The Majors have asked me to write a review of the first published volume of their joint memoirs.
We met in the city one blisteringly warm summer’s day. Cornwall I could just about tolerate, but Trevelyan had a face like a slapped arse. I told him as much, to which he seemed to cower slightly, and became aloof for some time, stepping away for a smoke.
‘Did I upset him?’ I asked Victor, to which he told me, with the solemnity of a doctor revealing the need of full castration, of an incident that took place during the world’s first Paris-Dakar Rally, in 1950.
During the telling, Trevelyan sauntered back to our table, but, hearing the Major in mid flow telling me about the unfortunate incident, he spun and continued away without slowing a pace, igniting a second cigarette with the dying embers of the first. Then Cornwall thrust the manuscript before me. When Trevelyan returned, I did not mention his face.
Turns out that this incident opens their memoirs, which is promoted, by themselves, as ‘sweepingly tragic, emotionally devastating, heartfelt, uplifting’.
The events are told through correspondence between the two Majors, who are now retired and living separate lives in their respective country manors.
All in all, it seems neither man has much life left on this earth, and thus decided the world needed to hear of their tales.
And what tales!
The title, Scoundrels, refers to an elite social club in Piccadilly, of which these two men were members for many decades, undertaking high-stakes adventures. We hear of their induction, their rivalries with Gruber Hansclapp, an Austrian man they first met whilst at school.
In worries of spoilers I shall say this: something monumentally sexual and tragic occurs involving Hansclapp’s bull, and thus sparks a rivalry that will span most of the 20th century, and rightly so.
Then we follow the Majors as they infiltrate a Nazi castle, conjure up daring plans to discover secrets, and even encounter a very dangerous woman, indeed.
The Majors are complete arses. This is true, but also it is an endearing quality to find with a protagonist. I found myself fearing for their safety, marvelling at the magnificent feats of endurance they show, and they should by now be dead many times over.
Filled to the brim with humour, innuendo, and downright vomit-inducing episodes, this first volume has everything one could possibly wish for in the memoirs of two brave and utterly intolerable men.
P.S. Should Major Trevelyan read this, then I must tell you something. The true reason for my requesting a meeting was actually nothing to do with the memoirs, which were a pleasant surprise, but unexpected. No, I wished to see you because I believe that my father was sired during your legendary interpretation of Jules Verne’s early manuscript of Around the World. My grandmother was ‘London’. Whilst you will maintain you did not ‘complete’ during this leg of the tour, my father believes that, in your obvious excitement, there was a bit of seepage, so to speak.