for the people!”
“Quite,” said I.
It all got heated, I can tell you.

I was still under Quentin’s rebellious spell when I returned to Mr. Phips with a splendid £3.50 rolling in my spacious bucket. Phips was sitting behind an oak desk, drumming his fingers. He had the knack of smiling and looking miserable at the same time. When Phips peered into the bucket, he raised a solitary eyebrow. I cracked. I mean, a Lord can only take so much.

“You can put that eyebrow down, Phips!” Cried I.
Phips remained silent. The eyebrow remained up. I went on the attack.
“You know, you work for me, Phips. I’m a Lord, and you can do well to remember it!”
The eyebrow retreated from whence it came. I had wounded him.
“Well, I’m afraid I must leave you now. Some of us have a Lord’s work to do!”
The killer blow! I strutted off like a turkey cock.

It was in this mood that I entered the bar at the HOL only to be confronted by Lord Sugar. I smiled a broad one in his direction.
“Pip Pip Shuggy,” said I.
“I’ve booked my seat.”
I was taken aback; Sugar was not one for riddles; in fact, he prided himself as a straight talker.
“Glad to hear it, old goose.”
“Oh yes, I’ve heard you put on quite a show.”
I smiled at him, determined not to give an inch.
“Well, I must be on my way.”
Sugar let out a gruff bark and sauntered off; what an ass that man is.

In the ‘Members Bar’, I discovered Lord Waldon and Lord Quentin flipping beermats at our usual table. I greeted my fellow lords with a barrage of ‘what hos!’ and backslaps. They smiled weakly at my jovial high jinx.
“He hasn’t heard,” squeaked Quentin.
“I fear you may be right,” growled Waldon.
“That thing you’ve been dreading, old sport, it’s happened.”

The blood drained from my face.
“When?”
“Today at 2 p.m.”
I turned tail and left. All the ‘What Hos!’ and backslapping in the world couldn’t save me now.

What have I been dreading? Well, let me tell you. My Maiden Speech! Here in the ‘H of L’, new lords have to stand in the house and speak what is on their mind. Now, I know what you’re thinking; surely you get a thing like that done on your first day, skip through the doors, shake a few hands, trot out the maiden speech, and then to the bar for congrats and sandwiches. Well, that’s not the case; there are countless Lords who coast around for years without giving their maiden speech, and I had foolishly thought I would join their ranks.

You see, public speaking and I don’t get on, never have, and never will. In my prep school, I had to stand in front of the class and introduce myself. Full of the enthusiasm of youth, I leapt up in front of my peers, took a great breath, and began to speak, except I didn’t; nothing came out. All those eyes looking at me and expecting things to spring forth from my mouth. I stuttered, I gasped, I boggled.

I was sent home early, carted back to the ancestral pile for a showdown with the ‘Aged Ps’.

Mother, always one for a crisis, called the local doctor to administer a cure. He saw what others saw but were afraid to say, “The young Lord had a serious case of the Yipps.” He advised a solitary life of walking dogs and starting into the distance. Father, always one to disagree with a doctor, proclaimed it all nonsense and prescribed a dam good thrashing. So a thrashing I had, and I was sent back to school with a glowing backside to duke it out with the other boys.

Well, since then I have avoided having to utter a word to a crowd. I have shrunk away from best man’s speeches; I have faked illness and broken off long engagements just to avoid the Yipps rearing its ugly head. But now it seems my luck has run out.

Back in the bar, Lord Quentin insisted on giving me a pep talk. Imagine them all naked.
“Nonsense,” bleated the Bishop of Durham, “Shut your eyes throughout, and be incredibly soused.”
All sound advice but powerless against an attack of the Yipps.

Lord Waldon was more stoic. “Who cares?” He had seen countless boobies freeze on the benches and go on to have wonderful careers in the Lords. “Lord Heron stammered his way through his ‘Maiden’ and he went on to have a glorious life in the House. Mind you, he couldn’t enter the bar without being jeered and stammered at.”
“Didn’t he end up going loopy and smear himself with goose fat?” said Quentin.
“No, I’m sure Lord Heron began to speak pigeon French at an intolerable volume?” replied Waldon.
“I’m sure he stripped down and smeared goose fat on his nether regions and frolicked through the House.” Piped the Bish of D.
“You may be right, sounds like a thing Heron would do.” Conceded Waldon. “Anyway, like I was saying, he went on to have a glorious career in the House!”

You can see my problem. If I didn’t do something about it, I was heading for a tub of goose fat and a glorious career in the house! There was no choice as far as I could see. It was time to swallow one’s pride. I went to see Mr Phips.

Phips’s office is in the bowels of the basement, as far down as one can go. The gloom is everywhere; it seems to emanate directly from Phips’s office. I knocked and entered.
Of course, Phips knew about my predicament before I could tell him.
“You have to help me, Phips, pull a few strings!”
He smiled a frown in my direction and told me not to worry and to head upstairs and prepare to face the crowd.
“About before.”
Up went the eyebrow.
“Didn’t mean a word of it, old fruit, just had a rush of blood to the old hat stand.”
Phips, stoic as ever, remained stoic.
“Well, off I go!”
I wandered upstairs to my doom.

You may not know this, but the old H of L is modelled on my prep school. So flashbacks hit me left, right, and bally centre on my way to the chamber. By the time I arrived, I was that little schoolboy again, all short trousers and stinging arse cheeks.

They were all waiting, of course. I wouldn’t say that all of those fellows of my prep had somehow ended up in the H of L, but I recognised a lot of those faces, all grown up and eager for a follow-up performance. What a cruel world.

I took my place and waited for Phips to come to my aid. I was introduced and rose to my feet. Any minute now, Phips would rescue me; all I had to do was wait. All the lords turned to stare. Some of the older ones woke for the first time in years, anticipating a meltdown, and still, Phips failed to charge in on a charger of some sort and whisk me to safety. Then it hit me: Phips had abandoned me to my fate. It seems I had hurt him with my cruel barbs, and he was enacting an exquisite revenge.

Now, at this point, most lords would have buckled under the pressure, given up, headed home to mother and a quiet life of dog walking and tea with the vicar, but not I. I wasn’t going to let Phips win. I wasn’t going to let those goons staring at me win. I wasn’t going to give Lord Sugar the satisfaction of seeing me struck dumb with the Yipps. I took a deep breath, struck out my chest, and let rip.

Nothing. I stuttered, I gasped, I boggled.

Let me interject here to say you must never doubt the power of Phips. Here was I thinking he had left me in the lurch, he had taken serious umbrage at my outburst. Not Phips. Others may be grudgers but not Phips, never!

Where was I? Oh yes, I stuttered, I gasped, I boggled. Then salvation. Something hurtled itself from above, dropping right beside The Lord Chamberlin. A loud shriek echoed around the chamber (Lord Heron guilty as charged) then uproar and panic, a bomb, a plot, an attempt on a lord’s life.

People think that Lords are superhuman, they think that because we sit at the highest seat in the country we are somehow different, nonsense, we did what anyone would do, we ran. The chamber emptied in seconds, Lords who were so old they had to be carried about, lifted up their robes and exited with the speed of a pursued gazelle. I was left standing, the Yipps affects the legs as well as the tongue. It was only when all had gone that I wobbled my way to the exit.

I stole a quick glance at the bomb and was flabbergasted. Turns out it was one of those blasted gargoyles, it had finally given up its battle with gravity and joined us on terra-firma.

When I staggered to the bar I was greeted as quite a celebrity. Drinks were bought, backs were well and truly slapped and all agreed it was the best ‘Maiden’ in years.

I was on to my fourth G&T when Sugar approached me. He was pleased with himself. Odd, he should be furious. He handed me a note, “from Phips.”

In his missive Phips congratulated me on my speech. Very much looked forward to receiving my no doubt sizeable contribution to the fund for repairing the H of L and ensuring no more gargoyles took flight.