An account of Jeeves' trip to Las Vegas latterly in the service of Mr tikay.

[Jeeves]

I slept well. I awoke at 8am to the sound of Mr Restis shooting clays in his back garden, strapped to real pigeons. A ruthless man, and I was on my guard.

I walked downstairs to see Mrs Restis breakfasting on her own in the amply proportioned conservatory. I had thought that both younger Resti would still be in bed being young people fond  no doubt of lieing in but I heard a sound from a room opposite the study.

I gently pushed the door open a little, careful not to disturb the occupant of the room. The sight through the crack disturbed me someone. There, in monogrammed silk pyjamas stood the spitting image of Angelos from Shooting Stars. Belting out a tune on Playstation Karaoke

"You want me to come over, I got an excuse
I might be holding your hand, but I'm holding it loose
Go to talk then we choke its like our necks in a noose
Avoid the obvious,we should be facing the truth

Start to think it could be fizzling out
Kinda' shocked because I never really had any doubts
Look into your eyes, imagine life without ya

And the love kick starts again
Starts again"

As he swayed across the room he was in his element, clearly at one with the music but clearly not an Example of a budding Baron of the Underworld.

I clicked the door shut and joined the Lady of the House for Houmous and Tarasamalata on Cornflakes, an oddly beguiling combination. At that moment Mr Restis came in, sixteen pigeons and one Paparazzi slung over his shoulders. He hung them in the pantry and beckoned me to him.

"Right Jeeves. I need to warn you about Costantine. Likes "The Arts" " He nudged me conspiratorially and winked, no doubt expecting me to understand what he meant.

He carried on

"Season tickets for Legally Blonde in the West End. Saw Hairspray twelve times. We Will Rock you wallpaper in his bedroom"

I began to understand. This conversation plus my earlier sighting and the Sister's prior laughter were painting a picture, it had to be said.

He took me through to the Living Room, and without knocking we walked in on the son busy manicuring his nails. On a nearby laptop the poker forum was open alongside a second tab in which a Google search was being conducted for "Mantis Birmingham Identity Hendon Mob Results Poker e-Harmony Compatability".

Cos stood upright quickly, head bowed in the direction of his father. His pyjamas began to slip and he pulled them up like a recalcitrant six year old. That was clearly the wrong moment for the Playstation backing track to KickStart again.

"What the fuck is that son?" the father enquired. To be fair, he could have been asking about the Pyjamas. Or the manicuring. However he wasn't and the son knew it

"I have got an evening job, Dad" Half expecting the father to be proud of him, but knowing in his heart of hearts this was as likely as him winning a nine table session of Pot Limit Omaha Six Max on Full Tilt Poker.

"Go on" said the father

"I am going to be lead singer in an Example tribute band, Dad, and I am practicing his greatest hit"

The father's face was like thunder. It then appeared that extreme stress led him to resort to Mediterraean patois once again

"Examples? Fucking Examples? I got you fuckings jobs in leadings International Media Agencies and you want to fucks around in tributes bands? Costantine you are a disgrace to the family. You should be readyings yourselves for life as boss of leading International crime syndicate not fucking around on poker forums and Wests Ends Musicals and fucking Playstations. Get a fucking grips mans"

I did not know where to look. The son looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him up. Something to swallow him up anyway, if the father was right.

I asked for a few minutes alone with the distraught son, to see if I get a connection with him, on which life's valuable lessons could be based and built upon.

The father agreed "Of course Jeeves, take as long as you like"

Once the door had been slammed I put a fatherly hand on the young man's shoulder and he looked up, eyes moist and expression hand-dog.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked, his abrupt front kicking in. "Not fucking Mantis are you? Nah your sentences are too short for that"

"Quite sir" I replied, keen to emolliate in line with what I suspected was the young man's core character beneath the aggression he showed so readily to the outside world.

I carried on. "Your father has high expectations of you doesn't he Cos? You feel he doesn't emphathise with your love of musical theatre. You lash out at all and sundry because of this. Perhaps you would work with me to solve this conundrum?"

He looked at me and scanned the paper sheet of references I gave to him

He talked to himself

"tikay. Hmmm. NoFlopsHomer. Karabiner. Dingdell. TightEnd. Compo. I know all these guys. He's worked for all of them. Hmmmmm. Basket cases the lot of them"

He looked at me. I proferred another suggestion

"Perhaps sir, we could do a duet on "No air"?. I'll be Chris Brown, you can be Jordin Sparks. Is that on your Playstation disc"

He nodded, as excited as a puppy presented with his first large bone.

As we swayed in time and sang " Tell me how I'm supposed to breathe with No air" I knew that the road to becoming a Drugs Overlord began here. It would no doubt be a rocky journey, but in time he could become a real man instead of the simpering wreck I saw before me.    

[boldie]

Wow, I didn't know Cos was this camp...I mean, obv I knew he was slightly ginger beer but didn't know it was this bad.

[tikay]

WRITE THAT BOOK JEEVES.

[celtic]

Mr Jeeves, Whilst you are at the Resti Residence. Can you see if you can find a copy of the young greek's birth certificate. He has been telling the forum he is only 23, but i unearthed this picture of him on facebook with another famous blonde. Yes, that really is Phil 'Snatiramas' Cooklin. It was taken circa 1990 so it casts a huge cloud over his claims he is only 23.

TIA.

[Chompy]

LOL, sure is Snat.
BBC Library photo of a young Dave-Lee Travis and Simon Bates imo.

[kinboshi]

Mr Jeeves, Whilst you are at the Resti Residence. Can you see if you can find a copy of the young greek's birth certificate. He has been telling the forum he is only 23, but i unearthed this picture of him on facebook with another famous blonde. Yes, that really is Phil 'Snatiramas' Cooklin. It was taken circa 1990 so it casts a huge cloud over his claims he is only 23.

TIA.

That really is them!

[Jeeves]

I was due at the Days Inn Heathrow at 7pm, but it was already nearly Monday lunchtime and I was still enconsced in Dulwich Village.

A matter had developed that was taking all my mediation skills to resolve.

A friend of the young Restis had contacted me via a mutual acquaintance on my new Desire phone. He introduced himself

"Clown here".

An odd introduction I felt, but nothing now surprised me in the sphere of the blonde Poker forum and its members.

"Hello Clown" I replied, feeling strange. "Who are you and how can I help?"

"Bipkin Bopkin, furniture's the game. Top quality plywood flatpack crap for you and your family. Want some?"

I replied in the negative and was about to hang up at this unsolicited sales call when he went down another tack

"Got a problem Jeeves. Best friends with your new charge. Done his dough. Need to tell him. Can you help?"

I felt the need to put him straight

"Well he's not my charge yet Mr Bopkin, but tell me the story and I will see if I can help. I must warn you that young Mr Restis has had a hard day, and is currently looking through his "Radio One Disc Jockeys of the late 1980s" autograph book. Finds it very soothing. Especially the Simon Bates one with three kisses"

"OK Jeeves, well you know how young Restis did the family's money to Blatchley? Got it back in the end."

"Yes yes" I replied as news of that episode had reached Las Vegas while I was there

"Well Jeeves, he then gave the money to me for safe keeping"

"He did what?!!" I was incredulous

"Yes Jeeves, gave me the £15,000 to look after as he thought he would waste it if it were left to him"

In one sense I had to admire young Mr Restis' self awareness at his own capability to be a complete idiot, but in another I was appallled that he would give his money out to a third party so soon after his close escape from knee-capping at the hands of his own father

Bopkin continued

"Only problem is, I went to play poker at Gala Nottingham with EvilPie, got pissed as per bloody usual, emptied my bank account and did the lot at £25 a box on blackjack. £23,000 I did"

I was silent, with a terrible sense of foreboding

"Further problem Jeeves is I only remembered this morning that I had his money with my money and now the lot has gone. I'll be ok, EvilPie owes me tons. Restis though, he's stuffed. Even worse than stuffed as while he can't go to Vegas that Kinboshi fella can. Bad beat that"

I did not know quite what to say. Fortunately the verbose Bopkin carried on for me

"So, Jeeves, I need you to tell him for me? OK? Bye. One last thing, if he wants me I'll be in Mustique on my private Caribbean Island"

Another predicament had landed in my lap. I rose the wide staircase and knocked on young Master's door. I entered and there young Restis was, colouring in a Bruno Brookes and Peter Powell commenorative sticker book.

He looked up, at peace with the world for the first time in ages it seemed.

I asked him to sit next to me on the bed. He bounded over far too fast for me to feel comfortable. I told him the sorry tale. He began to weep, inconsolable tears of frustration cascading down his cheeks.

"Why me Jeeves, Why me?" he wailed

"Well sir" I replied, "next time don't be so trusting with your money. We'll sort it out with the International Federation of Clowns arbitration service in the morning. Until then just relax please. I have to go to Heathrow now..."

He interrupted

"Oh Jeeves, I've just sent some scruffy celtic fella £200 online as Hopkin grimmed him for that a fortnight ago too and I felt sorry for him"

"Well sir, we'll add that to the debt we send to the Clown federation. Perhaps they'll pay you in tickets to the Big Top in perpetuity, in lieu of the debt?"

and with that, his little innocent face so often hidden behind a veil of snarling rudeness, lit up. He begin to see a path ahead.

[Laxie]

 

Poor Cos

[Jeeves]

Tuesday. Part One


I'd left the Resti family, and decided to play the long game and wait for Mr tikay to call. Call he did not. Day after day I waited, slumbering until noon and ekeing out my meagre Jobseekers allowance over the course of the rest of the day. Manservant positions appeared in short supply at the Crystal Palace Job centre, and I was beginning to contemplate a change in milieu, perhaps to travel or to finally get that 9-to-5 job I had resisted ever since my late father had trainined me in the art of looking after gentlemen of a certain distinction. However I had ended up with Floppy, Mr tikay and young Resti. Something had gone wrong in my script of life.

Just as I was contemplating on Monday afternoon my little used HTC desire rang.

"Jeeves, is that you?"

The timbre of Estuary English was unmistakeable. He had found me again! My heart skipped a beat and I sat bolt upright in my Lazy Boy.

"Jeeves, bit of a dilemna. May be you can help?"

I hesitated, not wanting to appear over-keen

"w-w-why yes, sir" I stuttered, suddenly nerves had overtaken me, a path out of this inactivity and sadness appeared suddenly possible.

"Can you tell me the current meaning of an Invitation which states "Dress - Black Tie" please?"

I adjusted my undercarriage, as such a question producing a stirring in that area absent for so long. He continued

"I want to attend wearing a regular black suit, white shirt, & tie, ideally not black. Am I going be the odd one out if I do?
Serious question, I've managed a lifetime almost free of these "stiff" evenings, but this one is not really swerve-able. Thanks"

A few minutes later and I had managed to completely deflate my former master's mood by insisting that he would have to wear a tuxedo and bow tie, together with Dress Shirt.

Thirty-Seven minutes of questions followed. What is a tuxedo? What is a dress-shirt? What is the nicest train station on the Piccadilly line?

Eventually, I brought the vacillation to an end and asked the question that we both knew was coming from the moment he rang

"Sir, would you like me to help you in the run up to your official evening? Perhaps accompany you t..."

I got that far before a shout came from the other end of the Phone

"YES!!! YES!!!"

We arranged to meet the following morning at the Heathrow Hotel. From there I would shadow my new and former Master to the Metropole on Edgware Road for a large poker torunament, from there to Marks and Spencer at Marble Arch to purchase his Black Tie Outfit and thence back to Heathrow. Repeat and Rinse on Thursday, only ending the day at the official function.

I was in Nirvana. So rare was it to be in the service of a 63 year old man so clueless about the ways of the refined world. It would be like tending to an 18 year old again, teaching him to tie a bow tie for the first time, pressing black studs through his dress shirt, affixing the velvety cummerbund around his waist....I was literally faint with excitement.

 
 

[pleno1]

moarrrrrrrr.

[Lucky]

Tuesday. Part One

I was in Nirvana.   So rare was it to be in the service of a 63 year old man so clueless about the ways of the refined world.
 

And I thought Glenn was in his 40's !

[Laxie]

Yaaaaay   

Welcome back Jeeves!!!   

[Jeeves]

Wednesday. Part Two

The man was a shadow of his former self. Unencumbered now of the fleshy jowls of impending old age, in front of me in the lobby of the Days Inn Heathrow stood my former and now new Master.

He was all business

"Jeeves, the Piccadilly Line awaits. Onward"

and he strode off towards Hatton Cross, myself the regulation and much missed three steps behind and one step to the left.

The 45 minutes up to Central London passed in a Blur.

Station by station the running commentary was ceaseless. So much so that by the time we passed Boston Manor the carriage was empty except for a man called Craig wearing a Sky Poker, analysis by nits for fish, hoodie shouting "tikay you are the best, please be on my table at the take on tikay Omahartigan double your money Primo bounty hunter tonight!!"

tikay was unfazed

"Get them all the time Jeeves, price of fame. Stardom. There's one lady called...." but unfortunately he was drowned out as we entered the Acton line split section.

Still, he carried on after a short pause

"Acton Town, Jeeves. Acton Town station was opened as Mill Hill Park on 1 July 1879 by the Metropolitan District Railway (now the District line, Jeeves) on its extension from Turnham Green to Ealing Broadway. On 1 May 1883 the MDR opened a branch from Acton Town to the now defunct Hounslow Town station, that branch developed into the Heathrow branch"

I should have been bored, but it was nice to be in active employment again and anyway, I reckoned he'd spill the beans about the  "one lady called..." if I stayed in his good books for long enough.   

Eventually we alighted and strode to the Metropole, where he met up with his crew. In a most surreal moment I was measuring my Master's inside leg while he was simultaneously interviewing Daniel Negraneau who was simultaneously moaning about his WSOP-E bad beat to Victoria Coren who was simultaneously telling me to find the connection between the four words "Toby" "Runs" "Lewis" and "Good". Apparently she does that sort of thing all the time, living her life via the medium of "Only Connect".

Interviews completed, a nervous Master and I found ourselves in Marks and Spencer in the Gentlemen's Formal section. Master had resisted my blandishments to head for Saville Row and instead we found ourselves in the fitting room, either side of a skimpy curtain. Him complaining

"Why couldn't I have worn a normal black suit?"

and me replying

"Class and deportment sir, how's the crotch?"

An hour and several fittings later, we had both purchased the necessary items and survived the entreaties of a large matronly sales assistant called Gladys at the tills who kept shouting to her friends

"Look, its that old man off the telly!"

and saying to tikay

"Last of the Summer Wine isn't it sir? Lovely programme, such a shame you got axed. Awards ceremony tonight sir?"

I perhaps should not have whispered

"No, he'd only lose this one to Coren as well" a little bit loudly, as tikay shot a dagger-like look across at me, but I found it difficult to resist.

So, "home" to Heathrow. Me to iron a dress shirt in the ante-chamber, tikay to take-on-himself online before we repeated the journey again on the Thursday


Tomorrow, news of the Founders Evening event itself....

[Chompy]

Outstanding work as ever Jeeves

[tikay]

Awesome!

PS - Radisson Edwardian, Heathrow, if you please.

PS - you have a BUSY weekend ahead, trust me. Non-stop hither & thither from now until the middle of next week.