From Fitzroy’s Private Diary (183)

I was recently asked by an acquaintance if I enjoyed warm beer.

Needless to say, I bally well don’t!

They’d seen me carousing in a public establishment where, to all intents and purposes, I seemed to be having a jolly good time. Of course, I was undercover – or as as undercover as one can get in London – seeking out information that I believed some of our stout working class colleagues had inadvertently come across. The fact that this blighter had decided to slum it for an evening, and in doing so recognised me, was pure chance. Yes, yes, I suppose I should’ve been in a rudimentary form of disguise, but I certainly didn’t expect to be recognised in the Dog and Duck. It’s a nice enough establishment, if you like that sort of thing, but not one that members of society I normally have the displeasure to associate among are liable to patronise.

On this particular occasion, I was having an excellent game of darts with two chaps. One of them had a damned good eye. I was also moderating my accent although, it has to be said, not in mimicry of theirs. Acting quite that common would have taken some serious work. I didn’t choose to be born into privilege, but I was, and it has indelibly left its mark upon me. No, I was playing the part of grocer who’d owned his own shop but, finding himself down on his luck, he’d had to sell it. He now managed one for someone else. This was still a bit above the class of people who were in there, but by buying a round of drinks (I said my horse had come in), and by being someone who had come down in the world, I quite won them over.

Then this blighter walks in. I did the only thing I could upon his entrance and walked out, before it was established in his high pitch voice that we were cronies. Later, when I bumped into him at a club, he asked me about my preference for warm beer, but by that point I was no longer eager to punch him in the face. I had, after all, obtained the information I needed moments before he entered the establishment, so all was not lost. He had, however, ruined a surprisingly enjoyable evening, but he is, at best, an utter duffer, and has no idea at all that I work for the crown.

So, I told him a lie that I was doing it for a bet. This caused him great consternation that he might have been the cause of my losing said bet. In his rather indolent world, bets are of considerable importance. In fact, I can think of more than one instance when a gentleman (to use the term loosely) has decided his marriage vows are of far less importance than winning a bet.

I told him the matter was under discussion with a third mediating party. He was so appalled by this, that he bought me an excellent dinner, after which we sank a couple of excellent bottles of red. Of course, he prattled inanely throughout, but his voice is of such a pitch that after a short time I can completely block it out, becoming no more than an irritating drone in the background. Fortunately, he is never as a loss to prattle on about his most passionate and favourite subject, himself.

I had some quite some excellent fare, but in terms of sheer enjoyment, I far preferred the company at the Dog and Duck.