The Existentialist Greyhound
or Jean-Paul Sartre goes to the
White City ( and loses all his money)
(with apologies to P.G. Wodehouse)
It was one of
those Saturday nights between the Boat Race and the Lords' Test when Yours
Truly was at something of a loose end. Out of the b. , Pongo Twistleton rang me
to say that he and his Uncle Fred were going to the dog track that night, and
would we care to join them ? Well, as the poet said, you only live once, so off
we toddled to the White City.
As it happened
Jeeves had invited a couple of French chums over for the weekend - cheerful
chaps, ate lots of fish, so they came with us. Pongo's Uncle Fred got us all in
for nothing by claiming they were visiting French diplomats, he and Jeeves were
members of the Cabinet, and me and Pongo were their assistants. Not a bad
start, eh what ?
Everything was
going swimmingly until after the first race. Then all of a sudden one of the
French coves, Albert 'the Cat' Camus came over in what seemed to young Bertram
like a fit of hysterics.
"Now I know for sure this whole
country is mad. I always suspected it, with your ridiculous pinned-stripe suits
and your fox-taunting and the inedible chips and fish. But now I see even the
animals are mad in this country. How can they chase after a hare that isn't
real, even though they never catch it, week after week ? It is unbelievable
!"
The other French
chappy, Jean 'Paul, George and RIngo' Sartre joined in the attack.
" You are right, Albert. The greyhounds, they are all in bad
faith. The only authentic dog would make no exit from the starting trap."
"Well steady on, old
beans." I interrupted. The Woosters can get quite stirred when the old
Mother C's honour is at stake. "I mean, eh what, steady on !".
As usual, the
sharp intellect of young Bertram stopped them in their tracks.
"Mon Dieu, you have a
point." shouted Sartre excitedly. "Think ,Albert - isn't life one big
dog race? Aren't we all like those poor greyhounds ? Don't we seek
things like happiness and meaning which we can never get ? And don't we still
keep trying for them?".
After that there
was no stopping them, all night. I didn't catch much of the rest, but I heard
words like Exi-something and the myth of sissy -somebody and somebody else who
had a mauvey thing. To be honest it all went a teeny bit over young Bertram's
head, but Jeeves seemed most interested - so much so he was no b. help at all
picking the dog winners.
Time passed, and
Dame Fortune continued to give us a wide berth. Jeeves seemed unusually excited
though. " I think, sir, we may have witnessed tonight some developments in
the field of philosophy which will not go unnoticed", he remarked.
"Never mind Phil O'Whatsit and
his field - whose going to win the last race ?" I bellowed, slightly
irritably, trying to turn his attention to more pressing concerns.
" I will endeavour to discover the solution to your
conundrum,sir" he replied, and shimmered off.
Meanwhile Uncle
Fred was telling anyone who would listen that he had a hot tip for trap 6, who
rejoiced in the name of "Freddie's Superman." Pongo and Sartre were
both persuaded to put their hard-earned on it, but Camus insisted on betting
the outsider .
Just in the nick
of time I managed to find Jeeves." Put this on number 6" , I shouted,
giving him what had been going to be next year's subscription to the Drones.
" Very good,
sir, if that is sir's wish".
Well, blow me but
number 6 ran as if it was my Aunt Agatha, whilst number 1 ran as if it had Aunt
Agatha chasing it.
A few minutes
later, to my great surprise and delight, Jeeves handed me a large bundle of
notes, as juicy as one of Anatole's steaks.
"I thought I told you to bet
trap 6".
"Yes, sir., you did. But I ran into Lord Winter's butler on
the way to the bookmakers. His lordship, you understand , is connected with the
winning greyhound. I was urged in the strongest possible terms to invest in
number 6, so thought it only prudent to do so."
On the way home I
couldn't stop beaming to myself. I kept asking everyone to confirm my feeling
that everything was indeed for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
Unfortunately this seemed to make Camus and Sartre even more miserable. They
seemed totally transformed - couldn't get a laugh out of them all the way home.
According to Jeeves, they never ever recovered their previous good humour. And
all because of one of Uncle Fred's lousy tips. Funny old world, eh what?
A slightly different version of this piece
was first published in Philosophy Now
©Tim LeBon