I have three brothers, and there was a point when the middle one was getting irritating beyond belief. He rang all of us at various times, pretending to be a dimwitted salesman (of different products, depending on how he felt). And, to give him credit, he was very good. He took my mother in, oh, for at least 20 minutes with his impersonation of a double glazing rep. This, naturally, we all found very funny. But when he started on the rest of us, we were less than impressed.
Eldest brother in Canada, who is a doctor, rang me up to chew my ear off. ‘How am I supposed to get up all bright eyed to slash at people’s varicose veins, when I get phone calls at midnight to see if I want my drains unblocking? I thought it was one of my patients who’d become unhinged. I tell you, if I have to get a plane to come home and sort him out, things are going to get messy.’
Needless to say, middle brother just laughed. His next call, to me at 5 am, backfired slightly because I had just come home from a late shift, but he kept me talking so long that when I eventually went to bed I couldn’t sleep, and was knackered for my next shift.
However, things came to a head when my youngest brother, who had got more calls than anybody else, told the mysterious caller with the funny accent to fuck off, and then discovered it was one of my mother’s oldest friends, calling from Mauritius.
Something had to be done. And at that moment, believe it or not, I won a Rolls Royce in a competition in the UK Press Gazette. Just for the weekend, mind, but it was enough. I could now exact revenge on middle brother.
This all happened at the time when I lived in a slummy flat in London (see putting on the Ritz) and one of my flatmates was Jochen, a German lad who I’d known since school and who was just starting out in the music business, composing TV theme tunes. Anybody who says the Germans don’t have a sense of humour needs to meet him. He enthusiastically hired a 1930s chauffeur’s uniform straight from Lady Chatterley’s lover, complete with breeches and gaiters, while I got my fishtail cocktail dress and pearls out. My then boyfriend (now my husband) Steve came along for the ride. He flatly refused to dress up in formal evening wear, but Jochen pointed out that, since he had a leather jacket, he could easily pass for somebody successful in the music business.
I alerted my sister in law as to what was going on, and a couple of hours later we arrived at the Yorkshire pub where my brother liked to drink on a Friday night. I’m not talking here about a place where you can discuss the merits of a bottle of Chardonnay. I’m talking a spit and sawdust four-ale bar, mostly inhabited by silent men who had (and probably still have) fairly strong, unprintable, views about Margaret Thatcher and the champagne-guzzling Tory elite.
The low level of chat and the click of dominoes trailed to absolute silence when I walked in. My brother, who was standing at the bar, froze with his pint half way to his lips.
‘Darling,’ I trilled. ‘Do give me a kiss. Aren’t you going to buy me pint? I’ve just made a shed load of money in London.’
A rather stunned looking bloke banged into the bar behind me. ‘Somebody’s just parked a fucking great Rolls Royce in’t car park.’
‘Oh that’ll be mine,’ I said. ‘I do hope the chauffeur hasn’t put it in your way.’
The door opened again and Jochen came in, respectfully removing his hat.
‘Everything all right?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, madam,’ he said in his perfect, accentless English. ‘But one of the dogs has been sick on the lambswool rug in the car.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ I said generously. ‘You can clean it up in the morning.’
There were some deep mutterings at this. And my brother looked daggers at me. ‘He will not. You can fucking clean it up. Who said you could have servants? Bloody nonsense.’
He turned to Jochen and forced his face into a kindly smile. ‘Now then, lad, would you like a pint?’
Jochen looked at me. ‘Is it permitted, madam?’ (More rumblings of discontent.)
‘Maybe just a half,’ I said magnanimously. ‘And you can have a cigarette, too, if you like.’
Jochen took a tin of tobacco out of his breeches pocket, and at that moment about ten men flicked open their cigarette packets and held them out to him. ‘Here, have a fag, lad. Have a fag on me.’
And so the evening wore on, Jochen was treated with sympathy, Steve was accepted as a normal, but somewhat intriguing person, and the interplay between my brother and myself was the best entertainment ever for the other blokes in the bar.
‘I’m never going to live this down,’ said my brother, gloomily. ‘Never. Why did you have to come dressed like that?’
‘I thought you’d like to see how well I was doing,’ I trilled. ‘And Jochen’s such a treasure, isn’t he? Good staff are so hard to find.’
Jochen and Steve choked on their beer.
What are you laughing at?’ demanded my brother.
‘Tell him,’ pleaded Jochen. ‘I can’t stand it any longer. And besides, my jacket is getting itchy.’
‘What, tell me what?’
‘It’s a joke,’ I said. ‘It’s our revenge on you for your stupid bloody phone calls. Steve is not in the record business, I only have the Rolls Royce for the weekend and Jochen is not a chauffeur. He’s really a German composer.’
My brother looked at me for a long moment and then laughed. ‘A German composer? He’s as German as I am! Pull the other one. You can’t fool me!’
Writer's notebook 
Fantastic story. I wish I’d been in a pub in Yorkshire when that happened.
xxx Huge Hugs xxx
Posted by davidprosser | February 4, 2015, 11:04 pmI should have sold tickets!
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 11:11 pmIt’s the gloves, darling, they absolutely make the dress. I’d have had Jochen kick his ass while I was at it.
Posted by naptimethoughts | February 4, 2015, 7:56 pmStill got the gloves.
Would Mellors kick Lord C’s arse? No, I think not. Anyway, everyone in the pub was buying Jochen drinks behind my back, so he was very happy. And, we were stopping the night with said brother, so arse kicking may have been rather counter productive.
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 8:17 pmYou never want to kick anyone’s ass. Is this a British thing? Over here all we do is kick asses. We line them up in front of us and spend whole days just kicking ass, one after another.
Posted by naptimethoughts | February 4, 2015, 9:08 pmGod, I laughed at that. And another one! Next!
We have a very famous expression over here: ‘He’s about as much use as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest.’ Sounds right up your street.
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 9:38 pmYes, although ’round these parts the expression is “up my alley” and we are mighty proud to “kick ass and take names.” I don’t really know what that means, but it sounds good, so when one is angry, one often “kicks ass and takes names.”
Posted by naptimethoughts | February 5, 2015, 2:00 pmThere’s a definition here: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=kicking+ass+and+taking+names
But I love it. I shall be borrowing it shortly.
Posted by elainecanham | February 5, 2015, 2:08 pmI have to say, that was a great definition. Especially the reference to bingo.
Posted by naptimethoughts | February 5, 2015, 7:43 pmI think I could bring myself to kick ass at bingo
Posted by elainecanham | February 5, 2015, 11:06 pmRolls over Beethoven
Posted by Bruce Goodman | February 4, 2015, 7:25 pmBa ba ba Boom!
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 7:28 pmI think there’s something to be said for being an only child.
Posted by Jools | February 4, 2015, 5:32 pmYes, I suppose! But then, I never would have been able to write this blog post…
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 5:38 pmAll this, after you had a career win which resulted in dinner at the Ritz and drinks at the Savoy?! This is all very positive, Elaine. I love the storytelling, but the sheer exuberance of all this youth and good fortune makes me itchy. For balance – as an impartial journalist – could you perhaps end the trilogy with a tale full of woe, desolation, repression, possibly some poll tax?
Posted by Tara Sparling | February 4, 2015, 4:38 pmThat’s my life now, Tara!
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 4:47 pmNo. The rules of literature clearly state that the past is what’s miserable, the present doesn’t exist at all. Amntirite??!
Posted by Tara Sparling | February 4, 2015, 7:08 pmWhat about Hamlet? He’s always banging on about miserable he is
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 7:17 pmAnd then there’s every book that’s ever been written by a Russian and folk of that kidney.
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 7:19 pmAnd Ernest blimmin’ Hemingway and his eternal present tenses…
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 7:21 pmWell in Hamlet’s case, his misery was too philosophical to be present. If Shakespeare were French, the whole thing would’ve been in the subjunctive. Post 1917 Russia didn’t have any tenses atall. And as for Hemingway- well, we all know that his present is our continuous past, with shades of future neverwas, surely?
Posted by Tara Sparling | February 5, 2015, 1:53 amI think it was Macbeth who got his knickers in a twist over the subjunctive. But I hope to God Hemingway is not my continuous past. How bloody depressing would that be??? have you read Alan Coren’s Hemingway parody, The Pooh Also Rises ? I could never read Hemingway seriously again after that.
Posted by elainecanham | February 5, 2015, 9:22 amI have not. Very remiss of me so I will be rectifying that immediatelish.
Posted by Tara Sparling | February 5, 2015, 9:33 amBrilliant story. Won a Rolls Royce for the weekend eh. How can I match that. I can’t. I would so loved to have been there 🙂
Posted by Peter Wells aka Countingducks | February 4, 2015, 2:57 pmIt was just brilliant, Peter. Especially as he simply wouldn’t believe Jochen was German
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 3:01 pmIt is a beautifully mad stories. If we were ever swapping “Life-tips” across a pile of rock cakes at some posh café, I’ve a load of crazy stories as you can imagine, but I have the feeling you have quite a few which could top those. I would raise my hat to you if I had remembered to buy one 🙂
Posted by Peter Wells aka Countingducks | February 4, 2015, 3:05 pmTrouble is, I generally only remember these kind of things when I’ve left said cafe, and I’m sitting on the train, and of course, when I start laughing, people move away.
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 3:11 pmThey normally move away before I start laughing. When I start laughing they leave the carriage !!
Posted by Peter Wells aka Countingducks | February 4, 2015, 3:13 pmSweet revenge
Posted by lbwoodgate | February 4, 2015, 2:53 pmIt was very, very sweet. He still gets ribbed about it in the pub. Hah!
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 3:01 pmHah! Perfect. I’m afraid I have to confess to the odd (and infrequent, unlike your brother) prank call – usually to work colleagues, but your revenge is one stunt I would really have enjoyed. Very much enjoyed reading it.
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Posted by Loretta Livingstone | February 4, 2015, 2:38 pmThanks Loretta. I found this picture the other day; I’d almost forgotten about it.
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 2:56 pmDE-lightful! What a family. I didn’t have brothers–only four sisters.
Love the getup and the prank. Two shay. 🙂
Posted by Let's CUT the Crap! | February 4, 2015, 2:33 pmYes, well, he’s never tried prank phone calls again…
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 2:57 pm😀 😀 He can’t top your prank. What a scream!
Posted by Let's CUT the Crap! | February 4, 2015, 10:14 pmPriceless!
Posted by Jools | February 4, 2015, 2:32 pmThanks Jools. We had a lot of fun that weekend with that car.
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 2:57 pmThat is definitely an epic prank. I bow to your craftiness and cunning.
Posted by Charles Yallowitz | February 4, 2015, 2:00 pmThanks Charles! The idea just fell into my lap when I won the comp. Without that, I’d still be answering the phone at 5am – or he’d have thought up something new.
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 2:59 pmWarn your neighbors and use an air horn? That’s what we did with prank callers in college.
Posted by Charles Yallowitz | February 4, 2015, 4:51 pmD’you know, I never thought of that!
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 5:15 pmHahahaha.
I’m making sure my brothers never read this. They are just as annoying, but none of them play pranks on me. YET.
Posted by zareenn3 | February 4, 2015, 1:56 pmBe vigilant!
Posted by elainecanham | February 4, 2015, 2:59 pm