Club class

A tongue-in-cheek reaction to the debate over dress codes in private clubs.

July 26, 2014 04:28 pm | Updated 04:28 pm IST

140727 - Sunday mag - Jeeves and dhoti

140727 - Sunday mag - Jeeves and dhoti

“I say, Jeeves,” remarked Bertie raising a perplexed eyebrow, as the Woosters are wont to do when deep in thought. “Here’s a rum thing. I’ve just been Skyped by my old pal Morgan from his tea estates in South India.”

“Indeed sir, I believe you met him when on a lion safari in Kenya in the old days.”

“Yes, well, umm, and we had to spend the night on one of those rickety platforms that they send you up on when one of the lion kings gets into an amorous state. The whole bally night, if you please. If it hadn’t been for Morgan, I don’t think I would be here this morning, Jeeves, old chap. I owe him one.”

“Would that be Shot Gun, sir? I believe it’s commonly pronounced Moor-u-ghan in South India. From what I hear from my Sri Lankan mates — who do some butlering on the side — when they drop by for some tea at the Ganymede Club, he’s made quite a name for himself.”

“By Jove, you’ve hit the punkah on the ceiling, Jeeves. That’s exactly what Morgan called me about!”

“Sir? He called you about a membership to the Ganymede Club? Surely not. It’s meant strictly for persons under the stairs so to speak, the gentlemen’s gentlemen as we used to be known as in the days when that institution was alive,” murmured Jeeves, offering the scion of the Wilberforce Woosters, as Bertie is sometimes known, another cup of the finest Darjeeling in the last of the Spode tea cups, a silver spoon by its side, and just in case it was needed, a matching saucer with a lemon squeeze and three finely-sliced semi-circles of lemon on a tray. It’s not within the purview of a gentleman’s gentleman to ever offer a mug with a sad looking mouse-tail of a tea bag hanging from the side.

Bertie stirred the tea, softly singing ‘Hakuna Matata’ under his breath. Jeeves waited, a well-starched white serviette draped over his left arm. “Morgan’s in a terrible twist,” said Bertie after he had been suitably fortified. “Or to be more exact, he’s got his pants in a twist. It’s a question of loyalty. Something to do with our old institutions, the gentlemen’s clubs that dot the South Indian countryside. He whipped out his Shakespeare as we Skyped across continents. He quoted from the Bard; Hamlet, if you must know: ‘To pant, or not to pant? That is the question, is it not Bertie, my chum?’ he said. And then the line went dead. Abruptly.”

“Was he breathing, sir? Was the pant a reference to Mr. Moor-u-ghan being out of breath?”

“Much more serious, my dear chap, much more serious. All across the subcontinent, the once- sacred doors of England’s finest legacy — its clubs — are being battered down by a show of nationalist zeal involving native dressing and footwear. I believe they are known as chappal s and sandals.”

“Now manufactured in China,” interjected Jeeves.

“Morgan finds himself trapped in the middle of this second war of liberation from Saville Row suits and Doc Martens.”

“I believe there has been a kerfuffle in those former colonies of ours when it comes to matters of sartorial propriety,” remarked Jeeves in the gravest of tones.

“I’ve heard rumours involving gentlemen who do not adhere to the strict rules regarding appropriate leg-wear when it comes to certain clubs. They prefer to sport their native attire. Very sensible too, I might observe. Plain white lengths of pure cotton wound around the waist, not unlike wrapping a starched serviette around a chota peg, which I believe is the local term for a form of refreshment for which those clubs were commissioned in the first place.”

“Or milk. As I recall my Aunt Agatha telling me when one of their Great Men came to call upon our own dear King, as he used to be in those days, he brought his own canister of goat’s milk with him. Aunt Agatha was still in college, the 1930s I think it was, but she never forgot the sight of the Great Little Man climbing up the steps of our own club for crowned heads, Buckingham Palace, in his white shawl and hand-spun undergarment — dhoti — I think she called it, to have tea with the King and Queen.”

“Yes, indeed Sir, the visit made headlines. When the Great Man came down the steps and met the world press that were milling outside the gates, they asked him if he had enough clothes on for the occasion. He replied with a twinkle: ‘The King had enough for both of us’.”

“That’s the spirit, Jeeves. That’s what I should tell Morgan. Hakuna Matata. No worries as long as each side respects the other’s right to wear what’s appropriate. Clubs are meant for people, not just for their rules. Down with pants. Up with the dhoti . I’ll tell him when I meet him. Book me a ticket, jaldi quick, Jeeves to the Munnar High Range Club; here comes the last of the Woosters.”

“Right-o, sir. How many dhoti s shall I pack for you?”

(As reported to GEETA DOCTOR , by the last of the Woosters with apologies to P.G. Wodehouse.)

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