I was very pleased with the reaction to the posting of the programme for the 1965 Military Festival at the Duke of York's HQ. As a result of this, Iain (The Mighty Albannach, no less) has offered to make some more of his personal collection of old documents available for sharing in this way, which is not only very generous, but also suits me very well for a number of reasons, since my painting efforts have stalled for the moment, and actual wargames are likely to be few and far between for a while. Thus I am delighted to take him up on his kind offer.
We'll see how this goes, but he has a good collection of wargames rules (by a number of authors) and of historical and wargaming notes, all of which were available as "handbooks" and could be ordered through Donald Featherstone's Wargamer's Newsletter back in the day. It is possible that some of this material has been collected into more modern publications, but at least you can be confident that the original documents posted here will have been proof-read at some time, which is not always the case elsewhere.
First off, then - appropriately enough - is DFF's very own Rules for Napoleonic Wargames. I believe the rules employed at the 1965 Waterloo game were a cut-down version of these. Please enjoy them, and please treat them with the respect they (and Albannach, and I!) are due. Potentially, there are some real goodies in the pipeline!
Over the last year there has been some discussion here of the celebrated 1965 commemorative Waterloo wargame played at the Duke of York's HQ. If you wish to have a look at that, click here. We've had photos from the Featherstone book, and the report from Wargamer's Newsletter.
Today I am delighted to have a scan of the original programme, very kindly provided by Iain, the famed Albannach, no less - a Nobel Prize nomination will follow forthwith.
Here you will find all sorts - list of the participants, list of trade stands and - wait for it - the rules they used! Have a look - nostalgia lives - 1 dice for each 6 firers...
Anyway - without further ado, here it is. [One small message here - if any Resource Investigator on TMP feels the need to spread this round the world, it would be appreciated if they had the courtesy to say thanks, or at least hello, to acknowledge the hard work and love which goes into keeping these things alive. Iain, I'll be right behind you, mate - no worries - and thanks again!]
A bit more Merseyside local history, I'm afraid - pretty ancient history, too. During lock-down, I am presently working my way through some of the old BBC TV Coast series on DVD, and enjoying them thoroughly - apart from anything else, it's nice to get a change of scenery, and to see people travelling about in the fresh air and speaking to each other!
Yesterday I watched the episode from Series 2 in which they discuss the North Wales coastline from Anglesey to Liverpool. One of the items covered was the Optical Telegraph, begun in 1826, I think, which was built to communicate between Holyhead, in Anglesey, and Liverpool. My interest was kindled!
Long before any electric telegraph, it was very useful to be able to pass messages back and forth, with news of arriving shipping. In those pre-steam days, most of the sugar trade from the Caribbean and the cotton from the USA came into Liverpool, and voyage times were very variable. When incoming ships reached Anglesey, they only had about 70 miles to go, across Liverpool Bay to the port itself. Ships passing Holyhead could exchange (flag) signals with the signal station, and then the telegraph system (invented, I believe, by an employee of the Liverpool Dock Company named Watson) would send news to Liverpool, where the shipping companies could make arrangements for berthing and unloading, and the local traders could make announcements in the Cotton Exchange and in the local commodity markets, and of course, messages to the ship could be sent back.
The Telegraph stations
The system used a relay of semaphore stations, sending coded messages which consisted of numeric signals, translated by means of a code book.
Each station would receive incoming signals from an adjacent station in the line, and resend as quickly as possible. I imagine the job of spotting a new signal quickly would be a demanding one, but the signal traffic was heavy, so there might be little chance to doze off! This sounds painfully slow, since someone would have to decode the numbers at each end, but it seems that 3 to 4 minutes from end to end was about average, which is impressive. During the BBC TV show, they made great play of the fact that there was a claim that the fastest ever recorded time for a message from Holyhead to Liverpool was 27 seconds. My reaction was to wonder how they could possibly have measured this, since there was no time signal or satellite clock to check it against. It took me a while to realise that it would be possible to time a there-and-back signal and response at one end of the line, but I have to say that still don't believe they could have done it so quickly!
Ruin of the station at Carreglwyd, abandoned in 1841 when the Puffin Island station opened
Puffin Island
Bidston Hill "Observatory" in the Wirral - telegraph station, and one signal flagpole for each shipping line!
If you want to know more, here's a link to a pleasing little history of the telegraph system - there seems to have been a gradual improvement in the technology - there are still traces of it around. I remember that when I was a small child I saw the signal pylon at Hilbre Island, just off West Kirby. Come to think of it, I never realised until yesterday what that site was!
One nice moment in the BBC programme was a reference to the fact that that one of the coded signals in the book, transmitted as a number, meant "do you have the code book?", which, of course, would convey nothing at all if you didn't.
This is rather a whimsical post - I wasn't sure
whether to publish it. Maybe I'll delete it later.
Recently I've been corresponding with a
friend about memories of childhood - especially about family get-togethers, in
an age when it seemed everyone lived locally, and almost the entire family could be
assembled from a small area. My friend and I had some laughs about social rituals,
things that our families always did (and said, and sang), and about how the
roles of various family members have changed. Since he and I come from
different parts of the UK, it has been interesting to note the similarities and
the regional differences.
Terraced street in Aigburth, some 10 years later than my tale
I got to thinking about the New Year
parties at my grandparents' house, when I was a kid (that's my dad's parents,
in Aigburth, South Liverpool). I think we only attended a few times, mostly
because my dad would normally have fallen out with one or other of his siblings
during the previous year!
The gatherings were large - a lot of people
crammed into a small terraced house. They were good-hearted folk, in a tough,
noisy sort of way. We must have been at that itchy post-war period when the
working class had a bit more money, and everyone was becoming keen on what they
saw as middle-class status symbols and values. It was all a bit competitive,
and all of it was loud and in-your-face. My posh Auntie May had definitely
"rose up", and she had married the boss/owner at her work,
developed a new Hyacinth Bucket accent (see clip, below), sent her kids to private
school and moved to the Wirral. In a strange, ambivalent way, the family were
proud of her, yet envied her, and really hated it when she drove over for New
Year in the new Vauxhall, even though they bragged about it when she wasn't
there, and stood in the freezing cold to watch it drive away when she left.
Vauxhall Wyvern
At this time, everyone still had their feet
and their roots in traditions that were, at the very least, Victorian. The
family would come on various buses (only May had a car), some would walk, bearing
biscuit tins filled with sandwiches, home baking, even bowls of trifle. When
people arrived, all the big winter coats would be piled on the bed in the
upstairs room at the front of the house (the smell of moth-balls was stifling),
and everyone was issued with the regulation cup of tea to warm them up.
And, I guess, a good time was had by all.
Occasional neighbours would appear (though the family was not noted for being
very open to strangers), and eventually there were boyfriends of my various
cousins (my cousins were legion, and they were all girls, now I think of it).
If there were enough newcomers to the family throng, the inevitable party games
in the kitchen after the tea-party would include a game called The Obstacle
Course. I think my participation in this game came when I was about seven,
after a number of years of non-attendance (politics). It was a game you could
only play once, but when you could no longer take part you could be involved in
the organisation and, of course, spectating.
Even by the prevailing standards, this was
an unusually noisy game - it must have been audible a good way up the street.
It was necessary to have a minimum number of first-time visitors to play -
maybe 3 or 4. There was an element of initiation in it, to be sure. The
family's taste in jokes and fun activities was always dominated by practical
jokes, some humiliation, just a whiff of sadism, and giving a newcomer the
opportunity to demonstrate that they were a "good sport", prepared to
laugh at themselves - certainly to be laughed at by others. Maybe this was a
test to see if they were going to fit in...
The Obstacle Course game required the
identification of suitable (first-time) participants, and then my Uncle Harold
and Cousin Joyce (who were the loudest of all) would take charge. The players
would be led into the hall by Joyce, where they would be prepared for what was
to follow, and while the course was set up. When everything was ready, they
would all be admitted to the kitchen (living room), and would be shown an
improvised obstacle course, which they had to memorise as best they could; then
they would be taken out into the hallway again, and would be given some
additional instruction on rules and so on. All the non-playing family members
would be seated around the walls of the room - they would be the spectators,
and later would vote for the best performer.
1950s clothes horse - we used to call ours a "maiden"
The course itself featured all sorts of
household items, arranged in time-honoured constructions that you had to crawl
under, step over, wriggle in-between - there was a horizontal broom handle,
supported on boxes, to be stepped over without touching it, there were all
sorts of cunning arrangements of sofa cushions, the wooden clothes horse,
covered in rugs, a step-ladder, stacks of food tins - a lot of ingenuity came
into play. And, of course, you would have to negotiate the course blindfolded,
with plenty of instruction from Harold - and the spectators, obviously.
The participants (or "explorers"
as they were termed) were solemnly blindfolded, and led into the room one at a
time. Others went in ahead of me, and the noise was indescribable - the main
object of the game was that everybody shouted at the same time - support,
conflicting instructions, occasional sympathy, lots of banter. My turn came - I
was completely blacked-out. I could hardly breathe, in fact.
The door closed behind me, and Harold said,
"righto, Tony - come forward two steps - that's good - a little further -
very good. Now, the first obstacle is you have to walk under the step-ladder
without touching it, so stoop down a bit - right a bit - no not so much - good.
Now edge forward slowly - good - a bit lower - right a bit more..."
And from the onlookers came a deafening uproar
of "lower - not so low, turn left a bit - keep your elbows in" and so
on.
After the step-ladder I was sweating profusely,
but was pleased to have got past it. There was loud applause. Harold shouted,
"OK - now you have to step over the bucket of water, so you need to turn
left, where you are - righto - stop when I tell you - now - stop - two little
steps forward - stop - now - you're going to have to turn sideways for this
one..."
And so it went on. In spite of all the
conflicting shouting from the sidelines, I did remarkably well, wriggling
through sofa-cushion tunnels, tiptoeing through little mazes of tins, stepping
over things, all without touching anything. At last, clear so far, I had to jump right across a little hearth-rug,
without touching it. In a blaze of glory, I managed to do this. The applause
was fantastic - I was as pleased as I could be. Then I was allowed to take off
the blindfold, and I realised that the room had been completely cleared,
apart from the spectator gallery around the walls. All my gyrations and extreme
high-stepping and wriggling had been in an empty room. Of course I was
embarrassed, but I got to join the audience and watch the last competitor in
action, and I have to say it still seems to be one of the funniest things I
have ever experienced. Cousin Pauline's new boyfriend, in his fashionable new shoes, keen to make a good
impression, earnestly stretching his legs to impossible angles to avoid a
broom-handle which was no longer there, all to the accompaniment of riotous approval.
Harold did a virtuoso performance as
ring-master, no doubt. Fantastic noise, tears of laughter - it is sobering to
realise that probably only about three or four of the people present are still
alive - where did all that noise and camaraderie go? Of course, there are
dozens of descendants, but they live in Australia, Singapore,
Canada - even London. I have no idea at all about my extended family now -
certainly it would be impossible to bus them all to my grannie's house - it
might not even be possible to trace who they all are. Changed times.
I also remember that everyone that took
part in the Obstacle Course that year got a prize. The bad news was that it was one of Auntie Laura's
home-made rock cakes, left over from the festive tea, and quite rightly so,
since anyone who had eaten one before would know to avoid them.
A few weeks ago I was recounting a daft old story for the benefit of the Contesse, and I enjoyed it greatly - though the Contesse did not say much about it, come to think of it.
I'll give a short version of the tale, mostly to fill out the post a bit.
The Original Tale
One Saturday morning in Spring, long ago, it seems I had something of a falling-out with my wife of the time - not an uncommon event, to be sure. On occasions like this, I sometimes used to go for a drive on my own, into the Highlands (I lived in Edinburgh at the time), to calm down. I can only add that traffic was lighter in those days - nowadays I would get stuck behind a caravan, and it would not calm me at all.
Citroen BX - this was so long ago that cars were monochrome
I remember the car I made this particular trip in - it was a Citroen BX - the second of three Citroens I owned. The reason I liked Citroens was that one of my sons used to get very travel-sick when he was a little boy, but he never got sick in a Citroen - something to do with the clever hydraulic suspension, which gave a ride like a hearse. The point is that this car dates the trip pretty accurately to 1988 or 1989.
Loch Lubnaig
On these trips I mostly used to head off towards Stirling - I was a big fan of the collection of vintage sports and racing cars at Doune - now all sold off and gone, alas - and I visited there regularly. On this occasion I headed north-west through Callander towards the Trossachs area. The A84 takes a twisty run along the shores of Loch Lubnaig - we may argue about where the Highlands really start, but this is good enough for me. It began to rain very heavily at this point, and when I got past the loch, as far as the village of Strathyre, I decided to stop for some lunch. There was a pub in the Main Street - I have always thought that Strathyre is a satisfyingly wild-sounding name anyway, so what could be better than to have a warming lunch in a Highland pub?
Strathyre Main Street (the A84) - looking south
I parked on the wide pavement outside, and went in. It was very dark. There was no-one in the bar. No log fire, nothing. As my eyes got used to the gloom, I observed that there were McEwan's tartan towel mats on the bar-top, such as I had not seen in use for maybe 10 or 15 years. I also noticed that I could smell the plumbing very distinctly. I assumed someone would appear soon, so I had a look at the old photos on the walls - grouse shoots from many years earlier, stuff like that, and I became aware that there was some evidence of life in the back room - so I knocked on a door and went in. Two locals in filthy overalls were playing pool - they seemed to have beers, so that was a good sign, I thought. When I entered they stopped playing immediately, stepped closer together, and approached me - quite aggressive - a bit like a phalanx. I backed off a pace or two.
"What are you wantin'?" asked one of them - I am ashamed to admit this, but the man had a glass eye, and I was so fixated by the idea that it must have given him problems playing pool that I was put rather off-balance. Also, alas, I wasn't quite sure if he was speaking to me.
"Er - I was looking for the landlord..."
"How? [Why?] Who are you, like?"
At this point I wasn't very sure, to be honest, but I explained that I was just a customer. The barman appeared in the room with us.
"This guy's looking for you," said Glass Eye. "He stopped us playing."
"What's the problem, then?" said the barman.
Fearing that this wasn't going very well, I went back into the bar with the barman, who took up the regulation position behind the taps.
"Are you wanting something?"
"I was wondering if I could perhaps get something to eat? Some lunch?"
"You couldn't make me a sandwich or something? Any pies?" - as I said this, the word salmonella appeared like a subtitle.
"Crisps." The barman never blinked, I noticed.
"Erm - could I have a cup of coffee?"
"Nah - the machine's broken. I can sell you a beer..."
"What have you got on draught?" I peered into the darkness.
"You can see what we've got - the taps have signs on them, with the names of the beers."
"Oh yes - sorry - can I have a half-pint of Guinness?"
"It's off."
I was suddenly quite scared - I turned on my heel and ran out. I was delighted to get back into the rain and the fresh air. So much for my Highland idyll - I turned the car round and drove straight back to Edinburgh. At least when I argued with my first wife I knew what I was getting into.
I've always thought my Strathyre Lunch could have made the basis of a good mystery story - the stranger who disappeared. The man who was ritually murdered because he asked for lunch - the police never bothered to investigate, naturally.
Subsequently
After telling the story to the Contesse, the other day, I decided I would do some Internet poking-about, and see if the pub is still open. I forgot about the matter for a couple of days, but this morning I remembered, and I find that the pub - at least nowadays - is The White Stag. It looks quite nice, in fact - I'm sure it's been under new management for decades now. While I was surfing, I came across a bad review of the place on TripAdvisor - pretty spectacularly bad, in fact - and I came across a pretty heavy response from the current owner - I attach them here, in case you find them as entertaining as I did.
Maybe my mystery story is still a possibility - I'm sure the man with the glass eye would have sorted out any trouble-makers - I hope standards have not dropped since 1988.
Of course, we didn't have scope for giving bad reviews with such high visibility then - in those days you had to look people in the eye - real or fake - and deal with them. What an impoverished world it was, now I think about it.
Here's a bit of Jimmy Shand to provide some closing music - serves you all right. Have a good New Year anyway.
Last year, because of various family problems, we didn't celebrate Christmas here at all. Today the Contesse and our son and I sat down for Christmas lunch together, and I must say it was very pleasant. Eating a cooked meal together as a family is very therapeutic, no question - also, this was the first year I can remember when I could actually have a glass of wine with lunch, since previously I have invariably been required to get some elderly relative or other back home afterwards, before their personal curfew.
Anyone who has fought battles on this table may be interested to see its peaceful use - this, of course, is why scenic flock is banned from the house...
Not a very ornate set-up today, I admit it - very subdued, but the Contesse provided an excellent meal, which I enjoyed thoroughly. Although this room was only built in 2005, it's sobering to consider the guests we have entertained here who are no longer with us - hmmm. The Ghosts of Christmas Past.
On the subject of Xmas nosh, the Contesse and I were discussing how fashions have changed - she says that, when she was a kid, they usually had chicken at Christmas - we always had a goose, as I recall. To my knowledge, I never ate turkey until I was grown up and had left home. What happened? Did we just miss out on the mainstream, or did turkey become a major Christmas institution relatively recently? Surely it can't have been implanted from Thanksgiving?
Anyway - time to get in some logs for the stove and see what's on the TV this evening. The WSS soldiers are stored away upstairs, so no hobby work for a couple of days [well, maybe a little reading].
On a daft whim I ordered this - Blu-Ray box set of the "complete" Twilight Zone, available on a special deal - though opinions vary as to how complete it is. It's OK with me - I didn't see many of the original UK telecasts - we didn't have a TV for much of that period.
Box arrived safely today. 156 shows on 32 discs, I believe. I'm sure there will be some disappointments in there, but there's plenty of scope - whenever there's a risk of my getting around to doing something useful, I have no shortage of things to distract myself...
Another example of transplanted nostalgia - a wish to revisit something I never experienced in the first place!
I decided I would find out once and for all
about the picture on the wall of my mother's room. I took a couple of photos of
it, and spent a little while playing around with Google Images.
Found it. It is a portrait painted in St
Petersburg by Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun in about 1791, the subject being Elisaveta Alexandrovna,
Baroness Stroganova, who was about 12 at the time.
When she was 16 Baroness Stroganova married Count
Nikolai Demidov, who was appointed as a Russian diplomat in Paris, during the
time of Napoleon I. They were big Napoleon fans, apparently, but the political
situation meant that they had to return to Russia. The Demidovs had two
children, but eventually separated because, it seems, he was too boring.
Elisaveta moved back to Paris, where she died in 1818.
Here's another portrait of her, in about 1804, in
Paris, by Robert Lefèvre, at a time when presumably she was still the wife of a Russian diplomat.
She is buried in the cemetery of Père Lachaise, in Paris - as am I, of course.
Sorry about this - I realise nobody could care less, though it is a nice little picture. This post is really a celebration only of
Google and Wikipedia, so it is without any merit at all, other than
commemoration of my finally finding out what that damned picture from Paris Match was, after only 40-something
years. This is not any kind of relative of my mother's of course, though she has probably eaten Beef Stroganoff
at some time in her life. That's as close as it gets. There is no point my telling my mum what I found out, because she will have no idea what I'm talking about, so it stops there.
I did get a bit distracted during my (brief)
researches - Ancien Régime portraiture is not normally my thing, but Vigée Le Brun is definitely worth a read - she's certainly more
interesting than Mme Demidova
I've had a relatively quiet week, so decided to do something about reading some of the books I've been acquiring. After some dithering about, just to be awkward, I picked on one I've had for years and years - Charles Grant's The War Game - I haven't read it for a long time, but recently I bought a couple of companion volumes produced by Charles Grant the Younger - The War Game Companion and The War Game Rules, so it seemed appropriate to have a look at all three together.
Thus I settled down with the original book, and I must say I'm really enjoying it. A nice, traditional, bottom-up development of how to play 18th Century wargames, starting from a consideration of how quickly men can march, and setting off at a comfortable, relaxed pace to cover the whole subject. Black and white photos of bounce-sticks, canister frames, huge regiments of free-standing Spencer Smith's. Brilliant. I have to say that I have no wish to play the actual game as described, but it is a very pleasant read - it's thorough, sensibly presented and written in an amiably genteel style, as is perfectly correct for its vintage. It is also, I freely admit, useful to revisit those fundamental assumptions and conventions which we have all taken for granted for so many decades.
I am interested to note that one of the more recent companion volumes discusses how the game has been adapted to use multiple bases - I must have a look at that. And then there is a discussion of campaigns. These rules have been in constant use and continuous evolution since 1971, when the original book was published, and they were already well played-in long before that, so we may safely assume that they work.
Anyway, in the meantime I'm quite happy with a glass of wine and my friendly old, non-threatening book. Very nostalgic.
***** Late Edit *****
There must be something in the wind - entirely coincidentally, I now realise that I have published this post almost simultaneously with a splendid commemoration of Young & Lawford's Blasthof Bridge game from Charge! on Wellington Man's most excellent Hinton Spieler blog- if you haven't seen it, go over there and enjoy it. ******************
I was checking out my painting queue, and - inevitably - I came back to a pile of mounted figures which are stuck until I find out how to assemble them. These figures are mostly (though not all) from Hagen Miniatures, and they are splendid little figures, but they are all the work of the demon sculptor, Massimo, who likes to produce his horses without reins.
Here's an example - this is part of a very nice set of French general staff - you can get these from Hagen. Obviously, you simply have to fit reins, running from the bridle bit, round the rider's hand(s), draped artistically, depending on the action. What could be easier?
Well, my problem is that I cannot find a method of fitting reins to the horses which works for me - I've had so many harrowing episodes trying to solve this that I have now developed something of a phobia about it - I have managed to fit about 3 horses with reins successfully over a 3 year period, and there have been a lot more than 3 failures. In my project boxes, waiting to be assembled, I have 40 Spanish cavalry, 20 Portuguese cavalry, 10 French cavalry and about 30 or 40 assorted staff and celebrity figures, and none of these is going to make any progress at all until I understand what to do about it.
I have tried fuse-wire of various thicknesses (a couple of successes, but it is a nightmare to bend to shape, and won't take a sharp curve), cotton thread (a recommendation from Hagen - it sort of works, but it's hairy, man!), copper wire, aluminium wire (assorted thicknesses from 0.56mm to 1mm), lead foil from wine bottles, nylon fishing line (2 thicknesses)...
This should be a reasonable thing to achieve, I'm hardly a craftsman, but I have many years experience of hacking figures about, drilling, reshaping - my regular re-heading jobs in 20mm have caused my wife some unease for a while now. This reins issue has me flummoxed, and no mistake.
Any sensible or wise suggestions as to how I may shape up and get on with this? All help would be most welcome. Solutions involving superglue just cause an exasperating mess - even with the official accelerator, the bloody stuff is hopeless.
I've even had a look at some online sites which describe how to tie fishing flies, which I thought might be useful, for techniques and materials, but this is getting well away from the topic. Anyone done this? A few kind words could change things quite a bit...!
Topic #2 - a Painting Story
I'm currently painting batches of Les Higgins French infantry - I've been lucky enough to get some welcome assistance with painting lately, but this work will be ongoing for a while yet. I was reminded of another occasion - many years ago - when I was painting Les Higgins Frenchmen, which makes me wonder whether my life has progressed at quite the rate it should have, but no matter.
This story is set in a flat I once had in the Marchmont area of Edinburgh, which must date it pretty accurately to about 1974, I guess. I had a phone call from my friend Allan, who was a regular wargaming opponent and buddy at that time. This was on a Friday, when I was at work. Allan was expecting a visit from an old pal, and was going out drinking with him on Saturday evening - if I was up for it, they would call for me and we could go up to Chic Murray's at Bruntsfield Links.
Fine - I was up for that. Saturday came and went, and no-one called and no-one rang. That's OK - I've been stood up before. On Sunday afternoon I was finishing off some wargames figures (the aforementioned Higginses) when the doorbell rang. It was Allan, with his friend Lammy.
Lammy was originally an Edinburgh man, but Allan had met him in Zimbabwe some years before. He now lived in Gibraltar (I think), and was back in Edinburgh for his mother's funeral. [His name, I should explain, was Lawrence, but he was called Lammy as a reference to a long-forgotten kids' radio programme called "Larry the Lamb" - I could tell you wanted to know this.]
Lammy was a bit loud for me - drink had obviously been taken already, and he was definitely a tad bumptious.
"Ah - painting...!" he roared, and he sat down at my painting desk, switched on my old Anglepoise lamp and produced a folding magnifying glass from his pocket - he began to study my paintwork.
I wasn't very comfortable with this at all - my painting was probably effective enough from the opposite side of the table, preferably in very dim light, but I was not happy at the prospect of a serious review. Allan explained that Lammy was a very keen figure painter, and regularly organised and judged painting competitions at his club in Gibraltar (or wherever it was). That didn't make me any more relaxed at all, especially when Lammy began to announce his findings...
"Hmmm.... Aha!... Hmmm... Gosh..." and then, more alarmingly, "Oh dear...."
"I take it this is a line regiment?" Lammy directed his question at Allan, who nodded to me, with his eyebrows raised. I realised that I must still be there, after all.
"Yes," I said, "they are the 76e Ligne, they are intended for the Peninsular War in about 1811."
Lammy was delighted - he tipped his head and looked at me sideways, like Hercule Poirot making an accusation. If he'd had a moustache he'd have twirled it.
"You realise, of course, that only Guard regiments had brass fittings on their muskets? The line had steel, so this is incorrect. Why did you paint brass fittings...?"
I was getting a bit hot and bothered at this point, but Allan cut in, very smoothly.
"No, it is not incorrect. The 76th Line had been on service in Martinique, as you will probably be aware, and my guess is that Tony has assumed, very reasonably, that they will have brought their muskets back with them. Of course, the muskets issued for colonial service were of superior quality and had brass fittings, like the Guard's."
"Erm - oh yes, of course..." said Lammy, and he excused himself to visit the toilet before we went up to Chic Murray's.
I was very impressed, and said to Allan, "How did you know that stuff about the French colonial service? - I just thought all the muskets had brass."
"I know next to nothing about French muskets," said Allan, "but I can bullshit with the best of them. Lammy is a very indifferent painter, to be blunt about it, and not much of an expert, so just nod and say yes when it seems appropriate. It'll be fine."
Edinburgh drinking-places of the 1970s - this was a good one - lots of after-hours darts matches, and they had a fantastic mynah bird that used to swear at the customers...
I was dredging through my "Generals & Staff" spares box, looking for some suitable French ADC figures, and I found these fellows hiding in a corner.
They obviously came from eBay - Lord knows when - they look as though they were painted by the same collector and they have obviously seen some action. Minifigs S-Range figures - they do have a certain battered charm. I recalled that the Lone S-Ranger blog once tried to identify which of these chaps was which, according to the S-Range catalogue (which means VINTAGE20MIL these days, of course), so I checked that out and the results seemed inconclusive. I'm keen not just to go round the same loop again, so though I am casually interested to identify the figures, the main excuse for this post was to feature these three old friends, as a token of my respect. It looks as if they have been together for about 50 years - they are presently resting in my spares box, but no matter.
As far as I can make out, the candidate figures are:
NS 2s - French Marshal
NS 9s - Ney
NS 10s - Murat
though it does seem surprising that Minifigs didn't attempt a more spectacular uniform for Murat. I confess I have no idea; whatever, here they are.
I'll maybe get them a gig in the Guard Division, now that I have one.
***** Late Edit *****
With thanks to Goya, here's an example of post-S-Range "Intermediate" Minifigs celebrity figure - this is Nansouty, who was FNCX5, apparently (and probably still is in the current range, but without a saddle).
And here is a uniform for Murat which appears consistent with the right hand fellow in my original photos...
My thanks to Goya and Alan and everyone who contributed!
