The Lawnmower of Death Visits the Lord Spencer

After I struggled out of bed at some ungodly hour on Saturday 16 th June, Di bundled me into the car for a pleasant trip to Northamptonshire. I personally have little recollection of the journey as I was sleeping off the effects of Jon and Claire’s splendid reception the night before.

After much snoring, I arrived at the campsite at Althorp House to be greeted by the horde of Tillier’s who had flocked to this awe-inspiring event.

Rich and I were taken on a swift Jaguar-mounted recce of the battlefield, which turned out to be almost featureless, with a gentle slope up from our prospective position. While some Rupert’s were erecting what would be our battlefield camp, Rich went in search of material to fortify the same. Alas, two small twigs were not going to do the job, so he reluctantly abandoned the fruitless task of trying to prop them up together.

Corps racing to our aid (actually Steve, Kate and Omar). With the promise of imminent reinforcement, we delayed our departure for a few minutes but obviously their Shermans were being held up by dug-in antitank weapons somewhere on the M1.

After some confusion (during which, in response to Rupert’s worries about the disparity in numbers, Pleb had offered them a couple of our lads), we obtained three extra musketeers and a nearly-new Carr’s pikeman (James). We comprised the entire Parliament army.

We marched to the battlefield, with pickets being sent out and the rest of us settled down to “rest” in the bivouac supplied by our hosts. My tent had a cowpat in it, and our two officers used the command tent as a latrine, despite hitting heads on the low ceiling.

Our mighty forces (all 16 of them) were roused by the efforts of our pickets to see a rather worrying sight. Far off in the distance were the enemy – six cavalry and somewhere in the region of fifty foot.

The musket marched out to engage in some (very) long-distance shooting while the pike awaited the cavalry onslaught.

Having repulsed the equines, we then awaited the approach of the infantry as they slowly came down the hill. Muskets fired and worried looks were exchanged. The pike block was arranged in 3 ranks, with the back rank of 2 being the widest (Pleb and Cutie).

A token pointy, pointy resulted in the usual massive taking of casualties by the Bluecoats (i.e. none), and then we blocked up for the inevitable – eight against twenty. Di and Jane, behind the block, quickly got out from our expected path. Close, closest, crunch! Spectators’ mouths dropped open in astonishment – the Lawnmower of Death rolled straight over the pretty Blue Flowers! In order to stem the mighty tide of the Mean, Green Shoving Machine, Rupert’s tried disrupting its formation by inserting two different Rupert’s into the middle of our block for each push, and by attacking when we were held at Charge for Horse, but nothing worked. The only pushes that any Rupert’s won were when they were inserted unceremoniously into the middle of our block. Lying on the ground became their new pike posture. Apparently things were nearly as bad for their musket.

Eventually, we broke and fled back to the camp, which I think must have surprised the spectators somewhat. We kindly allowed our hosts to massacre us amongst the tents and were resurrected in the usual way. As we formed up to march off, grinning and laughing, Rupert’s pike were downcast and dispirited.

We arrive back at the campsite to be met by 30 Corps, who had not encountered impregnable enemy defences or impassable natural obstacles as surmised, but rather had stopped for a bit of nosh at the motorway services. The pike retired to the vicinity of Darren’s car to start the drinking and revelling in deserved warm glow of glory. It was only 3pm.

Three hours later the drinking and basking was still going strong, when preparations had to be made for the evening. Di and I had booked a hotel due to the reports from the Met Office about a monsoon, and so went to check in and scout the two pubs in the area. Instead of waiting for our report (and transport capability) everyone else set off for the nearest of the hostelries. Di and I discovered that the further of the pubs was fully booked food-wise so we set off to return as a light drizzle started. One mile later the forecast deluge was in full swing. We arrived at the other pub almost simultaneously with the lead elements of our column, each weighed down with several extra pounds of precipitation.

Tales were exchanged of encounters with killer cows; Kate squeezed a few litres of water from her jumper; submerged rodents were mentioned.

We were told by the surly staff that this pub, too, was incapable of serving us food. Scouting other pubs in the area was equally fruitless so we all returned disconsolately to the campsite and a rainy barbeque promised by Rupert’s.

Purdie confirmed our suspicions that the Bluecoats, who had previously been impressive on the battlefield, “had not had a good day”, even if she exaggerated somewhat in claiming we had only 4 pikemen while they had over 200 at the top of a near-vertical cliff. Cutie’s pathetic attempt to drink a bottle of chardonnay faster than Pleb ended in debacle as he had barely sipped a glass-worth of wine when Paul had finished. He did however have the last laugh as Paul cannot remember anything from that point on and was rather poorly later.

The next day dawned and hangovers were nursed. The musket and pike were reinforced (the latter by two). Rupert’s also increased their numbers and they had to endure double drill in an effort to stamp out the Green Menace and punish their pike for its dismal performance; officers were cashiered and men were flogged.

The battle started pretty much as before, but the now 10-man Tillier’s block was confronted with 23 Rupert’s determined to crush us under their evil jackboots. Today they would not insert any of their pike into our block; today they would try every trick in the book to wipe the smiles of our faces.

Suffice it to say that things did not go to plan (their plan, that is). The results of double drill were even worse than the day before, with Rupert’s pikemen being flung all over the battlefield as Tillier’s Ten rounded off a glorious weekend with a total destruction of their opponents.

We marched off after the battle in the same buoyant mood as on Saturday, while our opponents just limped off in ones and twos with much flinging down of helmets and muttering. Darren’s car was again the scene of drinking, basking and much gloating. Some Rupert’s even cam over to congratulate us on our invincibility.

So if at a muster you see some Tillier’s pikemen with sly, smug smiles on their face, or a small group talking of glory (possibly gloating), you can be sure that they are members of the Excellent Eight or Tremendous Ten. Buy them a beer (each!)

Baiiiiiii the Gloaty