The Royal Glory Box

In Somerset in warm summertime the bees and butterflies fly

But it ain't all cakes and ale here when winter's coming nigh.

The cold will rot your rowlocks, and will form great balls of ice.

The warmest clothes you put on will never quite suffice.

Before you even know it, the orange sun will set.

We're not in the same county; we're now in Winterset.

Strange happening are going on, ghosts and vampires fly.

And in the pubs tales are told about the days gone by.

The one I'm going to tell you is absolutely true.

And anyone who denies it will his denial rue.

It happened many years ago when World War One was on.

No one here was born then, except our Uncle John.

Machine guns and explosives were maiming and 'a killing.

The list of deaths in newspapers was absolutely chilling.

But making war costs lots of money – guns and ammo must be bought.

And so for raising money crisis measures must be sought.

Lloyd George proposed an idea that really did the trick.

'E sold honours for those who'd buy 'em and made 'em lords real quick.

*

This story is about The Royal Glory Box – one of the best kept secrets of the First World War. It was even more important to the British Empire than the decoding machine Enigma that helped to bring victory in the Second World War. Designed by the son of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, The Glory Box was truly a mechanical marvel.

It was invented because Lloyd George couldn't sell any more War Bonds. At that time people were groaning under the burden of income tax. Raising money for the war effort was an enormous problem. Through lack of money, ammunition for our gallant boys at the Front was running short. You may remember that King George the Fifth's last words were 'Bugger Bognor.' But on this occasion, speaking like a true king, he said to Lloyd George, anticipating Harold Macmillan: 'Bugger this war. We've sold the family silver. All we have left now to sell is our glory.'

That was good enough for the Welsh wizard famous for his lightning wit. Quick as a flash the Prime Minister phoned Brunel the Younger and told him to get working on a Glory Box. The principle was simple: it was like a juke box machine. You put in a coin and out came a decoration. Tuppence for a BEM. Fourpence for an OBE. Five shillings for a knighthood. Ten bob to become an earl. A dukedom was expensive, mind you, it cost all of a hundred quid. And extra for the land. For a penny, though, you could become an Esquire. And for as little as a farthing you could get a foreign honour like a Van or a Von. Hyphenated names were ten a penny. You could buy one for yourself and give the rest away to your friends. It worked like a charm and the Exchequer was filling up faster than you could say wink.

The Glory Box machine was portable and could be carried to anywhere in the country. It could be set up in any market place and the general populace could use it like today we use cash-point machines. It was brass-bound, made of highly polished mahogany and had different shaped apertures for the various coins. Inside, it was very complicated with an array of cogs and wheels like the original Charles Babbage computer, with vernier scales for defining the gradations between lesser or minor gongs.

Now we come to the crux of our story. Enough money had been raised by selling gongs in the market places of England to buy millions of gallons of mustard gas and ten of millions of bullets and shells. But money was still needed to buy the tanks on which our last offensive depended. Oberleutenant Freidrich Von Strudel, a master spy, appeared one day at Number Eleven Downing Street, where the Glory Box was kept during the intervals between its peregrinations around the country. He told the civil servants in perfect English that he was Eustace Evan Evans, a Welsh industrialist and wished to buy an earldom. While the Chancellor was called out of the room, the dastardly villain brazenly walked out of the building carrying the Glory Box wrapped in a brown paper parcel. He jumped into a hackney carriage, which went off at a fast gallop.

The consternation in Downing Street caused by the loss of the Glory Box was indescribable. Churchill said in his memoirs that it was 'The most inglorious episode in English history,' conveniently forgetting Gallipoli. Unfortunately, his book doesn't actually give any details because of the Official Secrets Act. However, at the risk of being prosecuted I am going to reveal the truth of what happened.

Lloyd George called an emergency meeting of the cabinet and it was decided to put the matter in the capable hands of Leading Aircraftman T.E Laurence. However, as he was busy in Arabia at the time, Leading Aircraftman (Later to become Marshal of The Royal Air Force) Roy Irish took over the official function of Chairman of the Royal Glory Box Recovery Commission. Also serving on the commission were Richard, Archibald, Campbell, McDonald, Kelly, John Telfer, an engineer who had worked on the original design of the Glory Box and the famous chemist, who had helped Professor Weitzman design new explosives, Howard Silver, sometimes known as Long John Silver. Farmer Jack of St. Luke's farm was co-opted because of his profound knowledge of nefarious happening in deepest, darkest Dorset. Jane Telfer, who had chained herself to several railings on behalf of the Suffragette Movement, was asked personally by Lloyd George to attend, because members of the Commission needed a lawyer to give them protection for any illegal actions undertaken while engaged in cloak-and-dagger operations in the service of their country.

It was just as well that she joined the Commission, because she was the first person to appreciate the significance of the alibi chosen by Freidreich Von Strudel. Where would this villain, who held the fate of the British Empire in his hands, go? East, north, south, west? Jane Telfer tumbled to it immediately. 'He called himself Evan Evans, didn't he? It's a double bluff. He thinks the Welsh pseudonym will make us think that he's gone to Scotland like Richard Hannay in the Thirty Nine Steps. But I believe he's heading for Wales. A submarine is waiting for him in Fishguard – the one that Roger Casement used to bring arms to the Irish rebels.

'By God, I think you're right,' piped up Richard, Archibald, Campbell, McDonald, Kelly.

'Who are you?' Roy Irish enquired.

'By your leave, sir, I'm Richard, Archibald, Campbell, McDonald, Kelly.' came the reply.

'Okay. Dick.'

And Dick was what he was called during the rest of these heady exciting times.

There was no time to be lost. The six members of the team piled into Dick's winebago caravan, parked conveniently outside Downing street, and they set of at a galloping pace for Welsh Wales.

Hard on their heels was a sixteen-litre Bentley driven by none other than John Irish, brother of the afore-mentioned Roy Irish, an industrialist of the old-fashioned school. His motto, 'pile 'em high and sock 'em in the eye,' had lifted him up among the giant grocers of his day, including Tesco, Sainsbury and Morrisons. As he drove across country he had on the steering-wheel a copy of Sherlock Holme's famous manual: 'How to deal with the enemies of the Crown.' With him in the car although John was too intent on his driving to talk to them, were: Maurice Benaim, the famous classical pianist, Isobelle Irish and her brother, Stanley-Follow-Suit, so called because whenever Isabella bought a suit so did he. When she got married he followed suit. And so did his wife, Sylvia whenever Isabelle became pregnant.

At the last minute the team had rounded up several other women for reasons which we shall now explain. A security official from MI5 and a Half had briefed the brothers Irish on the weaknesses of Freidrich Von Strudel. It was discovered that he had screwed Mata Hari, the beautiful Belgian spy and tried, without success to do the same to Nurse Cavell. It was obvious that he had a penchant for glamorous women and the team was instructed to play on this weakness. The ladies with the responsibility for enticing him with their charms were respectively: The Queen's dresser: Lady Pollycon, wife of Farmer Jack. Lady-in-waiting Betty Conn, who always kept her husband, Irish Jack, waiting. Lady Sylvia, whom we have already mentioned, the beautiful daughter of Ibsen's Master Builder, Finally, if all else failed to satisfy the bullet-headed Von Strudel's insatiable sexual appetite, they would use that ultimate temptress, Lady-of-the-bed-chamber, Lillian Silva, sometimes known as Silver Lillian.

Leading Aircraftsman (later to become Air Chief Marshall) Roy Irish had a cunning plan: he intended to make a pinccr movement across South Wales. His brother had an equally cunning plan: a pincer movement across North Wales. Jane Telfer had an even more cunning plan. Since Freidrich Von Strudel was known for his lechery, why not advertise a ladies' dancing competition towards which he would be ineluctably drawn by his fierce desire for the fair sex? This strategy was adopted nem con. Farmer Jack however, was heard mumbling in his beard. His plan to organise a team of beaters across the Principality on a Kraut Hunt had been turned down because he was literally in bad odour. Instead of obeying John Irish's instructions to spend a thousand pounds on a spreadsheet to help track down the spy, he had spent the money on manure for St. Luke's farm. Unfortunately, he thought John Irish had said: 'Spread shit.' However, nothing could stop the progress of this gallant British Empire fighting force on its way towards victory over the wicked German saboteur.

We come now to the Erotic Dance competition. Having scoured south Wales for the spy without success, it was decided to hold the competition in Oggugogussynagogue. Central Wales. The team were confident that because it had been widely advertised in the newspapers that beautiful women would be paraded almost naked on stage, it would draw out the dastardly Freidrich Von Strudel from his lair somewhere in the Welsh mountains.

Because of the sexual nature of the competition the pianist, Maurice Benaim was blindfolded, so that he should not be distracted from his inspired playing by the temptations of female flesh. Picture the scene. Crowds were queuing in the darkness outside. Oil lamps illuminated the stage in a large circus tent pervaded by the smell of the noxious substance smoked in their pipes by the Welsh peasantry. In these hard times the farm labourers mixed their tobacco with equal amounts of sheep shearings, tallow and sheep droppings. The result was a fog you could almost feel with your fingers. This did not prevent the assembled company from gasping at the scandalous sight of Lady Isabelle tiptoeing onto the platform to perform her dance, wearing nothing but a vest, long combinations, a raincoat, half a dozen brassieres, several jumpers and a long skirt. She first teased the men into a fury of lust by tickling them under the chin with a large leek, the Welsh national emblem, before performing a passionate Spanish dance.

Next came Lady Beddy Conn, as she was billed for the occasion. She was dressed in a provocative, long-sleeved dress with matching bloomers that had been specially designed for the Suffragettes to preserve their modesty while being dragged to the nearest police station. She performed a sensuous belly dance, the point of which was entirely lost as that part of her as well as the rest of her anatomy was completely hidden from view by her extensive clothing.

But where was the hated Von Strudel? No sign of him yet. An even more provocative dance was needed to lure him from the shadows.

Maruice Benaim, still blindfolded, struck up the music again. A gasp went up from the audience, as Stanley's wife, Lady Sylvia, gave a bravura performance of a tarantella. She was wearing a brilliantly-coloured peasant outfit the fringed skirt of which came down to the ground. What drew cries from the men in the audience was that she had absent-mindedly forgotten to put on her woolly socks, and as she flitted around the stage her bare ankles were clearly visible. The animal appetites of the unpredictable audience were being dangerously aroused.

But still no Von Strudel.

The team had not given up hope. As always the best had been kept until last. Silver Lillian was yet to dance.

During the interval, Farmer Jack, dressed in a ring master's outfit, made the following announcement:

'Ladies and gentlemen. You might think that you have seen an unseemly amount of female flesh tonight. Enough to satisfy the insatiable appetites of a Casanova, Petronius or Don Juan. But tonight we bring you without shame or regret the incredible charms of none other than Lillian Laguna, otherwise known as Silver Lillian.'

A flourish of trumpets followed.

An apparition then floated gracefully across the stage covered from head to toe in shimmering silver that clung to the figure of its owner, instantly revealing that it belonged to a woman of the fair sex. The Lady of the Bedchamber, Lady Lillian, after bowing to the audience, then performed a wild, Corybantic erotic dance worthy of Lady Emma Hamilton, the mistress of the late lamented Lord Nelson.. Unfortunately, in the throes of her passionate dance she inadvertently exposed her glorious calves. Maurice, the pianist, threw off his blindfold and gazed transfixed at the goddess. At that moment a hand appeared from under the stage and grasped blindly at the dancer's ankle. The orchestra stopped playing.

The events that followed is yet another example of how, when the British Empire is in peril, fate intervenes in a totally unpredictable manner and saves the day. As is generally known, Long John Silver always had his parrot on his shoulder. His descendent, our present day John Silver, had followed his example. As the lust-driven individual grappled with Lady Lillian's ankle, trying to abduct her, Long John Silver whispered something to his parrot. The bird flew across the stage and pecked savagely at the man's hand. The man, of course, as you might have guessed, was none other than Freidrich Von Strudel otherwise known as Eustace Evan Evans. Unmasked, the villain fled from the scene, to the distant echo of a BMW motor-bike exhaust which showed unmistakably the manner of his escape.

Thwarted, the gallant team nevertheless tenaciously stuck to their task of recovering the Royal Glory Box. They travelled through a villages with unpronounceable names like Rhy Dowen, Llany bidder and pren-g- llanddysul dyffed. One day they came to a village called Ffrid. Newton Powys. Bwlchy A young Welsh girl stood watching in awe as the Sixteen Litre Bentley and the Winebago parked outside the village pub. Lady Polly, emerged from the winebago and said to the girl somewhat portentously: 'Have you heard of DORA?

The girl looked mystified, so Polly looked right and left to make sure that they were not being overheard and whispered: 'DORA stands for The Defence of The Realm Act.'

The girl said defiantly: 'Well, my name is Myfanwy and my fanny's as good as yours any day.'

Lady Polly held up her hands placatingly and said: 'I cannot impress on you enough that we are here on secret government business. The whole of the war effort depends on it. We are looking for a German secret service agent who has hidden himself in the depths of the Welsh countryside. He is masquerading under the name of Evans.'

'Is it Evans the Post, Evans the Chemist or Evans the Butcher you're after?' the girl enquired. Suddenly, her face lit up: 'Ah. you must be looking for Evans the Spy!' She pointed to a stone-built house on the outskirts of the village.

Roy and John Irish, pistols at the ready, cautiously approached the house in which Evans the Spy had been hiding. Unfortunately, Von Strudle had prepared a trip wire that gave him warning of their approach. Before you could say Pren-g- llanddysul dyffed aggo, Von Strudel, with the Royal Glory Box strapped on the pillion of his BMW motorbike, headed south across a rocky terrain. A wild chase ensued. The Bentley roared a full-throated roar. The Winebago with its passengers clinging on for dear life, sputtered after it.

A hair-raising journey followed through dale and briar and mud and mire, sheep wildly scattering from the roar of the BMW motorbike and the equally satisfying sound of the Bentley's engine. John Irish had wisely had his engine supercharged, anticipating the dangers ahead. The Winebago to give it credit, as if trying to escape the sesquipidelian names of its owner, forged on, just managing to keep the Bentley and the fugitive motorbike in sight.

They forded the River Seven and turned towards Bristol, Chewton Mendip and after calling in for a quick pint of cider at the Swan Hotel they were just in time to see Freidrich Von Strudel mounting the steps of Wells Cathedral. He called out to them mockingly: 'You vill never catch me now. I haf called by mein wireless for Count Zeppelin to lift me off the top of the cathedral.'

The police immediately surrounded Wells cathedral. Sure enough a zeppelin hove in sight. Winston Churchill who never failed to be where the action was at its hottest, arrived on the scene. Aghast at the sight of a German zeppelin invading British airspace, he dropped his cigar butt, which set fire to the cathedral. Shortly afterwards the fire brigade arrived.

Von Strudel could be seen ascending the cathedral tower. Meantime the flames leapt high and higher.

Seeing him at the fourth upstairs stained-glass window, the gallant firemen called out to him: 'Jump into this 'ere blanket which me and my mates is holding and you'll be all right.

But the proud German wouldn't jump.

And the flames leapt higher and higher.

The zeppelin meanwhile was driven off by a burst of machine-gun fire from the local barracks.

And the firemen called: 'Jump into this 'ere blanket which me and my mates is holding and you'll be all right.'

But he didn't jump and the flames leapt higher and higher.

He arrived at the sixth floor stained-glass window.

And the firemen called: Jump into this 'ere net which we and my mates is 'olding and you'll be all right.'

And he jumped and he broke his bloody neck.

Fortunately the Royal Glory Box was so strongly built it survived the fall and went on to draw in many more millions of pounds for the National Exchequer and is doing so to this day.