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crack_van2006-05-20 02:19 pm
sine-que-non767.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2006-05-20 02:19 pm
Entry tags:
Fippy Elbows In by Helena Handbasket (PG)
Fandom: JEEVES & WOOSTER
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie Wooster
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hhandbasket
Author Website: Handbasket Holidays
Why this must be read:
A long, meaty read with a great set-up. It all starts when the insufferable Fippy dares to encroach on Bertie's territory, and makes a play for Jeeves... Featuring excerpts from a musical comedy show 'Mrs. Sir', where the subtext weighs approximately 7 tons and the hit song is 'I'd Like To Kiss You, Sir, But It's Time To Serve Tea'.
I was visiting for a week in Northumberland at the domus familias of young Fippy Phipps-Fotheringay-Phipps, an ambiguously distant relation of my old chum Barmy's and a recent inductee of the Drones Club.
Fippy was a bracing chap, if a bit lean on the old grey matter. He was the sort of fellow who had trouble keeping track of which bits of his trousers he was supposed to stick his legs in. Nevertheless, he was matey enough. And possessed of the sort of devastating good looks that made girls of all shapes, ages, and sizes compulsively swoon. He was just the sort of chap to haul along on a country visit if one wanted to secure a guarantee of not getting engaged: with a map like his within eyelash-batting distance, all other prospective victims would be rendered invisible to the fair sex.
But, as I said, he had clearly, at some point in his life, been denied the requisite apportioning of fish in his daily feedbag. This policy, apparently, runs in the family, for a single conversation with Barmy is enough to convince the attentive mind to disregard the majority of phrases that cross the lips of a Fotheringay-Phipps. Yet something Fippy blurted out as we lounged after dinner on a Friday evening playing Throw Turkish Cigarettes into the Flower Arrangement managed nonetheless to strike a sour note, and strum Bertram's heartstrings in a ghastly minor chord.
"I say," he accurately reported. "Your man Jeeves is something of a corker."
"A superior gentleman's gentleman is not to be found in the whole of Britain."
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to part with him."
"Not for a million pounds," I said, puffing out my chest with the conviction of one of Rosie M. Banks' working class heroines. "Jeeves is a miracle. An absolute dream. The king himself would be instructed to hit the highlands should he attempt to separate me from my faithful valet."
"A million's no good, eh?" mused Fippy, scrunching up his face as if I'd just biffed him in the nose with a well-stocked powder puff. "What about a hundred thousand, then?"
I goggled. The loon was serious. The phrase 'more money than sense' might spring to mind were it not that three shillings would easily outprice the helping of sense with which old Fippy had been bestowed.
Fippy Elbows In
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie Wooster
Author on LJ:
hhandbasketAuthor Website: Handbasket Holidays
Why this must be read:
A long, meaty read with a great set-up. It all starts when the insufferable Fippy dares to encroach on Bertie's territory, and makes a play for Jeeves... Featuring excerpts from a musical comedy show 'Mrs. Sir', where the subtext weighs approximately 7 tons and the hit song is 'I'd Like To Kiss You, Sir, But It's Time To Serve Tea'.
I was visiting for a week in Northumberland at the domus familias of young Fippy Phipps-Fotheringay-Phipps, an ambiguously distant relation of my old chum Barmy's and a recent inductee of the Drones Club.
Fippy was a bracing chap, if a bit lean on the old grey matter. He was the sort of fellow who had trouble keeping track of which bits of his trousers he was supposed to stick his legs in. Nevertheless, he was matey enough. And possessed of the sort of devastating good looks that made girls of all shapes, ages, and sizes compulsively swoon. He was just the sort of chap to haul along on a country visit if one wanted to secure a guarantee of not getting engaged: with a map like his within eyelash-batting distance, all other prospective victims would be rendered invisible to the fair sex.
But, as I said, he had clearly, at some point in his life, been denied the requisite apportioning of fish in his daily feedbag. This policy, apparently, runs in the family, for a single conversation with Barmy is enough to convince the attentive mind to disregard the majority of phrases that cross the lips of a Fotheringay-Phipps. Yet something Fippy blurted out as we lounged after dinner on a Friday evening playing Throw Turkish Cigarettes into the Flower Arrangement managed nonetheless to strike a sour note, and strum Bertram's heartstrings in a ghastly minor chord.
"I say," he accurately reported. "Your man Jeeves is something of a corker."
"A superior gentleman's gentleman is not to be found in the whole of Britain."
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to part with him."
"Not for a million pounds," I said, puffing out my chest with the conviction of one of Rosie M. Banks' working class heroines. "Jeeves is a miracle. An absolute dream. The king himself would be instructed to hit the highlands should he attempt to separate me from my faithful valet."
"A million's no good, eh?" mused Fippy, scrunching up his face as if I'd just biffed him in the nose with a well-stocked powder puff. "What about a hundred thousand, then?"
I goggled. The loon was serious. The phrase 'more money than sense' might spring to mind were it not that three shillings would easily outprice the helping of sense with which old Fippy had been bestowed.
Fippy Elbows In
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