Fruity Fraud!

'Madame!' says King George of Fenwick pointing, as he always seems to do, 'having explained the problem facing us, what might be your suggestions, given the quite extraordinary sums that we are paying for what you have termed "professional military education", and what seems in practice to involve excessive drinking, late nights, and large payments by concerned parents?'
Lady Katherine Timsbury of Steventon considers the problem. 'Well, my lord, I'd love to provide some suggestions, but there seem to be three immediate challenges that stand in the way of me providing you with a solution to your difficulties, ' she says, gesturing.
'First, and please don't take this the wrong way, but the premises that you have allocated to this outstation of my institution of learning are, one could say, 'sub-standard', but could also be described in the vernacular as something that 'sucks the sweat off a dead man's balls'. She pauses.

There is shocked silence from both King George and Councillor Werner von Wormer. Rare are the occasions in Grand Fenwick when any woman has been heard to utter the words 'balls', 'suck', 'donkey' or 'sub-standard'.

Grand Councillor Wormer coughs. 'Well, madame, no doubt we could provide your institution with facilities more appropriate to the quality of education that you are delivering.' He looks about the premises that the three of them are in. 'But, I have to ask, is this dingy basement so much worse than the educational infrastructure that you are offering your students in London?'

Lady Timsbury considers this. 'In some respects, no: I mean, the rats are less aggressive given their high teaching load, and the catering benefits from our innovative strategy of outsourcing.'

'Outsourcing?' says George. 'Aren't there rumours of cannibalism?'

'Only amongst the slowest and poorest students, ' says Katherine reassuringly. 'And the word "cannibalism", I should say, is very triggering. The college much prefers the phrase "occasional nibbling"'.

Wormer nods. 'If you can provide some sage strategic advice to us, my lady, I'm sure that we can solve this first problem. What, then, is the second?'

Lady Timsbury gestures expansively. 'Well, you should know that our institutional focus is now concentrated upon a merger with one of our rivals.'
'A rival?' says Wormer with interest.
'Indeed', replies Lady Timsbury. 'Cranberry Agricultural College'.
King George frowns. 'Cranberry Agricultural College? But is absorbing a fruit producer into your university necessarily an effective way to bolster your credentials in professional military education?'
Lady Timsbury nods sagely. 'There are some wonderful synergies between my college's focus on warfare and Cranfield's focus on organic fruit,' she says reassuringly. 'Combined, our new institution will be able to procure the very sharpest of kiwi fruits and the most intimidating of mangoes. Trust me, the college's courses on professional military education can only benefit from the addition of the most dangerous forms of stone and citrus produce.'
'Seems reasonable,' says the king, whose main experience of dangerous fruit thus far has been in the form of excessively large melons. 'But what of the third distraction?'

Lady Timsbury shakes her head sadly. 'Bah, our courses have been badly affected by the widespread use of Ape Interpretation in the written work.'
'AI?' says Wormer. 'Those Bachscuttel Christmas monkeys get everywhere! How can you tell that our officers are availing themselves of this new and nefarious opportunity for educational exploitation?' 
Lady Katherine grimaces. 'Well, there are the crayon pictures of bananas. And also the smoking musket: the footnotes.'
'Are the monkeys making them up?' asks the king.
'No, mainly they are literally notes consisting of feet', replies Lady Timsbury. She exhibits an examination paper with a small monkey footprint at the bottom.
'Well, madam, surely crude pictures of bendy fruit and grubby footprints should make it easy to distinguish the work of small monkeys from that produced by aristocratic military officers?'
'Of course it is - the monkeys are so much better. But every so often it can be difficult to tell. I mean, look at this answer to the question "Describe the principal stages of a regular siege according to the system of Vauban. Why are parallels and saps employed?"'
'It seems, madam, to be a crude picture of a man's genitals.'
'So you would think! But if I turn it this way ...'
Wormer nods. '... possibly a banana - indeed, I see now your challenge. You could viva them. Test their detailed knowledge of military history, theory, and campaign design.'
Lady Timsbury frowns. 'It would give too much advantage to the monkeys.'
King George nods. 'What about military simulations and games of war?'

Lady Timsbury snorts. 'By no means! Such approaches have already been widely discredited in Mittelheim!'

'A knotty problem!' comments Wormer. 'But madame, our problem is significant! Despite our victory, the Bachscuttelers are now advancing. Barry-Eylund is poised energetically to pounce in the attack!'

Lady Timsbury snorts. '"Poise?" "Energetic?" "Attack?" Are you sure? Because that doesn't sound very much like him.'

'It is so' cries Wormer. 'The poor state of our army has encouraged even General Barry-Eylund to press his luck!'
'Pffft!' expostulates Katherine. 'Then get an ally to intervene! Ask the Zentans - they're expendable!'

Wormer and King George look at one another. 'Madame, I think that you might be on to something ....'

Children's Portions!

'Debauchery! Cannibalism! Dark satanic evil!' declares Minister Werner von Wormer, chief councillor to George, Emperor of all Fenwicks* (and soon, surely, also to be King of Gelderland as well).
'And then what happened at the Bachscuttel Christmas party?' asks Prince Joachim, the Emperor's son.

Wormer, the prince, and Emperor George are in one of the chambers of the palace in the Fenwickian capital Pogelswood. Though the purpose of this meeting has been to discuss solutions to the manpower crisis brought on in the army by the casualties suffered at the battle of Falkenhelle, lurid events in the Palatinate of Saukopf-Bachscuttel are always a topic of conversation.

'Yet worse excesses!' says the councillor. 'They ate Christmas puddings!'

'That English depravity!' thunders the emperor. 'What's wrong with a good German stollen?'

'"Eating puddings" sounds quite rude, father', declares the prince. In Fenwick, with its sensitivity to double entendre, the subject of desserts is second only to vegetables, and some rude fruits,+ as an innuendo bear trap.

'There's more ... they ... covered them with custard!' chokes Wormer. 'Custard covered puddings!'

'I'm not listening! I'm not listening!' says Joachin, covering his ears.

'Cease this flatulent blathering,' orders the emperor, 'for you are on the precipice of producing a prodigious pudding panic! We are here to discuss important matters of state!'

'Quite so, my lord - I apologise', says Wormer. Christmas was always a fraught time for a country in which even the discussion of stuffing was considered perilously suggestive.

'So', says the king, pointing, which he does a lot. 'Let us leave Pogelswood, and head post haste to inspect our new recruits. You say, councillor, that these new forces are of a high quality?'

'To be fair, sire, I think that I said in my report that they were of relatively high quality'.

'Relative to what?' says George, suspiciously.

'It's better if you see, sire'.

'This doesn't fill me with confidence. Very well, then. Fetch me my coach, and let us set off at once'.

The emperor points at Prince Joachim. 'But before we go, and I can't believe that as a forward-looking Enlightenment monarch I have to say this, you will have to deflate your codpiece'.

Joachim's methods of accessorising his attire have long been a sore point - if, that is, anyone in Fenwick could use the phrase 'sore point' in a groin-related context, which they can't.

The prince's latest accoutrement seems to be a kind of giant parti-coloured bag strapped to the front of his britches.

'Father, I wear this on behalf of my country! Like Isabella I of Castile, who vowed not to change her chemise until Granada was conquered, I shall wear this fashion accessory until you are King-Emperor over all of Mittelheim!'

'Part of me wants to ask why', says George to Wormer, 'but then that part gets apprehended, strapped down, and incapacitated by all of the other parts of me that really, really don't'.

Wormer looks more closely at the bag. 'It's not a Wurstburp thing is it? You know, a ... bagpipe?'

'I don't think so', says Joachim.

'Because I'm so not blowing into it', continues the councillor.

                                                                    xXx

Somewhat over an hour later, the three of them are at a training encampment for new recruits. King George doesn't look very happy.
'Does anyone else notice something about these recruits?' he asks.

'Alas, my lord', says Wormer, 'such was the scale of our losses that we have had to reduce the minimum age somewhat.

'Somewhat! Somewhat!' cries the king'. I can smell the talcum powder from here!'

'Well', says Joachim, trying to soothe his father, 'at least they look happy'.

'Of course they do!', fulminates George. 'Now they don't have to go to school!' The king turns to Wormer. 'And have you let them know about the brutal combat that lies ahead? The possibility of being scorched and maimed beyond the recognition of their own mothers?

Wormer shrugs. 'I thought I'd let them know about that after their first few battles'.

A hairy little drummer boy capers forward and, before anyone can stop him, he has stolen one of the king's boots.

'Gah!' cries George. 'And look! That miscreant drummer seems to be a little monkey!'

'He is a bit cheeky', says Joachim.

'No, I mean that he is an actual monkey. A little hairy primate'.

'Are you sure he isn't just from England?' queries the prince.

'What?'

'Because I once had an English girlfriend who looked like that'.

'Did she hang upside down from a flagpole and throw things at you?'

'No, no'.

'Well, then!'

'No, it was mainly doors rather than flagpoles. Does he like tea? Because the English like tea'.

'No. He doesn't like tea. What he likes is to steal one of my boots and then ... look! He's relieving himself in it!'

'Perhaps he's French?' says Joachim.

'He is, quite indisputably, a monkey!' shouts the king. 

Joachim shrugs. 'Interesting, father. Well, what sort?' 

'The sort that hangs upside down from a flag pole, throws bana ... I mean prescribed fruit, at me and then squeezes one out into my boot!'

George turns to Wormer.

'Councillor! You said these new troops were of a high quality! But they are just children! How can we defeat our enemies with material such as this?'

'I still maintain, sire' says Wormer defiantly, 'that these fellows are relatively better than most of the other troops in Mittelheim. I mean, they can at least dress themselves'. Wormer gives a placating gesture. 'Sire, our losses mean that we are in a bit of pickle'.

The king hops forward. 'This isn't just a pickle, Wormer; it's a full-blown apocalypse of gherkins!'

The three watch whilst a servant tries to retrieve the king's footwear. The little drummer, however, is as nimble as he is hairy, and also very capable of multi-tasking, as the boot continues to find out to its cost.

King George shakes his head. 'Wormer, we need more options than this ... nursery of nonesense. Let's see what solutions some professional military education might provide: summon Lady Timsbury of Steventon!'

Joachim snorts. 'I don't think she'll be able to grab the monkey, either'.

'For options!' hops George. 'Strategic options!' 

'Oh', says Joachim. As Wormer leaves, the prince notices something and bends down. 'Would you believe it', he says, lifting his codpiece, 'I think there might actually be a mouthpiece'.

* Though it's not clear if all of the other Fenwicks realise that George is now their suzerain. Given that the price of the postage is likely to outweigh the financial benefits of exercising his Imperial authority over the cadet branches of his realm, George has decided to wait before sending out sternly worded reminders.

+ Melons, obviously; and also bananas. The jury is still out on satsumas.

Pie Me a River!

Fecklenburg enters Rupprecht's chambers.

'It is I, sir, your chamberlain, bringing a courier with news of the latest battles!' he cries.

Prince Rupprecht, to his chamberlain's relief, seems to be commodeless and fully entrousered.

The prince looks up, startled.

'Blinking flip, chamberlain!' he cries. 'What possible reason could you have for interrupting my studies?' 

'News from the front!' Fecklenburg hesitates, turning to the courier. 'What's your name again?'

'It's Rupprecht!' says the prince.
'Not your name, sire, his'.
'But I don’t know his name, Fecklenburg: which is why you should announce it'.
'My name is Colonel Xavier Ritter von Nittedaun, my prince', says the officer.

'No, no, no!' cries Rupprecht, 'don't tell me, tell him,' he says, pointing at Fecklenburg. 'He's the one who has to introduce you so that I know who you are'. 

In the garden of good arguments against absolutist forms of government, Rupprecht was undoubtedly the largest and most swollen melon.

'My I introduce', says the chamberlain, 'Ritter Nittedaun, fresh from General Barry-Eylund's headquarters'.

The prince's eyes narrow. 'It's bad news, isn't it', he says.

The Ritter shifts nervously. 'How can you tell, my lord?' he asks.

'There are three reasons', says the Prince holding up his fingers.

'I think, sire, that that is only two fingers' says Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht nods. 'These aren't the reasons; these two fingers are just how I feel about being interrupted by you. As to the reasons, well, first, it's always bad news; second, Fecklenburg has strategically placed you as an obstacle to impede me getting at him; and third, it's always bad news'.

'My lord, I think that you repeated one of them', says the Ritter.

'Look at my fingers, Ritter', says the Prince. 'Look at my fingers'.

Rupprecht sighs. 'Well, let's have it then'. 

The courier takes despatches from his pocket, clears his throat, and then explains the long and lamentable course of the battle of Falkenhelle.

' ... and so', finishes the Ritter, 'our army has withdrawn in good order, but may, even now, be menaced by the forces of Zenta'. He finishes. There is a long silence. The colonel peers at the Prince. 'Is he dead ...'

'Chicken pie!' coughs Fecklenburg.

'Spread the gravy!' cries Rupprecht, waking up. 'Where? Who?'

'You may have rested your eyes a moment, sire' says the chamberlain.

'No, no! Not I! There was a defeat. And some death. Terrible! You see these - tears: a river of tears from my eyes!' the prince points.

'Are you sure, sire, that that isn't just perspiration from the enormous pie that you consumed for your lunch?'

'No! No! No!' cries the prince vehemently. 'Well, yes! Probably. Somewhat. But mixed in with the perspiration are tears of anguish. A military defeat!' Rupprecht winces. 'I'm numb'.

The Ritter nods. 'Indeed, sir - the awful losses'.

'No. no. no. I think that my buttocks have gone to sleep. Anyway, there must be something that we can do to arrest our decline as a military power?'

Fecklenburg nods. 'My lord, I await your suggestions - you intimated when we entered that you were studying?'

'Yes, chamberlain', replies Rupprecht. 'A book on strategy!' He fishes under his chair for a while and then flourishes a volume triumphantly.

The prince is not noted for his enthusiasm for reading. In the main, his excursions into literature begin and end with the works of the writer Sven von Hassell, one of the pen names of Jonathan Swift, and the tales of his exploits on the Lilliputian eastern front.

Fecklenburg examines the book and sighs. 'Sire. This is not a book on strategy - it is, rather, a book on strudel'.

Rupprecht snorts. 'Strategy, strudels, what's the difference - they both begin with an "s"'.

'Sire', replies Feckenburg, 'I think that the differences might quickly become apparent if one planned to rely upon delicious flaky pastry as the means to align disparate military actions towards a common objective, amidst the chaos and friction that defines the nature of war. But then', he gestures to the book, 'I cannot claim to be an expert on strudel'.

'Exactly!' snaps Rupprecht. 'You're not! And I think that there is a solution to our problems through the use of a pie!'

'Sire, what is it?' asks the Ritter.

The prince frowns. 'Well, it's a baked dish consisting of a filling enclosed by pastry, or sometimes with pastry only on the top or bottom'.

'No, my lord - the plan', says the chamberlain.

Rupprecht snorts in exasperation. 'So I must rescue our country from defeat by coming up with a solution? Fine! I can do it without any problem at all by applying my many talents! Am I the cleverest ruler in the region? Probably not. Am I the handsomest? Maybe not. Am I militarily the most experienced? No. But ….' Rupprecht pauses. 'However ...' He trails off.

'Well put, sir', says Fecklenburg . 'I shall act on your plan immediately!'

'You will?' says the prince. 'Did I actually say something planny?'

'You alluded, sire, elliptically, and no doubt intentionally, to a brilliant plan'.

'I did?'

'Why, yes. And may I commend you on the flexibility you have shown in your approach to pies, given that you have stretched your interests to embrace rolled pastry made from very thin dough wrapped around a filling and baked until crisp and flaky.'

'A what a what?' asks the Prince.

'Strudel, sire - you have literally just read a book on the topic'.

'Have I?' Rupprecht nods his head sagely. 'Well, Fecklenburg, I am not monogamous in my pie attachments. I would describe myself as "pie curious'".

'Anyways, now that my genius has delivered a plan to you, it's time for more government activity. Bring me my commode!'

'Are you sure that this is really the time ...' asks the Ritter.

'All movements are improvements, colonel'.

Fecklenburg sighs. 'I don't think that that's what they meant, my lord'.