titusnowl: (cup of tea and a lie-down)
Found this elsewhere, don't think I ever posted it:

I can readily imagine Psmith getting into a sort of Plunkett and Macleane style highwayman act - I shall write in the second person for ease of pronouns as otherwise there'd be an awful lot of "he"s - you may imagine that the "you" is Mike.

"I cannot bear to see you wasting the best years of your life toiling away, back bent over your work, hair gone grey with the factory-dust, grown old before your time," he would say to you as the two of you walk home from your jobs at some sort of dull grim Industrial Revolution thing.  "Two such masterminds as we ought to strike out for ourselves.  You may say what you will about the glories of Industry, Commerce, et al., but I see the utility of Entrepreneurship.  Be what you make of yourself!  I've a fool-proof plan, you see."  He explains the scheme to you with grandiose phraseology and deceptive turns of phrase, but you get the gist of it, which is that he shall attend all manner of glitzy parties, classy gambling dens and society events, ingratiating himself to the upper crust and sussing out the particularly rich and stupid, and you shall rob them.  It is unclear whether he intends to assist in the physical robbery, and you have a vague uneasy feeling that you're getting the short end of the stick, but he convinces you anyway.

All is well for a while, and it turns out that he does, in fact, assist in the physical robbery - seems to enjoy it, actually, although he acts terribly bored and blasé about the entire thing if he's called on it - and the two of you are soon enough sitting on a pretty little sum.  Yet when it all falls apart, and it inevitably does, it is you who are arrested and he who disappears without a trace, leaving you feeling more than a little bitter and abandoned.  But before you are brought to trial, the gaoler releases you.  You haven't the slightest idea why until you pass a cryer hawking broadsheets which explain in lyrical format with accompanying woodcut illustration (which makes him look far more romantically handsome than he is) that the Gentleman Highwayman has confessed all - the man they'd caught before was an innocent bystander, a mere decoy - his wild adventurous tale told in full - and he is to be hanged today.

At noon.

Which was at least twenty minutes ago, by the first watch you find.

You run full-tilt to Tyburn, where you find with a flush of relief that they'd made the mistake of asking him if he'd any last words.  You fight your way to the front of the crowd and he sees you; his bombastic speech falters for the barest instant, then he smiles at you reassuringly - never a care in this world or the next - and finishes his statements to a roar of applause from the gathered audience.

A moment later the drums start, and the world goes silent except for that dread tattoo.

He refuses the mask.

He complains to the hangman that the rope is too tight the first time he puts it on, eliciting one small, final smattering of laughter from the assembly.

He never takes his eyes off yours or loses his slight smile.

Then the drums stop, and up he goes, trying not to kick - but there's not enough starch in the world to keep an upper lip stiff through a hanging.

For a moment you're frozen, unsure of what to do.

Then you do something very brave, and somewhat heroic, and incredibly stupid.

And because the crowd, bloodthirsty as they are, are even more thirsty for mayhem and a poke in the eye of the law, it works.

Somehow you save him, and get away in the press of people, half-carrying and half-dragging him and hoping you weren't too late, but of course this is a story with a happy ending, and you weren't too late, and he is fine after a while (though not as soon as he wants you to believe).  He tells you he never doubted you for a moment - he knew if he got you sprung you'd spring him too - he'd the utmost faith in your abilities as a man of action - and he keeps going until you're red at the ears and ducking your head, though he never actually says "thank you." 

"There was," he says, "the most amazing view from up there.  I had never before appreciated how small this country is.  Far too cozy for me, I think.  We should emigrate.  There's more of a chance for advancement for the self-starting man in the Americas..."

titusnowl: (WOT)
title: A Modern Prometheus, If That's The Greek Chap I'm Thinking Of: A Romance
by: [livejournal.com profile] chikkiboo
fandom: P.G. Wodehouse
characters: Mostly original, using characters from Psmith's world, and also cameos from characters from The Saint
rated: G
for: [livejournal.com profile] all_hallows_fic
prompt: monster: Frankenstein's Monster
disclaim: The characters of Euphonia Smith and Beatrice Van Walden belong to me.  All others are the property of their respective creators.  No infringement upon the rights of P.G. Wodehouse, Leslie Charteris, Mary Shelley, or anyone else is intended.  Do not take internally.
notes: The horror element is very understated.  Also, it's about 3,600 words, so you might want to get a cup of tea to drink while you read.

It all started when I accepted that invitation to stay a few weeks in Shropshire... )
titusnowl: (Great War)
[livejournal.com profile] 3weasel : Wimsey vs. Wooster cage match!

Which wouldn't really be fair, unless Jeeves cheated (which he would), so Wimsey vs. Psmith would also be acceptable. Doesn't have the alliteration, though.

oh, what IS that trope
"old age and experience vs. youth and [something]"
although of course in a wimsey/psmith match it's age & experience vs. youth & just kind of hoping he can cry off because they go to the same club or something and why are we in this cage in the first place comrade this is all rather pointless don't you think
and wimsey vs wooster jeeves would get in on it somehow and bunter would find out and then jeeves & bunter would be fighting and then lord peter has a flashback and ends up curled up in a ball crying about the jerries
bertie in his irrepressible naiveté says something perfectly innocent that comes off as being About The War and that combined with the stress of the situation just makes poor lord peter drop his gentleman-scout's vademecum and wail about shells


Apr. 21st, 2007 06:45 pm
titusnowl: (WOT)
The idea is to create a crossover 'verse for all the 1920s/1930s literature I can possibly squeeze in there.

Going by the latest publication date for Psmith and the earliest for the Saint, the two characters are the same age.  If you allow for a few years to go by, and assume that Wodehouse knew of what he spoke when he said Psmith ended up being a Perry Mason sort of defense attorney, the type who get their clients declared not guilty by convincing the jury that somebody else who isn't even on trial was the one who really dunnit, and moreover consider that he's not likely to care whether or not his client or the alternate target actually WAS the one who dunnit so long as he wins the argument, circumstances that would lead to Simon Templar and R. Psmith (The P Is Silent As In Pterodactyl and Psychic) making each others' acquaintance readily present themselves to the active and imaginative mind.

Also in the mix are Lord Peter Wimsey, whose detectivey instincts may also lead his path to intersect the Saint's, and Bertie Wooster, who wouldn't get mixed up in anything with anyone except that he's of the right social class and a member of at least one club in common with Psmith (who's never struck me as a good candidate for the Drones, really, but it's canon).

A throwaway remark by Roger Conway in "Saint Overboard" about having spent a dreary weekend holed up at a house party in Shropshire gives us an in - Psmith is from Shropshire, and the population of that county is small enough that it wouldn't be a big stretch to say he was at the party as well.

Cameos may occur from characters in Georgette Heyer's "Blunt Instrument," since I have a copy of it to use and it's also in the same milieu.

If I'm missing anything, suggest!
titusnowl: (psmith)
"It's not very sporting of you to leave a fellow out here, exposed to the wind and the rain and the rockets' red glare, you know.  Why, I could be shot!  What, then, will the ladies of Europe think of Bavarian hospitality?  What of honour?  What of love for your fellow man in times of crisis?  It will be on posters and broadsheets throughout God's creation: the Germans have not got the decency to let a man into a hole in the ground.  Now, really, do you wish me to be shot?  It's not that it would bother me overmuch, but I'd hate to make my dear old mother cry."

"If ve let you in, vill you close your mouth?"

"My dear sir -- may I call you Wilhelm?  No?  Hans, then?  My dearest Hans, I will be the very soul of silence.  My voice shall be stilled, and churchmice use me as an example for the improvement and education of their children in after-life.  This is a bit of a step, isn't it?  A very cozy place you have here, I must say.  All the comforts of home, and -- tea!"

... "I say, are you playing poker?  Deal me in, my fine Fritzy friends.  There's nothing as diverting as a game of cards.  Why, if one simply imagines the shells to be bread-rolls, this could be an evening at the club.  Call."

... "I am not a greedy man.  I have no desire to ruin you.  To that end, let us compromise.  I shall continue to bet real cash, and you may stake the spikes from your helmets."

... "If you are determined to wager your sidearm, sir, far be it from me to refuse such a gallant gesture.  I see your bet, and raise you one Webley revolver."

... "Don't you think the stakes are getting a bit high now?  After all, I'd scarcely be able to walk off with my winnings in my pockets at this point.  Army bags are voluminous enough above the knee, but into them two field guns and a well-dug trench will never fit."

... "Shall we have another cup of tea while we await the arrival of your illustrious general?"

... "Do remember to print my name correctly in the headlines.  P-S-M-I-T-H.  The P is silent, as in pshrimp."

Wily Officer Won Entire War In Poker Match
Germans Astounded
Winning Hand Revealed To Be Two of Clubs and Used Gum Wrapper

titusnowl: (Default)
"Sergeant, it is a sad day for the Empire.  The nation is in mourning.  Brave and valourous men are we all, but look from face to face, and you will see tears glimmering in the eye of all and sundry.  We are out of tea."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Yes, indeed, Sergeant.  The stock is depleted.  The bag itself has been soaked and wrung out, yielding its all.  Reinforcements are forthcoming, they say, but when?  And for how long?  We must not plan for the future, Sergeant.  We must look to today.  And today we are in great and dreadful need of the precious leaf.  Who knows whether we can hold out, in its lack?"

"I could not say, sir."

"Exactly, Sergeant.  You have, as always, touched it.  It is, therefore, imperative that supplies be replenished with all haste.  I have endeavoured to coerce Comrade -- Lieutenant Jackson to take his Sopwith on an urgent mission to Ceylon with this in mind, but he has declined -- do not take his refusal to be a slight upon his courage; his gallantry and fortitude know no bounds; yet he states (and who am I to argue with a flying ace on such mechanical matters?) that the south of India is beyond his aircraft's flying range.  I am thus left without the assistance of my foremost Man of Action.  Therefore, I must take matters into my own hands."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Indeed. Have the water hot upon my return, and perhaps liberate a bit of jam.  I shall see you shortly, Sergeant."


"I have always felt that the oddest thing about No Man's Land is that, while neither side lays claim to it (hence the descriptive, yet evocative, name), both feel a need to defend it as violently as possible.  There is no comparison.  I have known there to be vacant lots in towns and cities, where no houses were, and no one person claimed them.  Yet very rarely do the neighbors on opposing sides of the lot feel the need to shoot at any child who wanders into it hoping to set up a cricket pitch..."
titusnowl: (psmith)
I finally got a copy of a Psmith book!  It's "Leave It to Psmith," courtesy of the Irving Public Library and the inter-library loan system. 

One night I'm going to go up to the serigraphy studio at A&M with Justin (he's taking a course in screen-printing) and print me up some of Psmith's advertising posters and perhaps a t-shirt with the text on the back.  (I have the proper ink for fabric screening, but will need to use Justin's stuff to get good quality text using their photosensitive screenmaking stuff - the stuff I've been doing at home has been freehanded with Elmer's glue and tulle.)

Psmith Will Help You
Psmith Is Ready For Anything
Someone To Manage Your Affairs?
Someone To Handle Your Business?
Someone To Take The Dog For A Run?
Someone To Assassinate Your Aunt?

titusnowl: (psmith)
Psmith mentions gin and ginger beer in one of the books about him, and I can testify that (assuming ginger beer and ginger ale are the same thing) it is fuckin' delish.
titusnowl: (1790s naval reading)
I do wish our library had a copy of Mike & Psmith, because as deloinkful as it is to read it on the internet, nothing (to me) beats the sensation of curling up with a real, honest-to-goodness dead-tree book clasped in the hands, with smeary ink in a too-small font to be blearily gazed upon at 3 in the morning with not enough lights on in the house.

"I've just become a socialist. It's a great scheme. You ought to be one. You work for the equal distribution of property, and start by collaring all you can and sitting on it. "


titusnowl: (Default)
titus n. owl

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