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Eugene d’Arcy Droupler aka The Droop was an untidy, uncoordinated, deeply religious Catholic grammar school boy from Balham who had been awarded both the General Service Medal for active service as a medical orderly in Malaya, handing out contraceptives and gratuitous innuendo to the highly active soldiery and, either through some ill-judged post-war sociological experiment or sheer bungling, a place as a Commoner at Trinity to read History.

National Service had given the Droop the benefits of maturity, experience, communication skills, team spirit and initiative, and so on coming up to Cambridge he was already a prematurely aged, lecherous, coarse soak who realised that Life was a shambles and that if you wanted anything done then you must find someone else to do it. He was, however a deep and unique thinker and debater, particularly on religious and sexual matters and held is own with the most erudite of the academic hierarchy, usually preferring the relaxed atmosphere of the saloon bar to the formality of the lecture theatre or tutorial.  A master of the abstract and the obtuse, caring little for conventional thinking and with a congenital incapacity for recognising the blindingly obvious, he was a popular member of the Society of Chaps where his appearance of extraordinary age and sagacity combined with accentuated animal goals and a bumbling incompetence of execution generated universal merriment and awe.

Greater even than his love of intellectual grappling was his desire to grapple with the female physical form.  As with his thinking he was not inhibited by conventional guidelines of the time and pursued indiscrimately irrespective of race, creed, age, experience or willingness. Unfortunately the Droop, admirable fellow that he was within the Chaps, was not every lady’s cup of tea, and not at all the sort of beau most would be eager to introduce to mummy and daddy, or even to be seen dead with. In fact few punt poles would be long enough for touching purposes, and all in all his appeal was limited to a highly specialist sector of the deranged, desperate, or magnificently generous female population, and those who would do it out of just plain curiosity. Nevertheless to the general amazement of the Chaps he was more than averagely successful, demonstrating that dedication, determination, hard work and sheer good luck can sometimes conquer the most appalling odds. What is more he very occasionally produced a lady of beauty, intelligence and charm who genuinely seemed to like him, causing much mystification and speculation of a highly personal physical nature. Myself I have never understood the female mentality, especially those of religious inclination, but suspect that they were paying off some gross misdemeanour in an earlier life or perhaps going along with it for a laugh.

d’Arcy’s modus operandi was based on the Direct Approach with his favourite though least successful battleground being the mixed social gathering (bottle party). Like most of the Chaps he rarely gave parties and was most certainly not invited to parties; however he was a well known and respected gatecrasher who was expected and cordially received at all thrashes of any pretension.  In fact he maintained the definitive diary of forthcoming events, gleaned assiduously from other people’s mantelpieces, overheard conversations and in some cases from the socially ambitious party giver himself. Another fruitful source was the League of Bouncers, drawn from the thicker and heavier members of the university boxing team who attended such functions in an official capacity and with whom the Society of Chaps had established a solemnly binding Memorandum of Understanding, ensuring their safety in the event of unruly or threatening hosts.

Once ensconced at the party and suitably tight the Droop would study the form, select his victim, circle her a few times, and move in for the kill.  This was signalled by his downing his pint, lighting his pipe, adjusting his flies, borrowing a french letter and stumbling purposefully towards the petrified female, accompanied by the assorted ribaldry of the Chaps and a roll on the drums from the band. The Direct Approach would then be played and d’Arcy would shortly return, with or without a boot up the backside from an incumbent boyfriend whose existence had not been noted in his master plan. De-briefing would consist of a short statement along the lines of “Persona non grata, old boy. I say, this bitter’s filthy.” and the process would continue until all girls, all drink and the Droop himself were completely exhausted.

d’Arcy was for some unaccountable reason persona grata at the local Catholic ladies’ finishing school, where he would be invited to, or officially gatecrash as it was known, the afternoon tea parties in the company of other supposedly suitable undergraduate escorts. (Years later this was to influence my decision to sell my daughter to a White Slaver rather than shell out good money to subject her to the opportunities of polishing her social graces in the company of the right sort of young men under the auspices of an English ladies’ college.) However through this avenue the Droop was able to maintain a dossier on each young lady’s interests, family background, dietary habits, menstrual cycle and other key data on which to base the Direct Approach at a subsequent, illicit liaison in a Tea Shoppe or similar vicarious rendezvous.

Each assignation would be assiduously planned and analysed in detail with specialist advisers in relevant fields such as aphrodisiac qualities of Bath buns, modern brassiere construction, law of rape, etc. and in particular advice would be sought from those who already claimed knowledge of the young lady in question, as to conversational tactics, physical and psychological opportunity areas, layout of under garments, and above all, the Ploy to get her into the undergraduate’s rooms with the Oak well and truly sported.  The result was that the Droop’s secret meetings would be very well publicised and draw large crowds, often with an official Book and heavy betting leading to the inevitable knobbling, although the Droop was perhaps the most consistent self-knobbler in the whole history of the Sexual Handicap Chase.  Needless to say the outcome was always pure farce, of the seaside knockabout variety, with our hero’s exit line in the nature of “Looks as if I’m PNG there, chaps, Good God, the pubs are open.”, leading to the Droop ending the day speechless, penniless, legless, and most emphatically, girlless, but much loved by the cognoscenti.