Lady Annabel Goldsmith Sectioned For Own Safety

By now many members will have heard about the drama-filled events that have engulfed the club this week. Our new corporate HQ behind the portaloo in the Wheatsheaf Car Park has been besieged by the relentless paparazzi of the BBC, CNN, John Craven’s Newsround and the Old Windsor Weekly Bugle.

It is time to set the story straight. Let us begin by stating for the record that Lady Annabel Goldsmith, our esteemed founding member and honorary president, is alive, conscious and slowly returning to her original colour. Members can breathe a sigh of relief that Lady Annabel, the last in a precious line of endangered aristocrats, is still with us and may one day even be ready to breed again. What a dream it would be to have Windsor Great Park once more teeming with shimmering flocks of Goldsmiths. To once again hear their distinctive ‘Mwah mwah’ mating call echo over the lake would be the culmination of everything the Perambulation Club stands for.

That is the good news, but there is tragedy too. Lady Annabel has been indefinitely sectioned and is confined in St Mungo’s Home for the Prematurely Deranged, Sunninghill East. We recognise that solitary confinement is a necessary precaution to protect both others and Lady Annabel herself from the effects of her inhuman merciless outbursts, but the tightened straitjacket seems overly cautious. And the ball gag and electric shock therapy are just gratuitous. (We have been asked to point out by Lady Annabel that her strait jacket is from Bottega Veneta’s ‘insanité’ collection and accessorises perfectly with the Londonderry Diamonds. This encapsulates the Lady Annabel we know and love; even at times of great crisis she is able to concentrate on the issues that matter).

The decision to section Lady Annabel was taken with regret, but we were left with no choice after we were unable to control her appetite for cheap cocktail sausages, which was leading to her rooting through bins hours after her curfew, desperate for scraps of processed pork to munch on. The final straw came yesterday when she was discovered at 4 am by horrified park rangers, lying spreadeagled under a gnarled oak tree, surrounded by Ginster’s wrappers and pie crumbs. As a consequence, our Sumo Wrestlers will go hungry today.

Lady Annabel was admitted to St Mungo’s yesterday and indefinitely suspended from all Perambulation Club activities. In line with club procedure, this was confirmed when Lady Annabel was defriended on Facebook by a man with a beard.

Hopefully this means we have seen the last of her frenzied rampages, careering around the suburbs of South London spitting out chipolatas and shouting PISH! at innocent bystanders. The staff at St Mungo’s assure us they will be able to help Her Ladyship, although she is certainly one of the worst cases they have ever seen.

Lady Annabel was, of course, the driving force behind the club’s popular Early Morning Sumo Perambulation and Tramp Patrol, and it is with great regret that we have to cancel these patrols. The dangers of attacks from zombies, weasels and Richard Hills are too great without the brute strength and street-fighting skills of Lady Annabel to protect our valuable sumo.

The Club wishes Lady Annabel a speedy recovery and hopes she will soon be ready to patrol again, half-eaten pork pie and zombie-seeking missile launcher in hand.

Adieu, Maréchal grandiose, adieu.

It is with great regret that the Revolutionary Junta announce the voluntary relinquishing of position by that powerhouse of perambulation and latter-day Boudicca, the Grand Marshal. The recent media portrayal of our beloved Marshal as a power-hungry cake-crazed tyrant has proven too much for our noble Marshal who has never wanted anything but to serve the members of the Perambulation Club. The Marshal’s remorseless quest for high-quality cheese has enriched our society in so many ways, not least with the discovery that rubbery pub cheddar is ideal for force-feeding geese, as well as aiding their buoyancy.

However, following the recent anarchic demonstrations among the rowdier sumo wrestlers, the Grand Marshal has decided to step down. The Grand Marshal’s controversial and almost entirely counterproductive ‘kettling’ technique to contain the hooligan sumo in Blacknest Car Park has led to a media frenzy that we are just not equipped to deal with.

Furthermore, The Grand Marshal maintains that the Battenberg Allocation Programme, held by many to be at the root cause of many Sumo complaints, is neither corrupt nor inefficient. One need only see the amount of pink and yellow crumbs that cascade out of a sumo nappy on Changing Day to appreciate the force of the Marshal’s argument.

Neither is it true that the Grand Marshal has been cutting the Battenberg with lesser cakes in order to increase profits. The Marshal’s Battenberg is Grade ‘A’ Colombian Battenberg, and we have the rosettes to prove it. Would Lady Annabel Goldsmith endorse it otherwise as the main staple foodstuff for her flying monkeys? Would Chaka Demus & Pliers have permanently dyed themselves pink and yellow if they weren’t committed to the Battenberg? Actually, they probably wouldn’t if they’d read the instructions on the dye properly, but that is to miss the point.

The United Nations, as always puppets controlled by the far-reaching talons and limitless resources of Richard Hills and the Old Windsor Townswomen’s Guild, have massively over-reacted to our little local difficulty by declaring a no-fly zone over the park. The flying monkeys have been grounded, Lady Annabel Goldsmith is distraught and whacked out on French Martinis, and sumo are running amok and akimbo. The repair bill for potholes may cause the Royal Wedding to be cancelled to save funds. We hope those good friends of the club, Wills & Kate, can forgive us.

The situation, although not of our making, is untenable. Regime change is demanded by those lickspittles and toadies at the UN. As a consequence, The Grand Marshal, the scourge of Zombies and peerless Chief Musketeer, is selflessly going into exile to save the club. Asylum has been granted by the chap that looks after the wheely-bins round the back of the YMCA in Staines, and the Grand Marshal will be moving in with an honour guard of hand-picked, loyal tramps from 4th May. Observant Club Members will of course recognise the date as the anniversary of our glorious declaration of independence for the citizens, badgers, monocled stoats, fat geese, itinerant alcoholics, sumo wrestlers, flying monkeys, and B-list celebrities of Virginia Water.

No new Grand Marshal will be appointed, as they are boots that cannot be filled. Not least due to the irreparable damage caused to the ceremonial ferret-skin boots by the Marshal’s cankles. We’ll never get our money back from TK Maxx for them now.

On 4th May, the force-fed geese will be unshackled, the tramps will wear black cotton gloves, the clocks stopped and the pianos silenced.

La Maréchal grandiose est fini. Vive la Maréchal grandiose!

Ferrets refuse to be constrained by archaic notions of gender

In our continuing quest to restore the club's finances after our catastrophic attempt to corner the Hungarian pineapple market on the advice of that gadabout and charlatan Vince Cable (how did he ever end up as the nation's favourite financial seer extolling sage advice through his shit-eating grin? It's just three short years since he was hanging around the back of the Perambulation Club, near the performing elephants' pen, trying to sell hooky watches and unlocked phones to impressionable youths. How does that qualify anyone to pronounce on the state of the nation's finances? He's a rubbish dancer and all. He can never get the ripple right when he tapdances), we have decided to move into a hitherto untapped field; potentially lucrative, possibly groundbreaking, undoubtedly ill-considered.
On a recent perambulation, a shivering, weeping, ferret stopped the club in its tracks. Ferrets, as we all know, are predominantly tropical in origin, and their natural home is leaping from log to log to lilypad in the mangrove swamps of Upper Venezuela. Ferrets do not thrive in cold and damp climates, and their whiskers and tails can freeze solid, incapacitating them and rendering them vulnerable to predators. Luckily, the ferret's natural enemy, the Roly-Poly Bird, very rarely visits the lakeside area of the Great Park as they cannot negotiate the gates from the car park.
So, the ferret of Virginia Water has little to fear from the Roly-Poly Bird. The ferret of Virginia Water fears only the cold. A frost-hardened ferret balanced precariously on stalactitic tail and stalagmitic whiskers is a tragic sight and, as with all tragedies, causes the club to stop what it is doing and consider how a profit can be made from others' misery. Any ferret far from his humid, crocodile-infested homeland needs an effective source of heat or a method of heat-retention. The former is not conducive to mobility, and would require the ferret to remain near the source and unable to roam freely and leap from log to log to lilypad. This would make any ferret pine. We did consider installing a combi boiler and joining British Gas' WebSaver 7 dual fuel tariff, but the quote we received for the 4.5 mile radiator we would require was more prohibitive than expected. All in all, it is far better to allow the ferret to retain heat through layers of insulation that do not restrict his capering and/or gambolling. Traditionally, ferrets have been clad in tartan body-warmers for this purpose, as a reminder of their great love of the music of the Bay City Rollers. The opening lines of 'Bye Bye Baby' can mesmerise and swiftly placate the bloodthirstiest of ferrets. This knowledge has saved the club from serious injury more than once, and any member should bear this in mind if attacked by roused ferrets within easy access of the seminal 'Once Upon a Star' album and a suitable means of amplification. Please note this does not apply to agitated polecats, who are likely to be even more incensed by this.
What does this mean to the Club? There is a gap in the market. Intensive Market Research carried out by the Chuckle Brothers reveals teenage ferrets are just as fashion-conscious as their human contemporaries, and are not at all likely to be constrained by narrow-minded abstract notions of gender. If the Chuckle Brothers are right, and who would bet otherwise, there is a significant community of chic trans-gender ferrets out there just crying out for high-quality leisurewear. None of the major Fashion Houses - Missoni, Marc Jacobs, or George by Asda - are addressing this need. Incredibly, since Coco Chanel's 'Furet Nouveau' collection in 1948, cross-dressing rodents have been absent from the major fashion shows. Except Jean-Paul Gaultier, of course. This is where the Club comes in. Our new 'Priscilla, Queen of the Ferrets' range provides everything the ferret-about-town could need, a slick meeting of chic sports gear and glamour. Our Sue Sylvester-inspired diamante-studded hooded warm-up jacket would make any ferret the talk of the warren. Or wherever the fuck it is that ferrets live.

Initiation Rite Clarification (Number 1 in a series of 326)

Many of our members have been keen to learn more about the Club's traditional initiation rites. For example,

'The need for the 'Now That's What I Call Music! 23' CD and the plastic spoons is self-evident, but why the fingerless gloves?'

or

'Am I allowed to hopscotch across the pontoon bridge, or does it have to be eleven consecutive forward rolls?'

or

'Why would Len Goodman do that to a copy of the National Trust Handbook? Surely that invalidates both his membership and his lucrative contract with the BBC?'

So, to aid our members, the Club Ritual, Tradition, and National Trust Handbook-related Legal Affairs Committee thought it wise to explain more about the Club's history and initiation rites.

1. Why it has to be clockwise

The Club was founded long before clocks were invented in the early 1950's. Consequently, the Perambulation Club had no concept of direction when they first began to perambulate. Members would head off in random directions causing confusion, collisions and traumatising the red squirrels, zebra, herring, and woolly mammoths that were the main inhabitants of the Great Park at the time. Traumatised herring in particular can take months of specialist therapy and group sessions before they are ready to ride any form of self-propelled transport, let alone the unicycle they require in the breeding season.

One of the Club's founders, Magnus Barelegs, the King of Norway, was particularly concerned by this, not least because he numbered several herring among his immediate family. Even today a herring is 17th in line to the Norwegian Throne, situated between a-ha and Princess Michael of Kent. His Majesty the King decreed that all Perambulations should begin at the point of the park furthest from Trondheim* and follow the migration pattern of the noble herring. Thanks to King Magnus' empathy, vision, and a monarch's ability to make arbitrary and senseless declarations and have them taken seriously, the direction of the perambulation was enshrined for ever more. Many centuries later, Sir Isaac Newton took a break from his job buffing apples ready for the Royal Table, spotted the Perambulation Club in full, magnificently synchronised herring formation, and immediately invented time.

Hopefully members can now fully appreciate the significance of the clockwise section of the initiation ceremony. It celebrates the Club's involvement in Newton's greatest discovery and our long association with the noble herring, the king of all species of bicycling fish. May the Club never go anti-clockwise.

*Blacknest Gate, park at the Thai Restaurant

**Conventional historians, the Encyclopedia Britannica, Wikipedia and the family of Sir Isaac Newton dispute our version of events. Richard Hills has got to them all.

Welcome Back to the Old Windsor Townswomen's Guild

This is a historic day for the Perambulation Club. A Victory over Hate to stand alongside the Montgomery Freedom Riders, the Good Friday Agreement, and when Nasty Nick was kicked out of Big Brother One for daring to use a pencil.

From today, the Perambulation Club welcomes members from Old Windsor. The Club's Truth & Reconciliation subcommittee have decided that if the feud is ever to end, we must make the first move. Earlier this year we approached the Lady Mayoress of Old Windsor, Lisa Scott-Lee from Steps and Totally Scott-Lee, to arrange a secret summit on neutral territory; the delightful home of Sir Elton John and his partner David Furnish. The Perambulation Club, of course, claim all parts of the park north and east of Elton's hedge, and his second-best gazebo forms the start of Mayoress Scott-Lee's jurisdiction.

Diplomatic Relations between the Club and the Government of Old Windsor have been suspended ever since they cheated their way to victory in the 2004 Larry Grayson Memorial Sumo Wrestling Basho between the Club and the Old Windsor Townswomen's Guild. The winners of the Basho earn the rights to wear very tall hats in the presence of Her Majesty The Queen for the remainder of the year. In 2004, the OW TG team flagrantly disregarded the conventions of the 200 year-old competition*, and served own-brand squash** at half-time instead of the traditional Kia-Ora Orange (No added sugar). The shock to the systems of our delicate Rikishi upset their concentration, and also left their oranginess levels dangerously low, opening the risk of attack by Crows and their allies. Our wrestlers were placed at a significant disadvantage, having to watch for avian ambush as well as ground-level onslaughts. When we lost an official appeal was logged with the Competition Judges; Sir Elton John's gazebo designer, Captain Haddock from the Adventures of Tintin, and the hated Richard Hills. Hills, who we believe to have been in the pocket of Lisa Scott-Lee ever since he secretly stood in for H on the 'Steptacular' Tour of 1999, naturally sided with Old Windsor.

The Club were coming to terms with the injustice, but when Scott-Lee trotted into the Queen's Monthly Pub Quiz and Meat Raffle wearing an absurdly elongated cerise trilby, we had witnessed enough. From then on the Club has been closed to the citizens of Old Windsor.

But no-one has benefitted from this. We live in daily fear of belligerent assault from Crows and Jackdaws, the historical allies of Old Windsor. It is no fun having to carry a Terry's Chocolate Orange everywhere in case of Corvid Onslaughts. On the other side, the people of Old Windsor have suffered incredibly from the embargo on their use of the word 'Boombastic' and their supply lines of Strawberry Cornettos being cut by the partisan wing of our Tramp Army.

But that is all history. Mayor Scott-Lee has agreed to measure any future headgear with callipers to ensure it does not exceed the height of a mature Shetland Pony, and we in the Club will be responsible for all citrus-based refreshments at future matches. To celebrate, the Club and the OW TG will be having a pro-celebrity Sumo-Wrestling Match in the near future. Any interested Members should register their interest by sounding their Club Horn thrice. Wherever you are, we will hear you.

*The first contestants in 1804 were the Prince of Wales, later George IV, and his estranged wife Princess Caroline of Brunswick, whose combined weight has never been equalled by contestants since; even including the weight of the horsebox we use to convey our Sumo. Princess Caroline still holds the club record for stuffing Maltesers in the mouth with 45. This may be the year the record finally falls.

**Post-match lab tests revealed it to be Tesco Sun Sip.

An Apology to Lady Annabel Goldsmith

The Club needs to apologise to one of its most prestigious and loved members, Lady Annabel Goldsmith. Her Ladyship has close relations called Chaka Demus & Pliers, and was understandably upset at the tragic news below. We have a responsibility to point out that the Chaka Demus & Pliers employed by the club to maintain Sumo Wrestlers were the '90s pop stars, and not the members of the Goldsmith family who coincidentally share the same names. We cordially offer full membership privileges, including access to our moonbase, to Chaka Demus Goldsmith and Pliers Goldsmith in an attempt to make amends for the misunderstanding. Finally, as a tribute to Chaka Demus-not-Chaka-Demus-Goldsmith, let us ponder his own beautiful words:

Me ball tease me and tickle up me fancy
Right round the clock until me reach climax
A when me reach me will tell you to stop
We a aim for da sky
An we not turn back

Beautiful. Truly there is a new star in the heavens tonight.

Amanda Hamilton force feeds geese

The Club regrets to announce we have become involved in yet another territorial dispute over Virginia Water Lake. As all members will know, we have claimed sovereignty over the entire northern shoreline from the totem pole to that big log that sticks out a bit, ever since our tramps annexed the area from Shaggy in the initial stages of our conflict over the intellectual rights to the word 'Boombastic'.

However we have recently had to contend with incursions on to our shoreline by Amanda Hamilton. Since losing her place on 'Something For The Weekend' to the increasingly tired-looking Louise Redknapp (older club members may remember her as Louise Nurding, who, as part of Eternal, was briefly employed by the club to solve mysteries involving smugglers or disguised Nazi spies), Hamilton has gone into business producing probiotic organic Foie Gras, but has no capital to purchase geese, and her attempt to market badger foie gras has been largely met with either disgust or indifference everywhere except Cowdenbeath. As a result, Hamilton has resorted to nefarious tactics to ensnare Geese. The natural diet of geese is a mixture of seeds, insects and Ferrero Rocher, and Hamilton has been laying trails using the third of these to entice the geese from their underground warrens.

Can you imagine what a trail of individually-wrapped chocolate- and nut croquante- covered hazelnuts does to a flock of Sumo Wrestlers on a carefully controlled diet? Chaka Demus & Pliers have no need to imagine. They have stared into they abyss, and the abyss was full of Nutella-smeared obese Japanese on a sugar-high and severely traumatised Canadian Geese. Pliers used his super-strength to do all he could to corral and control our elite rikishi, but Hamilton's megalomaniacal and ethically questionable scheme to dominate the world of force-fed poultry was in tatters. Chaka Demus, tragically, is believed to be beyond repair. We may be able to salvage something from selling his ivory tusks, but the rest of him will have to be melted down to make post-it note glue. Our sympathies are with Mrs Demus, the little Demii and of course, his lifelong companion, confidante, and supplier of reputable hand tools, Pliers.

We also now face an implacable and formidable enemy with access to mediocre Italian confectionery and the ear of The Ambassador; Amanda Hamilton. The prospect of an entente cordiale between Hamilton and the hated Richard Hills, whose hamster stuffing enterprise complements Hamilton's force-feeding of poultry perfectly, is one that makes the Club's Internal Security Committee shudder. The resulting Hamster Foie Gras would be an abomination on a par with the pogroms, the sack of Rome and Celebrity Mr & Mrs. If only Bobby Davro was still with us; his network of informants and nuclear capability are sorely missed.