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FROM CHINA TO PERU.
(By 'Philos.')
New Year Hopes and Vows.
Today is the very first day of a brand
new year, and such is the simple credu
lity of mankind that many of us are
hopeful — even confident — that things will
be better for us than they were last year.
We, on our part, promise that we shall
be much better fellows than we were
last year; we shall drink less, swear not
at all, cut down our smoking, be kinder
husbands and/or fathers and be much
more attentive to the interests of our
boss than we were in the year that has
gone.
There is, of course, nothing to justify
the belief that the world will be any
better than it has been. It is highly
improbable that Mr. Hitler will repent
of his damnable treatment of the Jews
in Germany, or that Mr. Mussolini will
kneel at the penitent stool and call off
his dogs of war whose fangs are gnash
ing at the throat of Abyssinia. Race
horse owners will not try to win every
race to which their horses start, nor
will employers blush for their remunera
tion of their employees.
The vows we make will not be kept.
We shall drink just as much as ever, or
more if the opportunity presents itself.
It is highly improbable that we shall
prove better husbands or parents, or
that we shall work our fingers to the
bone, or our grey matter white in the
interests of the boss. We shall be just
as we have always been — erring, fallible
human beings with streaks of goodness
here and there. Still, that is not to
say that the New Year vows are value
less. They make us feel better men for
the moment, and that is something.
Miss for Mister.
It is reported in a cable message from
Prague that Miss Zdenka Koubkowa has
become Mr. Koubkowa as the result of
an operation. She was the woman track
champion of the world, but was willing
to resign this honour to become entitled
to be addressed as Mr., notwithstanding
that she-he will be liable for compulsory
military service.
This is a remarkable tribute to the
male sex. Consider the advantages sur
rendered! A woman may get married
and be absolved from the necessity of
working for her living for the remainder
.of her life. She may wear bewitching
clothes for which her husband will pay.
If she be born a blonde and dislike her
colouring she may change over, and vice
versa. If nature has provided her with
stumpy or scanty eyelashes she may have
then made thick, or long and curly, and
may colour her finger-nails and toe-nails
without incurring the derision of society.
The vast majority of men have to work
all their lives. If some politician or diplo
mat gets into 'holts' with a politician or
diplomat of another country, the man
hood of each nation and other nations
is hurried into a badly-cut uniform, lent
a lethal weapon and sent away to kill,
or be killed by, perfect strangers for
whom' lie has not so much dislike as he
has for his next door neighbour to his
suburb.
It seems to me that women have by
far the best of the deal to this world.
Men worship them, work for them, and
fight for them; and yet this Czech woman,
with a free choice, selects to adopt the
male sex. There must be something ex
traordinarily attractive about us.
A Licensing Matter.
A justly-incensed citizen writes: 'The
latest stunt of the official Labour Gov
ernment. Not satisfied with the fate of
their Backyard Factory licensing idea,
they have now started to license back
yard orchards.
'I have two grape vines which I have
treated with sulphur, etc., and they now
provide ample grapes for my youngsters.
Having in mind recent Police Court pro
ceedings by the Rabbit Inspector's De
partment, I assume that any backyard
orchard inspector (no doubt their num
ber will increase) will order people to
remove a solitary vine or fig tree, as the
whim seizes them.
'I would suggest that as election time
is near, decent men vote for Labour can
didates—and for Nationalists for that
matter— who will stand for licensing of
members of Parliament with the right of
recall. People are getting full up of
those Jacks-on-Horseback, who appear to
be working for themselves alone.'
The writer concludes with a reference
to a legislator who yearns to fight Mus
solini, but to a previous role of ship's
fireman was reluctant to respond to a re
quest for more steam. This is interest
ing historically, but hardly relevant to
the backyard orchard issue and the
lirpnslnff nf 1p_riRla.tnrs.
I am inclined to agree that the en
forcement of the new regulations under
the Plant Diseases Act will have the
effect of denuding suburbia of its fair
vine-clad arbours, without any appreciable
effect on the fruit fly. I have been in
formed incredibly that the entire Cabi
net has been bought by the back-door
fruit hawkers, who are naturally strongly
opposed to citizens growing their own
fruit.
Recall of legislators has been suggested
over many years, but licensing them is a
novel idea, and I don't see that it would
help very much. It would amount to
no more than members of Parliament
wearing another medal on their watch
chains.
Drink or 'Booze'?
'Seivad' writes: — 'Dear 'Philos.'— You
having now told me to so many words
that your consistent defence af alcoholic
beverages is genuine, I take your word
for it and apologise for implying other
wise. In the next breath' though, wherein
you reproach me for calling those bev
erages 'booze.' you speak of finest vintage
champagne with bubbles bursting at the
brim,' of imperial tokay, of the delicate
white wines of the Rhine, as if you ex
pected me to believe you are* personally
acquainted with those — er— liquids.
'Perhaps on this question you do not
know yourself. Here's a test for you.
Leaving ' out the high-f alutto imitations
of fruit salts and vto blanc guzzled by
Charles Garvice heroes and heroines,
think of the alcoholic concoctions which
the ordinary non-teetotaller drinks as
beverages when he has got the price
of it or can raise it; then think of a
word for it more appropriate than
'booze.' If the word you think of isn't
'slops.' tell it to the marines.
'It is beyond me, to this space any
how, to attempt to define all the subtle
influences which compel us to drink al
cohoL But there are most tyrannical
compulsions; for one thing, why do any
of us ever begin to drink it?'
'Seivad' has called my bluff. Know
ing that I am a journalist, it was a safe
bet that my acquaintance with vintage
champagne, imperial tokay, and the
white wines 'of the Rhine was purely
theoretical, or fictional, through the pages
of Oppenheim and similar masters of
prose. Still, I protest that the humbler
alcoholic beverages within my restricted
reach are deserving of something better
than the terms 'booze.' Slops? Oh,
no!
As to the 'subtle influences which com
pel us to drink alcohol,' they are, per
haps, a mixture of hectic heredity and
drab present conditions which cry out
for some light and colour. This partly
answers the question 'why do any of us
ever begin to drink?' The reason we
continue is that, generally, we find it a
pleasant thing to do.
Urging. _
He was my first experience of the urger,
so I cannot say whether he was a fairly
representative specimen of the genus.
His external appearance suggested that
the profession of urging was far from
lucrative, to his case at least, and there
were indications that he was a follower
of the liquid diet fad.
Apparently he spotted me as one with
limited acquaintance with the sport of
Kings, and far less exalted persons. 'Tve
gotter good thin? fer the next,' he said
in a hoarse undertone. As I appeared
interested, he beckoned me away from the
crowd. Looking fearfully around, he
whispered 'Senoj. See yer later,' and
slid away into the crowd. It seemed im
probable to me that there was a horse of
that name. I looked at my race-book,
and there, sure enough, was: 'Senoj; Mr.
S. Jones's ch h, 5yrs.' Being a cross
word and cryptogram addict, I worked it
out that 'Senoj' was the proud owner's
name reversed. What originality!
There was some time to go before the
race started, so I strolled about the lawn.
My attention was drawn by my seedy
informant in close colloquy with a citizen
as innocent-looking as myself. '. . . .
thing for the next; 'Bilking Princess.,' ' I
heard him say before sliding off. Be
coming interested, I trailed him, keeping
carefully in his wake. The process was
repeated until it appeared that my in
formant had tipped the field.
I didn't back 'Senoj,' and it didn't
win. After the race I nailed my tipster,
and asked him what about it. He was
the picture of outraged virtue. 'Fair
murder,' he declared hotly; and then he
unfolded a tale of conspiracy on the part
of the owner, the trainer, and the jockey,
in which, I gathered, the chairman of the
W.A.T.C. was also involved.
' 'Scuse me,' he said in the midst of an
embellishment of his story. He darted off
and seized the arm of a guileless-looking
person, who shook him warmly by the
hand and gave him a note from a modest
roll.
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