A Shocking Story...

What Ho fellow Motorists and bon-vivants!

Yes, tis your olde Scribe, returned from a spell abroad. Well, actually a spell because of a broad, if I were to say using the vulgar American vernacular But the less said of that the better, especially since the matter is still in court and her father is a rather large imposing man. I was suspicious of him as a bit of a villain when he eyed me up and asked if I’d like a career in concrete…hmmm.

Anyway, it’s a tonic to be back and opening up the Mayfair flat again. Ollie Raggs. my faithful batman cum mechanic siphoned off some petrol from the neighbours - some chap named Barnato - and had the Singer running like a top. It wasn’t long before I could indulge in a little heavy foot work down the North Circular just like old times.

Well, not long after my arrival, the telephonic device started jangling off the hook and I got a call from Nora, wife of my old school mate Percival Blatter. ‘Old Slack Bladder’ we used to call him in school for reasons better left between him and his chamber pot. Anyway, Nora had heard the roar of the Singer as Olly and I had been scaring the milk horse one morning and simply had to speak to me. Of course the sound of a tuned OHC engine is a terrible aphrodisiac for the fair sex…a Singer engine in particular will get them running from all over.

Anyhoo, Nora was actually extremely distressed and could she talk to me about a very private matter. I was Percy’s oldest school chum and she could trust me.

Now Percey was never an outdoors type and I could never cajole him into purchasing a sports job, but he did liken to a very nice Singer Bantam Coupe. It suited Nora too and she drove it most of the time, which is where the problem started.

Seems she left the flat one morning to motor out to the country for a brunch meeting with the society hens. As you’d expect, the Singer started on the button and she drove off with carefree abandon. Well, stone me, if not a mile down the road than the Singer splutters to a halt! Infuriated she tried to restart it but it would barely muster a clicking noise. So there was nothing for it but to walk back to the flat and phone for assistance.

Upon entering the flat, she noticed Percy was nowhere to be seen, but she could hear the strains of ‘You’re My Kind of Girl’ being hummed slightly out of tune. Making her way upstairs she was shocked to find her husband wearing her panties and garters mincing in front of the mirror, complete in makeup and ruby lips. She ran screaming from the room in tears.

And now here we were in the Harrod’s tea room sharing a pot of Earl Grey, she dabbing her hankie to moist eyes...what did I think she should do!?

I was equally shocked and dismayed at what I had heard... for a start, I d replace the battery on the Singer and give it a jolly good service!

Silly Gal!

- Sir Nigel

A Meeting of The Men...

By Jove, Here's a band of happy looking Singer Chappies!

Yes, it's the real Men In White, LEMG's finest, meeting up at a jolly jaunt in Hudson, Quebec. That's in the Colonies, I'm told. Canada or some such place. It was the Hudson British Car Day on Sunday, May 28th.

Looks like their enjoying those wonderful Singer cars, eh?

See more at www.singercarenthusiasts.blogspot.com
and at www.singersuperten.blogspot.com

As you were Chaps! Well Done!

Sir Nigel

A Crash Course...

Wot Ho Fellow Motorists!

Been a bit busy don'tcher know, what with all the fine specimens of the fairer sex that the old Singer attracts...nudge nudge! The birds are always wanting a ride.

Anyway, I happened to get a dingle from old Ollie Raggs the other day from down Brooklands way, where Ollie had stashed one of my other Singers down in the back of the Campbell sheds. I was a bit annoyed at the idea that the great man might find it and take offense, but Ollie assured me that it was the blue one that went like a bird and he'd never know the difference. Besides, he was always at sea these days. I wasn't convinced so I dashed down to take command. A riding drop is always a good way to decide an argument with the hired help.

Well, dammed me if that blighter Von Drips doesn't turn up to play with that silly Auto-whatsit thingie again. Fresh from playing golf and wearing an off-the-peg suit if you please! I mean, there used to be standards! I was wearing Saville Row, of course. Von Drips fired up that gormless V12 monster and blew smuts all over my jacket. Bugger! How rude can these foreigners get!

So, that was it! I was going to have words with him! I asked Ollie if the Baron knew English. Indeed he did...he had been at Oxford on the debating team. Had never been beaten evidently. He also spoke five languages and always outsmarted his adversaries.

Dammed and blast! He was obviously a master debator and a cunning linguist!

I sent Ollie in to give him what for and the last thing I remember seeing was the flash of a golf club and then a rather girly sqweak. Luckily a nice G&T in the clubhouse restored my composure and a bag of ice reduced Ollie's swelling.

Bah!

A Domestic Diversion...

Wot Ho Men!

Took the Singer up to the old family seat to see Pater and Mater and do a little shooting. She ran like a bird, ‘comme normale’ and I smoked a few MG’s on the old North Circular. Rotten hard cheese for them, eh?

“Scrotum’, our old wrinkled family retainer greeted me at the door, He’s still hanging around…must be 90 by now, old dear.

Mater is getting a bit doddery and has trouble with her water works, but can still dole out a good smack to the hired help when required. Pater was about somewhere. Mater thought there might have been a burglary in the servant’s quarters as dear old Pater had muttered something about breaking in the third floor maid. The biggest surprise was learning that sis has joined the Navy. Still, she always did say she had a taste for seamen.

I bid them Ta Ta on the Sunday and made my way to meet “Skids” down at the Brooklands Clubhouse for a few ‘Ginnies’. I was appalled to find that Frenchman driver, Pierre La Fey, lounging in my favourite chair. He was in a ‘sarkie’ mood and smelling of onions. “Oyez, loook at dat!”, he roared, spying my rather spiffy League of Extraordinary Motoring Gentlemen blazer crest, “Eee drives a Sangaar, but eet says Le MG!”

Well, blue blazes and bl**dy ding-dongs! That had me seeing red, make no mistake, and I threatened to send my Batman, Raggs, over to give the blighter a jolly good thrashing!

He must have seen the steely resolve in my eyes and knew better than to tackle with an Englishman’s Batman because he lurched off giving me a rude gesture and muttering something.

What is a ‘Chapeau Anglais’ anyway?

Motor On!

Sir Nigel

Fresh Air & Fun...

Dear Members,

I say! Now that the season is upon us, many of our Bally ‘Men in White’ have taken to the Tarmacadam for some fresh air and fun in their Singer motor cars...and for a bit of bird pulling, no doubt!

Spotted recently was our old friend, Vivian ‘Bashful’ Basingstoke. Notice Viv is showing us his best side…he’s known to be a bit of a shy cove, perhaps on account of his hair lip.

But that reminds one that he came by the moniker ‘Bashful’ for a totally different reason, however, and his very smart Singer Le Mans is shown here fresh from the coach repairers. Bashful is as Bashful does and the poor Singer has often had its features rearranged by Viv’s, dare we say, ‘relaxed’ driving style.

He’s shown here taking photographic evidence of his motors condition for the purposes of his insurance adjuster.

As you were!

Sir Nigel

Old School Chums...

I was dead chuffed to get a missive on our esteemed blog from fellow LEMG member Major Farting-Greatly, another chum from the old days at boarding school. The lads of today are such girl's blouses. Regular beatings never did either of us any harm!

Another dear Motoring friend is Sir 'Skidmark' Boddington-Tayler, ( shown here) a member of my Gentlemen's club in Mayfair and a prime example of 'The Right Crowd'. His nickname comes not from his peculiar driving style, but more as a result of his poor personal hygiene at school, much to the detriment of his elastised underpants.

Mind you, when we were up at Oxford, 'Skidmark' cut a swathe through the ladies as well as the Geranium beds, such was his driving acumen. Silly blighter drove an MG, which might have explained his perchance for sliding amid the flowers, until he saw the light and purchased a bally good Singer car instead. Drew more birds after that too!

Whilst dining at my club with old B-T, I raised the nasty about that rotter Von Drips. 'Skidmark' was of the opinion I should have slapped old VD with my driving glove and demanded satisfaction...not one of those nancy modern string-back jobs, mind you, but a proper Englishman's full leather gauntlet, the kind a Gentleman wears.

I told 'Skids' that the bally blighter was a good sight taller than me and that I had my reading glasses on at the time, so he agreed that retiring to the Barbara Cartland room for a 'Ginnies' was probably the best course of action. "After all", SM pointed out, "He will always be foreign, you know!"

Bally Right!

Sir Nigel

A Day At The Races....

Oh, the burdens of Office!

As my first duty, I made a trip down to Brooklands, my motor racing course, for a spot of heavy right foot in the Singer Sports. The Singer is a proper job, make no mistake, and will pull the birds right out of the trees. The handbrake is especially well situated for a wandering hand when the right lady is aboard.

A quick pit pass made out of a Guiness label got me down to the action without mishap and I spied my Batman, Ollie Raggs and the Singer out by the Shell pagoda. Ollie had been siphoning fuel like a good lad and the motor was warm and ready.

Well, Dammed, Blast and H-E-Double Hockey Sticks, if the Clerk of the Course doesn’t come over and mark my card! He’d given my time to some rum foreign chappie named Von Drips.

This Jerry had some monster motor that was in for testing. You could tell that they were foreign and knew nothing about proper engineering because the silly blighters had put the engine in the back! It was obviously very unreliable because they’d made the motor with 16 cylinders to make sure at least some of them were working. Not bright bulbs, then, these Jerries. Couldn’t even write the name on the front…just a bunch of bally circles! I mean really!

The Clerk of the Course advised me it was an 'Auto Union'… sounded very commie trade union to me…and that ‘slower cars’ had to stay off the course for the duration of the test.

The Singer…slower!? Bloody cheek!

Sir Nigel

A Message From Our Honourary President...

I say, What a wheeze!

I mean, there I am marking up a deck of cards at my club last night before setting off for a game of Rummie, when ‘Stinker’ Symthe comes running up all red faced and spluttering. The boys had de-bagged him again in front of the chambermaid and he had been left holding his assets. It was obvious he hadn’t inherited much. “There’s a ‘phone call for you” he muttered, “Something about a free honourary membership to some bally motor club.”

Well, that made the old ears stand up…my favourite words…’free’…and ‘motor’.

So I forgot about the Rummie, which was difficult because I was paired with Lady Tottington, or ‘Hot Tottie’ as the boys call her. Grappling with the telephonic speaking device, I divined from the crackle at the other end that the highly esteemed League of Extraordinary Motoring Gentlemen were in need of my services and were offering all the Ginnies I could drink. Thinking selflessly of others as I do, I could not refuse.

Motor On Esteemed Colleagues!

Sir Nigel Ware-Armitage III, OBE CBE, CAD

Time, Gentlemen, Please!

I say, jolly good show this! Whot-ho!

Finally, a place where a bally chap can just sit back, sip a G&T and discuss his motor with a bunch of other chaps.

Of course, he has to drive a Singer car...not some foreign motor or a common MG thingie.

Now, the League has rules and all that rot...and...as the Men in White, racing overalls, ascot and good breeding are required, of course.

It's the right crowd and no crowding as we used to say...

Now, where's my man???

Jeeves! Ginnies please!