The Hog in the 21th Century E-Book

Robert King

• Herausgeber: Batsford
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 181

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Bridge players all over the world are familiar with Victor Mollo's incredible cast of characters. Now this new collection of stories from "The Griffins Club" follows the sage of Mollo's menagerie, as Hideous Hog and Rueful Rabbit bewitch, bother, and bewilder their opponents.

Leseprobe

The Hog in the 21st Century

Phillip and Robert King

First published 1999

© Phillip and Robert King 1999

ISBN 0 7134 8297 4

eISBN 978-1-849942-17-1

Published as eBook in the United Kingdom in 2014 by Batsford

1 Gower Street

London

WC1E 6HD

An imprint of Pavilion Books Company Ltd

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

CONTENTS

Introductions

The Cast

1. The Rabbit Takes Charge

2. A Three-Way Finesse

3. The Walrus Loses on Points

4. Sophia the Siren

5. The Witch of Ararat

6. An Ideal Husband

7. The Distinguished Bridge Author

8. All Round Brilliance

9. The Game’s the Thing

10. The Birthday Boy

11. World Rankings

12. Things That Go Bump in the Night

13. A New Ball Game

14. The Grudge Match

15. The Hog Takes the Lead

16. A Melodramatic Rescue

17. Swings and Roundabouts

18. Crime and Punishment

19. A Lesson for the Toucan

20. Ordeal by Fire

21. The Glittering Prizes

22. The Loose Ends

23. The Chimes at Midnight

INTRODUCTION

Victor Mollo’s famous Menagerie was conceived nearly forty years ago. Its wildly eccentric inhabitants belonged to a bridge club called The Griffins. As a test for prospective members, Victor devised a catechism:

“Is bridge a medium through which you like to express yourself? Do the cards, leaving the humdrum world behind, take you to a place where you can be bold and brilliant, resolute and resourceful, clever, calculating and cunning? Does playing well give you a glow of satisfaction? Does playing badly make you squirm?”

Four yesses proved that you were at heart a Griffin. Then came the prospectus:

“The members of this exclusive club differ from lesser mortals only in being more colourful, more vibrant, more clearly defined in all their traits, good and bad. They have the same frailties, commit the same follies and are just as comic in their vanity and their pretensions as the rest of the human race.”

In including them in the human race he was doing them less than justice. Most Griffins proudly bear the name of the animals or birds they resemble, which has the delicious effect of making them more than human.

Occasionally, we meet visitors who actually work for a living; keyhole manufacturers, morticians, and unpublished authors. But we suspect that the only occupation of the members is to contribute to the government’s unemployment statistics, which they do with great distinction. This is as it should be, for few of them are even remotely employable.

Yet all the Griffins seem to be comfortably off. They can afford not only to lose large sums to the Hideous Hog, but to keep him and themselves on a diet of Beluga caviar, Colchester oysters and Aylesbury ducklings. Their champagne is never Tesco’s own label, and their port is invariably of a noble vintage.

They do not appear to have much of a life away from the club. Occasionally they are interrupted by a telephone call so urgent that it causes them to play a correct card. They have been known to leave a rubber unfinished, in order to be on time for an engagement two hours previously. They sometimes mention cousins, nephews and aunts, but the Griffins themselves appear to be unmarried, unattached and unencumbered, which, as we get to know them, becomes unsurprising.

One thing is surprising. The more we learn about their fads and foibles, the fonder of them we grow. This is a tribute to Victor Mollo’s skill, for he wished it so. Even the fearsome Secretary Bird has a tiny nook in our affections, and many a tear will be shed when he finally joins the Great Laws and Ethics Committee in the Sky.

But of course he never will; like all the Griffins, he is immune to the ravages of time, character development and carbon dating. He and they will still be around to celebrate the fourth millennium.

If the Devil does not desert me, I shall await the Millennium in pleasurable anticipation. My addictions will see me through.

Victor Mollo

Confessions of an Addict

THE CAST

H.H.

A Rabelaisian creation, H.H. has a gargantuan appetite for high-stake bridge and high calorie nourishment. Easily the best player in the club, he is regarded as a towering genius, and cannot understand why he is so grossly underrated. Aptly named the Hideous Hog, he modestly prefers to be known by his initials.

Papa

What Papa lacks in success, he makes up for in brilliance, and is never afraid to admit it. A superb and subtle technician, he has been known to false card with a singleton, and hopes one day to develop the knack of false-carding with a void. His other ambition is to convince the other Griffins that the Hog is the club’s second best player.

Karapet

Karapet Djoulikyan, the Free Armenian, is the unluckiest mortal since the man who bet ten thousand shekels on Goliath. He always expects the worst and is rarely disappointed. Nothing can shake his indomitable will to lose, and nothing can empty a room faster than his hard luck stories.

R.R.

In contrast, the Rueful Rabbit is supernaturally lucky. He used to think of himself as the second worst player on the planet ... until he met the Toucan. Seldom capable of playing the right card until trick thirteen, he is rescued time and again by his Guardian Angel, who is the best in the business. Whenever R.R. perpetrates a fatuous misplay, the G.A. transforms it into a masterstroke.

T.T.

On a scale of 0-10, Timothy the Toucan scores minus twelve for arrogance. Desperately seeking affection, he ingratiates himself by apologising for every mistake before he makes it. He never misses a chance to congratulate his partners when they bring off a coup which is beyond his ability, such as a finesse.

W.W.

A retired accountant since early youth, Walter the Walrus believes that making a contract without the regulation values is a pernicious form of grand larceny. He claims the Milton Work Point Count as one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World. Signalling also makes the list. At number nine.

S.B.

The Emeritus Professor of Bio-Sophistry, alias the Secretary Bird, is the club’s self-appointed judge, jury and executioner. His approach to bridge is based on two unshakeable beliefs:

1. Observing the laws of the game is more important than playing it.

2. Judge Jeffries was a wimp.

C.C.

If he lives to be a hundred, as many members fear he will, Colin the Corgi will always be known as the facetious young man from Oxbridge, and a future bridge master. In his ability to make lesser players feel insignificant he has already achieved expert status.

Ch.Ch.

An incurable chatterbox, Charlie the Chimp loves to discuss every hand except the one he is playing. When he cannot win by sharp practice or downright chicanery, he is capable of reaching the dizzy heights of mediocrity, from which he can look down on the Rabbit, the Toucan and the Walrus.

O.O

As the Griffins’ Senior Kibitzer, Oscar the Owl has acquired awesome powers. Young kibitzers come from far and wide to learn their craft under his stern gaze. Had the demands of his career allowed him time to play the game, he might have attained master rank.

P.P.

Peregrine the Penguin is Oscar’s opposite number at the Unicorns, and it was under his tutorship that Walter the Walrus became the player he is. Despite this, Peregrine is always a respected visitor to the Griffins.

M.M.

Molly the Mule, one of the stars of the all female Mermaids Club, was the first member of the stronger sex to become a regular visitor to the Griffins. Radiating goodwill to all humankind except the male half, she makes up for her undistinguished play by her invincibility in the post-mortem.

D.D.

Dolly the Dove’s gentle manner and soft cooing voice when she doubles her opponents into game make her one of the most sought after opponents in the Western Hemisphere. For nine consecutive years she was voted the Mermaids’ most promising newcomer.

The Squirrel

The Squirrel is Mrs Victor Mollo, who used to “wear the pencil, wield the scissors and read the proofs with a rod of iron” for her husband. She does not appear in this book, but the fact that it has been published is due to her kindness and encouragement.

Chapter 1

The Rabbit Takes Charge

As he gazed proudly at his new Turkish Rolex, the Rueful Rabbit noticed that there were only seventy-two shopping days to the Millennium. Never having witnessed the dawn of a new century, he wondered if any of his fellow Griffins had done so.

The most likely candidate was Oscar the Owl, who was rumoured to be in his eighties, but it took the Rabbit only five minutes to calculate that to live during three consecutive centuries, a man would have to be at least ninety-two.

Trembling with excitement, the Rabbit realised that for the first time in his undistinguished life, he was on an equal footing with the Hog, Papa and the other eminent Griffins: at midnight on the 31st December, they too would be taking a step into the unknown.

How could he exploit this unprecedented lack of disadvantage? After a few minutes of fruitless pondering, he wandered into the card room, hoping for inspiration.

R.R. was a poor kibitzer. Even when playing a contract, his attention span was woefully brief: when watching the game it was minuscule. His demeanour was more rueful than ever as he sat down to watch his friend, Timothy the Toucan, attempt to bring home a four heart contract.

A student would have learned very little from the play, but a great deal about the exhilarating nature of bridge with the Griffins.

East/West Game. Dealer South.

South

West

North

East

1

Pass

2

Pass

2

Pass

2

Pass

3

Pass

4

Dble

All Pass

The Hog’s double was tactical. T.T.’s dummy play was usually worth a trick to the defence. When he was rattled, it was worth two or three. The Emeritus Professor of Bio-Sophistry, unaffectionately known as the Secretary Bird, led the Q, and Timothy thanked Colin the Corgi warmly. When the dummy went down, he thanked him again.

“More than I deserve, partner,” he said. “But I wish you were playing it.”

“So does he,” muttered the Hog, in a whisper so inaudible that it produced a peal of laughter from only three tables.

The Toucan captured the queen with his ace and, playing at the top of his form, avoided making an error until trick two, when, tabling a trump with trembling fingers, he suddenly noticed that it was the ace. “I’m so sorry,” he said, desperately attempting to withdraw it.

“Too late,” snapped S.B., covering sadistically with his five. “The rules of the game are quite explicit. It’s a pity more people do not trouble to learn them.”

“Come, Professor,” remonstrated H.H. “Surely you wouldn’t wish to take advantage of a trivial lapse by an old friend. Take back your ace, Timothy.”

“Respect for the law is the foundation of civilised society,” pontificated S.B., his pince-nez gleaming perilously, while wild tufts of hair protruded at right-angles from his ears.

“Oh dear,” cried Timothy. “I didn’t mean to cause ... Play the king please, Colin.”

When T.T. continued with the queen and ten of hearts, H.H., fuming impotently, took the trick and returned a spade to declarer’s king. The Toucan captured, drew the outstanding trump, and agonised over his next move. Suddenly he remembered an expert safety play. He advanced a diamond and rose with dummy’s ace, in case the Hog held a singleton queen.

It was only then that he saw that there was no way of returning to hand to repeat the finesse. Halfway through his abject apology to the Corgi, he bounced in his seat when the Hog’s Q appeared, and began an equally abject apology to his opponents as he gathered in two doubled overtricks.

The Hog was choleric with rage. His return of a spade, rather than the obvious club, had been masterly. By removing the Toucan’s entry, he had prevented declarer from testing diamonds in the normal fashion. With no way of getting back to hand, a sane declarer would have finessed the first round of diamonds. But why blame the defenceless Timothy when there was a juicier victim awaiting sentence? He glared venomously at S.B.

“Why didn’t you let Timothy take back his ace and commit felo de se?” he jeered. “He would have led a trump to the king, returned to hand with a spade, played off two top trumps and discovered the bad news. Now, when he plays on diamonds I could ruff the second round and we would cash a spade and two clubs.”

S.B. hissed in several arcane languages. “Better to fail through upholding the law than to succeed by flouting it,” he pontificated. “It would be like profiting from a crime.”

“Well, if you’re so set against crime, Professor, kindly stop stabbing your partner in the back.”

“He can’t help it,” quipped Colin the Corgi, who had been savouring every moment of the conflict. “S.B. is a legend in his own knifetime.”

The Rabbit sat in rapt admiration. He had not understood a single word of the Hog’s analysis, but he knew that Timothy, aided by S.B., had proved yet again that the humblest player could topple the mightiest master, just as David had toppled Goliath, or George Washington had toppled his father’s cherry tree. Suddenly he knew how the Griffins should mark the Millennium. He squared his round shoulders and prepared for Leadership.

Oozing purpose from every pore, he made his way to the bar, where Oscar was enjoying a pre-prandial sherry. “Oscar,” he proclaimed, “we must do something about the Millennium.”

“I agree,” blinked the Senior Kibitzer. “But I’m afraid it’s too late to stop it.”

It was also too late to stop the Rabbit. “You could be right, Oscar. But people are bringing out all sorts of lists, like the Hundred Best U.S. Presidents, and I thought, er, that is to say, it occurred to me ...”

“If you are suggesting that we compile a list of the Hundred Best Played Hands, the Hog has already done so,” stated O.O. “Including the dates on which he played them.”

“No, Oscar,” protested the Rabbit. “What I meant was... well, we’re always hearing about the Hog and Papa and Colin, and how clever they are, and they’re quite right to tell us so, so we don’t mind them winning our money, but where would they be without Timothy or Walter or the rest of us, er ... ordinary players?”

“My dear R.R.,” soothed the Owl. “Your many admirers describe your unique talents with a variety of epithets, not all of them unprintable, but never as ordinary. Yet I take your point. History honours Archimedes for leaping out of his bath, reciting his Principle, and crying ‘Eureka!’ But it ignores that unsung host of nonentities who only cried ‘Where’s the soap?’ The Millennium provides us with an opportunity to redress the balance. We shall reward Molly the Mule, S.B., Charlie the Chimp –”

Pieces of Eight

His eloquence was deflated by the arrival of Colin the Corgi, the facetious young man from Oxbridge, and a perennially rising star of the London bridge firmament. He possessed the essential expert qualities of acid wit, when ridiculing the errors of his partners, and deep compassion, when excusing his own. By now, Colin’s future was well behind him, but his past was full of rich promise.

“I’m glad you’re here, C.C.,” said Oscar. “To celebrate the Millennium R.R. has generously offered to donate glittering prizes for remarkable card play.”

“Really?” The Corgi raised a cynical eyebrow. “That is the most disinterested suggestion I have heard since the Hog sponsored a slimmer of the month award.”

The Rabbit had never been able to penetrate the subtle layers of the Corgi’s fourth form humour. Why shouldn’t H.H. sponsor a slimming competition? The less everyone else consumed, the more there would be for him. He pictured the Hog, gobbling up other people’s canapés and drinks as though they were doubled overtricks ...

“Actually R.R. has envisaged some more unusual contests.” The Owl beamed paternally at the blushing Rabbit. “He suggests that we recognise qualities other than that overrated virtue, skill.”

“That’s it exactly!” The Rabbit bubbled with excitement. He was a modest fellow, with every reason to be so, but he knew that when skill was removed from the equation, he could slug toe-to-toe with the best. “Flair, for example,” he ventured hopefully.

“Of course,” sniffed Colin. “Flair is your euphemism for sheer blind luck. Did you tell Oscar about your bizarre spade game yesterday?”

“Yes,” lied the Owl, but he was a microsecond too late. C.C. had already begun the inevitable sketch:

Game All. Dealer North.

West

North

East

South

1

Pass

1

Pass

2NT

Pass

4

All Pass

“A glance at the diagram will tell you why the Hog was unable to right-side the contract,” said the Corgi. “So imagine yourself at the helm in four spades, Oscar. Naturally, I found the annoying lead of a trump, so I defy you to make ten tricks.”

Oscar bristled. Due to a split vote by the committee, it was not a capital offence to defy the Senior Kibitzer. The maximum penalty was a stiff term of penal solitude, during which nobody would kibitz, or discuss hands with, the offender. But the kindly Owl chose the marginally lesser punishment of telling C.C. how to make the contract.

“I will win in dummy,” he smiled, noting the vigorous nod of approval from the Rabbit. “Then I will wait stoically for the Toucan’s discard.”

The Rabbit gasped. “How do you know he discarded?” he squeaked.

“If trumps break two-two, the contract is Rab- I mean foolproof,” declared the Owl. “If they are three-one, I have an excellent chance of setting up diamonds. And Colin is too much of a gentleman to insult me with a simple problem.” He studied the hand for a full minute, then bowed his head in defeat.

“Giving up so soon?” the Corgi taunted him.

“My only real hope is to ruff a heart on the table,” retorted Oscar. “Continuing to assume the worst, I expect to find you with the heart king and the club ace, convenient entries to remove dummy’s trumps.”

“Correct,” nodded the Corgi sadistically.

“Yet evidently R.R. succeeded,” mused the Owl. “But how?”

The Rabbit was acutely embarrassed. It seemed churlish to shame a man who had kibitzed a million deals and played nearly a dozen, but that was one of the penalties of leadership.

“I, er, thought I’d start on the clubs,” he began. “Of course I’m not such a clever card reader as you, so I was hoping that Timothy had the ace, but Colin had it, and he played a second trump. Then I called for dummy’s small heart. I thought Timothy might go up with the king, if he had it, thinking I had the queen, if he didn’t have it, only I was wrong on both counts, and Colin cleverly overtook the ten with his king and drew dummy’s last trump.”

As R.R. paused for breath and a therapeutic gulp of cherry brandy, Oscar’s mind raced, but he couldn’t spot a winning line, even when the Corgi had filled in the East/West cards:

“Where was I?” wondered the Rabbit. “Oh, yes, well I got back to hand with the queen of clubs, and led out a lot of trumps – I forget how many, but I know I had one left. I’ve seen the Hog rattle out long suits, and everyone seems to make mistakes – it’s easy enough to do, you know, I sometimes make them myself. And they must have made some this time, because I only had nine tricks, yet I made ten.”

Sketching rapidly, C.C. smoothly took up the narrative. “This was the position after the fifth trump had been played,” he showed them.

“After crossing to the ace of diamonds, R.R. applied all twelve of his brain cells to the problem of calculating whether the eight of clubs was good. When he decided to lead it, the Toucan was in deadly peril, though I’m sure he didn’t know it. If he threw a diamond, a half-awake declarer would ruff and set up a diamond trick in dummy, and even R.R., with his legendary, er, flair ... Anyway, Timothy randomly chose the apparently lesser evil of relinquishing the jack of hearts.”

“I must remember to congratulate him,” cried the Rabbit. “I had no idea he’d worked it out so cleverly.”

Oscar began to see the light. He blinked his round amber eyes twice. He was about to blink them a third time when the Corgi, who deplored physical excess, came to his rescue.

“R.R. groaned when I won with my club nine,” resumed Colin. “But I had nothing to lead but those small hearts. Back on the table with the ace, he led a diamond and ruffed. And I’ll say this for him: he had the grace to blush when his eight of hearts won the last trick.”

He waited to allow a coterie of Oscar’s trainees, who had been kibitzing the conversation, to burst into spontaneous applause. O.O. raised an imperious finger, the acclamation ceased, and the Rabbit’s blush stopped halfway up his long pointed ears.”

“The Hog described it as an elementary combination trump squeeze,” commented the Corgi. “I call it sheer, blind luck.”1

“Well, perhaps I’m not as bad as certain people think I am,” claimed R.R. “If my eight of clubs didn’t turn out to be a winner, it was only fair that my eight of hearts did. So I was playing with the odds.”