'Gah!' cries Rupprecht desperately. 'Are there no end to the challenges that, as prince, I must overcome?'
His chancellor, Leopold von Fecklenburg, nods. 'You mean our inability to translate battlefield success into broader political success? To, as it were, convert strategic effect into positive strategic performance?'
Rupprecht chokes. 'No! No! No!' he cries! 'It's my britches - I can't get them on!' He pauses, noticing the look of existential disappointment and resignation on his chancellor's face. 'But obviously' the prince continues quickly, 'the strategic, ur, thingy - well, that's a problem too'.
Fecklenburg eyes his master's situation sourly. 'Are they too small, sire? Didn't you last time have them let out a little to avoid such a future difficulty? I think you did, because I remember the sail maker's guild complaining about how much canvas it required'.
'Well, they've shrunk', retorts Rupprecht truculently. 'And I just can't get to grips with them!'
The chancellor sighs. 'Sire, trousers aren't generally known to pose an insuperable and serious life challenge. Strategy, on the other hand ...'
'But this is strategy!' snorts the prince. 'How do I get my britches on! I have set my policy goals - to get my legs into my trousers; I have developed the appropriate means - some britches, and also some legs; and now, I must develop the appropriate ways of connecting the two - which is surely strategy!'
'Well, this is excellent!' says the prince happily. 'With your help, lad, I shall soon be comfortably entrousered, and ready for a day of really hard ruling'.
'Well, they've shrunk', retorts Rupprecht truculently. 'And I just can't get to grips with them!'
The chancellor sighs. 'Sire, trousers aren't generally known to pose an insuperable and serious life challenge. Strategy, on the other hand ...'
'But this is strategy!' snorts the prince. 'How do I get my britches on! I have set my policy goals - to get my legs into my trousers; I have developed the appropriate means - some britches, and also some legs; and now, I must develop the appropriate ways of connecting the two - which is surely strategy!'
Fecklenburg reflects on this. 'I would say, sire, that some would assert that what you are describing is really tactics; and still others would assert that what you are describing is really just 'Getting Up In The Morning: 101'.
Rupprecht waves at the troublesome garment. 'But I'm not an expert at this sort of thing! I have no skills in engineering, or alchemy or ... whatever it is that is required to master this challenge'.
'Sire, just give it another go! There are literally only three holes, and you have two legs. Your odds of success are quite high'.
'Well, Fecklenburg, I think that you are deliberately minimising this problem as a way of trying to imply that I am not up to the task of managing this war'.
'Sire, I know for a fact, because you gifted me one, that there are monkeys that can successfully put on a pair of breeches; and then, as it turns out, take them off, and squeeze one out in the Christmas stuffing'.
Rupprecht waves at Fecklenburg airily. 'You may have the time to hone your skills in the manipulation of breeches, but I, chancellor, have many other calls on my time. Such as ... ah ... putting on my waistcoat'.
Fecklenburg gestures. 'But couldn't you just get your valet to help you with this problem?'
'That damn idle fellow!' cries the prince. 'Run off! Left!'
'Sire, just give it another go! There are literally only three holes, and you have two legs. Your odds of success are quite high'.
'Well, Fecklenburg, I think that you are deliberately minimising this problem as a way of trying to imply that I am not up to the task of managing this war'.
'Sire, I know for a fact, because you gifted me one, that there are monkeys that can successfully put on a pair of breeches; and then, as it turns out, take them off, and squeeze one out in the Christmas stuffing'.
Rupprecht waves at Fecklenburg airily. 'You may have the time to hone your skills in the manipulation of breeches, but I, chancellor, have many other calls on my time. Such as ... ah ... putting on my waistcoat'.
Fecklenburg gestures. 'But couldn't you just get your valet to help you with this problem?'
'That damn idle fellow!' cries the prince. 'Run off! Left!'
Fecklenburg surveys the room, theatrically shading his eyes. 'Has he, my lord? Has he? He could be closer than you think'.
'Well I think he's run off - so, no he isn't'.
'What could that be under your feet, sire?' asks Fecklenburg patiently.
'What could that be under your feet, sire?' asks Fecklenburg patiently.
Rupprecht peers downwards. 'Well, bless my ample bratwurst - there he is! Why didn't you say something lad?'
'I think I did, sire', cries the serving boy piteously. 'But after the first hour, with your bunions so heavy, I gave up'.
The chancellor coughs. 'Alas, my lord, I must interrupt your newfound sense of purpose with some terrible news'.
'But what bad news could there be? We have defeated the Zentans handsomely, and I shall soon have my trousers on'.
'It's Wurstburp, my lord. Despite our best efforts, they have gone on the offensive and intend falling upon the army of Fenwick-Gelderland'.
'Is that bad, Fecklenburg?'
'Look at their military record, sire. 'Falling upon' adversaries implies, I think, some combination of predation and competence: they don't 'fall upon': they just 'fall over'. It will be a disaster, and our recent victory will be entirely cancelled out!'
Rupprecht sucks his cheeks. 'Well, what if I wore larger trousers?'
'A noble offer, my prince, but I fear it would not compensate'.
'Any suggestions, because I am out of ideas'.
Rupprecht sucks his cheeks. 'Well, what if I wore larger trousers?'
'A noble offer, my prince, but I fear it would not compensate'.
'Any suggestions, because I am out of ideas'.
'Well, sire, there is the secret plan'.
'What plan?'
'The secret one'.
'Then how would I know about it?'
'You were there, sire. It was your plan. Largely'.
'I don't remember it'.
'But we were all there: it was a large meeting of the council'.
'No, I can't remember at all'.
'A long secret meeting?'
'Nope'.
'Count Erlock-Weisse drank too much port, assaulted a wardrobe and then married one of your chairs'.
'What plan?'
'The secret one'.
'Then how would I know about it?'
'You were there, sire. It was your plan. Largely'.
'I don't remember it'.
'But we were all there: it was a large meeting of the council'.
'No, I can't remember at all'.
'A long secret meeting?'
'Nope'.
'Count Erlock-Weisse drank too much port, assaulted a wardrobe and then married one of your chairs'.
'I've got nothing'.
'You had sausage pie for lunch with creamed leeks, potato a la potato, and then a catering-size portion of trifle'.
'The 27th of April!'
'Yes, and the serving girl had a remarkably low-cut bodice'.
'One-thirty-six pm: it was a Thursday, and there were 28 people at the meeting. To be fair, the wardrobe had it coming; but I think the chair could have made a better match'.
'And you remember the plan now, sir?'
'Of course I do: magnificent, pert, and saucy!'
'That's the serving girl, sir: what about the plan?'
'I do remember that there was some resistance to my suggestions early on'.
'Because you had the map upside down sir, and it was for the wrong part of the world'.
'But then everyone later said what a good plan it was!'
'Yes, sir, because you said the plan should be whatever the council could come up with. And what we came up with was chancy'.
'Was it?'
'Dangerous, high risk, but a chance of a quite remarkable success!'
'Sounds like the serving girl again!' chortles Rupprecht, but then his face drops sadly. 'Except the bit about success. Well, Fecklenburg - let's see how the Wurstburpers do. And if they lose, you may execute the secret plan!'
Fecklenburg bows. 'A most sagacious decision, lord. And perhaps, thanks to the power of the law of averages, Wurstburp will win. Maybe the Fenwickians will forget to turn up?'
'You had sausage pie for lunch with creamed leeks, potato a la potato, and then a catering-size portion of trifle'.
'The 27th of April!'
'Yes, and the serving girl had a remarkably low-cut bodice'.
'One-thirty-six pm: it was a Thursday, and there were 28 people at the meeting. To be fair, the wardrobe had it coming; but I think the chair could have made a better match'.
'And you remember the plan now, sir?'
'Of course I do: magnificent, pert, and saucy!'
'That's the serving girl, sir: what about the plan?'
'I do remember that there was some resistance to my suggestions early on'.
'Because you had the map upside down sir, and it was for the wrong part of the world'.
'But then everyone later said what a good plan it was!'
'Yes, sir, because you said the plan should be whatever the council could come up with. And what we came up with was chancy'.
'Was it?'
'Dangerous, high risk, but a chance of a quite remarkable success!'
'Sounds like the serving girl again!' chortles Rupprecht, but then his face drops sadly. 'Except the bit about success. Well, Fecklenburg - let's see how the Wurstburpers do. And if they lose, you may execute the secret plan!'
Fecklenburg bows. 'A most sagacious decision, lord. And perhaps, thanks to the power of the law of averages, Wurstburp will win. Maybe the Fenwickians will forget to turn up?'
'That's the spirit, Fecklenburg. Now, give this lad a hand: this time I'll try my trousers without the chair'.
