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Bruce MacKenzie 379 days ago
Maj. (retired), Nigel Smythe-Brown Special to the Times Colonist We are approaching Remembrance Day, which brings forward sights and sounds not seen the rest of the year. The first thing one notices are the club flunkies who appear in droves to clean the ancient building from top to bottom, even behind the memorial curtains. I have touched briefly on the discovery last year of the mummified colonel thought missing after a large lunch, only to be found two years later with a dusty martini glass behind the heavy drapes. Through pressure from his large wife to give up drink, he had become a secret imbiber and the slight alcove against the far wall was his cave. Happily, this time when the curtains were pulled back, nothing untoward fell out, although an unsent love letter to the Queen was discovered but sadly unsigned. Since the city's main infantry regiment is the Canadian Scottish, there will no doubt be many kilts in evidence about the home of homes, as retired officers from ...
De Cosmos 394 days ago
Maj. (retired) Nigel Smythe-Brown Special to the Times Colonist Sunday, October 26, 2008 Often we at the club (the home of homes) give the studied impression that nothing much changes amongst the nodding ranks and that is as perhaps should be. Our traditions are passed on to the brevets who will one day assume the Himalayan heights of stewardship for this genial oasis within the dangerous garden that has become our city. One of the foremost ancient wisdoms passed on is that the mems must not be confronted with sudden capriciousness, for the club members approach their Eden as does a hand reaching under the bed for a favourite slipper. Therefore change in all sheep's clothing must be stared down till it is palatable to even the most beleaguered of club tastebuds. In the upcoming American election, all one hears is change, just that, change, for that is apparently the motto across the board. If we had a motto at the club it would be a Latin version of something along ...
De Cosmos 401 days ago
Maj. (retired) Nigel Smythe-Brown Special to the Times Colonist Sunday, October 19, 2008 I think my loyal readers will remember my brilliant plan to finally rid the Smythe-Brown estate of a huge cat called Charles. I ate fish for three days solid before I came up with a flawless scheme: creating a need for a cat at the club (the home of homes) through an infestation of mice. Mice, then cat, QED. Unfortunately, as many flawless plans prove, there were holes, and like the chap who bet his fortune on broccoli ice cream, I lost all. For a few sunny cat-free days, my 40-pound cat was replaced by two others who, though thinner and sleeker in the Cassius sense, were nonetheless cats. They were from the Rosencrantz and Guildenstern school of thought. They played fawning courtiers to my current wife Kitty, but to anyone else, assassins. Their names, which shall live in tandem with Mao and Stalin, were Pericles and Bertram. They had been returned some 13 times to the Victoria ...
Bruce MacKenzie 414 days ago
Maj. (retired) Nigel Smythe-Brown, Special to Times Colonist Published: Sunday, October 05, 2008 I admit that I love politics. For a man my age, it is not unlike a neuron-multivitamin swimming in fish oil. Here we have a federal election, plus one in the States, and a municipal one shortly thereafter, so for a political junkie it is a birthday every day. The upshot is I race to the club as early as possible to rub up against similar-minded chaps, leaving Kitty, my current wife, and her dratted cats to their own devices (which are best not dwelled upon). Now, American elections are always terribly interesting to Canadians. I have always felt that we should be allowed to vote, for we seem to have the most to lose or gain, being the small flat upstairs. However, I am afraid the Canadian version has the upper hand for real excitement, particularly here in B.C. Allow me to pontificate if I may (people say I do this all the time, but that is unkind). We have seen the American chappies ...
De Cosmos 429 days ago
Maj. (retired) Nigel Smythe-Brown Special to the Times Colonist Sunday, September 21, 2008 After managing to open both of my still blue eyes, I start my day as a young fawn would, emerging from my shaded glen after, as the bard tells us, a "sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care." With enormous bonhomie and bursting curiosity I stride toward my club (the home of homes), setting a pace that would raise eyebrows amongst the Matabele. Now all this glowing and beaming, etc., whilst a beneficial tonic for sedentary and bulbous club mems, sets us up, so to speak, for the high jump of shocked disappointment when one smoothes out one's newspaper upon the club table. There are those of us who think that we have already returned to the last 20 minutes of the Roman Empire, and that distant scratching at the front door is indeed Mr. and Mrs. Visigoth in search of a short, frank chat. Just the other day the daily press fairly screamed with the news that ...
