TOASTS/SONGS

HOW DID I GET HERE?

by Alex Katz

 

You all came here by choice and chose to stay

I'm here 'cause Sherlock is in my DNA

Some dads helped sons send kites aloft

I heard lectures about Mycroft

Some dads did crafts and made stuff arty

I heard talks about Professor Moriarty

Some dads played music and made a cool sound

I got to hear about some bizarre Hound

So you chose to ponder what the Canon means

I'm here tonight with Mr. Holmes in my genes

Toast to Arnsworth Castle

by Stu Nelan

I would like to thank Carol and Laurie for the opportunity to do this toast to Arnsworth Castle from “A Scandal in Bohemia”.

My first thought on hearing of the toast was “Arnsworth Castle?  What is that?”  And then I realized that it must be the name of the place where Irene Adler resided in the Serpentine Mews.  And I had my toast half-way written in my head before stopping to realize that that was not correct. She lived, of course, in Briony Lodge.

So a close re-reading of Watson’s words was next.  And a very enjoyable several hours it was, too, re-reading this episode and others!

“To Sherlock Holmes, she is always the woman.”  That, of course, is the opening line from “A Scandal in Bohemia”, of July, 1891, in the Strand Magazine.

I did find the reference to Arnsworth Castle. 

Holmes is telling Watson of his intent to create a supposed fire in the house (lots of smoke with Watson’s help), so that Irene Adler would reveal to him the location of the photograph.  He says:

“When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing

which she values most.  It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once

taken advantage of it.  In the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal, it was of use to me,

and also in the Arnsworth Castle business.” 

My next thoughts were whether there were any other references to Arnsworth Castle in the expanded writings of Dr. Watson.  And I found two such references.

“The Adventure of the Red Widow”, by Adrian Conan Doyle,

(here we can have a short pause to boo or hiss if any are so inclined)

the last of the 12 stories in “The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes”, was one such reference.  This was a  rather  gruesome tale of death by the Lord of the Castle, who was flushed out of hiding by Holmes.

A second reference was in June Thomson’s “The Secret Notebooks of Sherlock Holmes” in an episode called “The Case of the Arnsworth Affair”.  In this adventure, Holmes again discovers the hiding place of a murderer, this time the heir to the Castle.

However, neither of these tales satisfied me in what I thought the real story was.  In my mind, I picture a young Holmes, smitten with a local lass, who discovers that she has been given stolen jewels by a rival for her affections (a youth with a particular talent for mathematics).  Holmes discovers the hiding place of the jewels in the grand hall (through the smoke bomb trick), accuses his rival of the theft, and awaits the adoration of the lady.  It is she, however, who upsets the Holmes plan – she chooses the rival, who has thrown himself upon her mercy.

Whichever variation we choose, however, please raise your glasses for a toast to Arnsworth Castle:

“To Sherlock, Irene is the woman,

The epitome of her sex.

But with words like “Good Night, Mr. Holmes”,

To him she was to vex.

“To us, Arnsworth is the castle,

Stately, with its magnificent hall,

An early case involving Holmes,

And perhaps the beginning of it all.”

A Toast to Baskerville Hall

by Ian and Angela Williams-Dunford

(read by Graham Moore & Helen Estabrook in their absence)

In 2005, Angela and I moved to New York City from Richmond, Virginia.  Sounds easy enough when I say it as casually as that, but anyone who’s ever looked for apartments in New York City knows it can be a grueling, humiliating process that, more often than not, ends with rationalizing an apartment or neighborhood’s obvious shortcomings in order to feel like you’ve somehow beat the system. 

Case in point:  For our first New York City apartment, Angela and I “gamed” the real estate market by finding a cheap apartment in an artsy Brooklyn neighborhood.  All we had to do was ignore the nightly sounds of gunshots in the distance and the daily 5am wake up call of screaming chickens being dropped off in front of  the live poultry shop next door to our building.

We’re currently in our second New York apartment and finding it a little unnecessarily big (i.e. too expensive).  So Angela and I were recently casually shopping around for apartments, this time with the aide of a broker who always found a way to look on the bright side when it came to his featured properties.  For instance, who knew dripping faucets were a “relaxing water feature”?

As we sat down to write this toast, Angela said, “I wonder how one of these brokers would market Baskerville Hall if it was an apartment in New York City.”  Without further ado, Angela and I present such a scenario.  Angela will play the broker, and I will play some unlucky renter who’s looking for a steal of a deal!

Broker:  So, this is Baskerville Hall.  A real Pre-War charmer.

Renter:  Pre-War?  What war are we talking about here? The place looks a little old.

Broker:  And here’s something you don’t see every day in New York, your very own backyard.

Renter:  That backyard looks like a swamp.

Broker:  Oh, heavens no!  That’s an authentic English moor.  Very rare in these parts.

Renter:  So that’s why the listing said “Moor for your money”.

Broker:  I came up with that myself.  Clever, huh?

Renter:  What’s that glowing thing running around out there?

Broker:  Oh, the hellhound?  He comes with the place.  Consider him your personal trainer.  Just step outside at night and he’ll chase you around.  Really motivates you to work out.  Gets your heart rate going.  Imagine that!  Your very own personal trainer and you don’t pay a dime. 

Renter:  Wait.  Did you say hellhound?

Broker:  The place also comes with two servants.

Renter:  Servants!?!  Wow!

Broker:  Yeah.  They’re wonderful.  Very loyal.  But they’ll be leaving soon because the previous tenant was trained to death by the personal trainer. 

Renter:  Is someone holding a lantern out there?

Broker:  That’s nothing.  Just one of the servants’ brother.  An escaped convict, former murderer, yadda yadda yadda. 

Renter:  Murderer!?!  In the back yard?

Broker:  FORMER murderer.  And, besides, he’s out there with the personal trainer.  So he’ll be gone soon enough.

Renter:  So let me get this straight.  This place is ancient, on a swamp, has a murderer in the backyard, and a hellhound curse?

Broker:  Did I mention it’s rent controlled?

Renter:  I’ll take it!

To Baskerville Hall.  Loaded with unique amenities that you can brag about to all of your friends!

Gold Pince Nez

by Karen Campbell

Sung to the tune of “Goldfinger”

Gold Pince Nez!

She’s the girl, the girl with the squinty eyes.

She’s quite a prize.

Such an old pince nez

with its cord of ribbon as black as sin,

she did him in!

Golden glasses that sat on her nose

show she must have worn ladylike clothes

But this golden girl must have been flustered

gave the kiss of death and lost her

gold pince nez.

Willoughby, his hand ‘round this frame of gold

his hand is cold!

Golden glasses that puckered her brow

go to show that she can’t see much now!

When this golden girl flailed all about her

Gave the kiss of death without her

Gold pince nez.

Willoughby, the lad with a heart of gold –

His heart is cold!

The pince nez is gold

in his hold

but he’s cold.

The pince nez is gold

in his hold

but he’s cold!

Victor Hatherley Needs Help

by Karen Campbell

Sung to the tune of “Help” by Lennon and McCartney

When I was younger, so much younger than today

I never questioned anyone who’d give me lots of pay

But stuck here in this press I’m not so very sure

And now I find I’ve changed my mind – please open up the door!

Help me ‘cause the ceiling’s coming down

And my screams by this machine are being drowned

Help me find my thumb here on the ground

Won’t you please, please help me?

And how my life has changed since that disastrous night

My favourite digit seemed to vanish in my flight.

The doctor’s bound it up and bandaged it secure

And Mr. Holmes, I need you like I’ve never done before!

Help me ‘cause the ceiling’s coming down

And my screams by this machine are being drowned

Help me find my thumb here on the ground

Won’t you please, please help me?

When I was younger, so much younger than today

I never needed Sherlock Holmes’ help in any way.

He said, “Experience is something, I suppose

But if you want to count to ten, you’ll have to use your toes!”

Help me ‘cause the ceiling’s coming down

And my screams by this machine are being drowned

Help me find my thumb here on the ground

Won’t you please, please help me?

Help me, help meee!