Good Wine, Bad Vessel:
When Arthur and I met Vic in 1945, soon after his election as one of the new young Labor members of Parliament, it was inevitable that one of us should say: “Wouldn’t old Tubby have been delighted?”
“Goot vine in a bad wessel,” Arthur quoted, in Tubby’s thick accent. “He always believed in you, Vic. You were his favorite.”
“He was a bastard and the son of a bastard,” said Vic.
“Maybe,” I said, “but he certainly made life interesting.”
At about this point my wife, who is French, always shakes her head sadly.
“Won’t you people ever grow up? I suppose Englishmen remain schoolboys all their lives. It would explain a lot.”
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