Ashley Sterne Calendar

Here is a little filler by Ashley Sterne from the 31 October 1931 edition of The Passing Show magazine.  I noted with amusement that Sterne’s quip concerning Keats was recycled in his 1932 novel The Devil’s Own Luck.


Ashley Sterne’s Calendar

October 24 — First Confectionery Exhibition held in London, 1842
   Strain at a gateau and swallow a caramel.

October 25 — Balaclava, 1854
   The original charge of the Light Brigade was made when the first gas-bill was presented.

October 26 — Alfonso the Good, of Leon, born, 1155
   It’s easier to live up to one’s reputation than to die up to one’s epitaph.

October 27 — Captain Cook born, 1728
   Cut your cook according to her broth.

October 28 — Browning Society founded, 1881
   England bore the browning, but Scotland got the burns.

October 29 — John Keats born, 1795
   “A thing of duty is no joy whatever.”

October 30 — London Coal Exchange opened, 1849
   All Fuel’s Day

Gray Day on the Trail

I went to the nearby Bluffs Regional Park for a short hike this afternoon.  It was a somber day: the sky was overcast and the scenery along the trail consisted of different species of dry weeds.  It was a sight that only a botanist with a morbid streak could love.

 The panorama of the mountains looming above the suburban sprawl was also a washed out gray.

Nevertheless, I got my blood flowing and enjoyed the fresh air. 

Ashley Sterne Advertising the Wider Holiday

An Ashley Sterne article from The Passing Show Summer Annual 1929.  Mr. Sterne lays it on pretty thick here with very broad humor.  There are a few ellipses toward the end, where I could not make out the fuzzy text.



Advertising the Wider Holiday


When the high-speed, long-distance, non-stop aeroplane emerges successfully from its present experimental stage, as assuredly it must ere long, and becomes as cheap and popular a method of celestial transport as the railway is of the terrestrial variety; when we can whack our money down and obtain a ticket for Borneo or Barbados in the same matter-of-fact way as we now book to Bournemouth or Barmouth; when, in short, at the traveling-rate of 300 miles per hour, we can get so far away from this extraordinary Land of Hope deferred and Dora as 4000 miles in the same time as it now takes to travel by train from London to Aberdeen; then will be the opportunity to plan our summer holiday on lines entirely different from those to which we have been accustomed.

We shall be able not only to “think imperially,” but universally, too, on this most important matter, instead of being restricted, as we are for the time being, merely to pondering it provincially.

Those of us who yearn for the exotic delights of the Southern Seas will then be no longer required to put up with Southbourn as a substitute; nor will those of us who pine for the Tortugas be compelled to rest content with Torquay.

Practically any place on the surface of the globe will be as readily accessible to us as any other; and verily shall we be able to exclaim with Mr. Gow, Mr. Sweeting, and Mr. Sam Isaacs, “The world is mine oyster.”

And then, during the holiday months, what curious reading the apartments-to-let and boarding-house and hotel announcements in the daily papers will make!  For I think that it may safely be assumed that holiday-resort landladies will prove ultimately to be pretty much of the same kidney all the world over, and very whit as eager to advertise the attractions of their establishments and environments as are their sisters who control the stately Homes-from-Home of England.

Never be surprised, then, if, on scanning the columns of your newspapers one day in the not-too-distant future, your eye should encounter some such announcements as the following, which I have very kindly prepared as specimens of the kind of thing which overseas lessors of holiday accommodations will eventually need to draw up for our information.


SOLOMON ISLANDS — Only 12,000 miles from London!  Nice palm-leaf circular hut to let for the summer months.  One room, diameter about 6.5 feet.  Suit single lady or gent. or Siamese twins.  Rent, 25 cowrie shells per week.

Splendid sea view obtainable from apex of roof.  Air very bracing, replenished with ozone thrice weekly by furious tornados.  Plenty of amusements.  Surf-bathing and pearl-diving (sharks permitted); head-hunting; frequent assegai and poisoned arrow competitions with human targets.

Cattle-stealing forays into the interior.  Cannibal orgies every evening, with specially fattened missionary served on Gala nights.  Dancing all day and every day to native tom-tom and ukulele band.  New tattooing parlour just opened under skilled management.  All the latest designs from Paris.  Nose-piercing and ear-lobe-elongating carried out while you wait.  Come and see the Solomons in all their glory!


UPERNAVIK (Greenland) — The Riviera of the Arctic!  Desirable detached igloo to let, standing on our ice-floe.  Very healthy situation, close to famous icy mountains.  Death-rate from mosquito-bite, heat apoplexy, and sunstroke, nil.  Reindeer garage, with hoof inspection-pit.  Admirable cold storage arrangements.  No drains.

Illumination by midnight sun and Northern Lights.  Magnificent sports centre.  Sealing, whaling, gnashing of teeth, penguin-racing. snow-balling, Pole-walking, etc. all free to visitors.

Daily kayak-excursions to neighbouring icebergs.  Special display of the aurora borealis every night.  Fresh blubber, spermaceti, and ambergris delivered daily.  For further particulars write Krakenbook and Angelink, Igloo and Iceberg Agents.


PING-PONG (China)  —  He-Tael Chow-Chow.  Velly plenty nice.  Plettily situated at mouth of Bung-Ho Liver.  Topside lestoulant, sepalate tables, seplate chopsticks, sepalate chop-suey.  Own gong-band plays nightly under dilection of Mr. Won Long Din.

Plivate opium den, fan-tan saloon, and Amerlican chin-chin bar.  Washee washee done on plemises.

Daily water-picnics in own motor-junk watchee muchee piecee pilates.  Palanguin excursions inland to visit celiblated joss-house.  Temple of Seven Sacled Saveloys.  Feast of Lanterns everly Saturday (Extresion Night); make foleign devils laugh topside.  Lesident medicine-man (Dr. Fu Manchu) and joss-pidgin-man (Rev. Too Long Tung).  Evelthing velly chop-chop.  Lite for full taliff to ploplietess, Mrs. Yung Kow.


SAHARA DESERT  —  Fine large tent to let, with use of touring caravan, situated near well-wooded oasis, completely fitted with date-palms, draw-well, camel-park, and praying carpets.  Suit party of ladies seeking abduction, or family with young children.

Splendid sands for youngsters to play on; camel-rides; birds’ nesting for ostrich-eggs.  Exciting sandstorms at frequent intervals.  Magnificent mirages daily, including personal appearance of the world-famous Fata Morgana herself at every performance. 

Arab raiding-parties in constant attendance...

CHUTNEEGATAWNEE (India)  —  Fine bungalow to let…  Keating’s insecticide used throughout the building…  Superb Bombay duck and mongoose shooting.  Tiger-hunting…  Largest stock of human-fed maneaters (plain or striped) in India.

Snake-charming performances daily…  Exhibitions of suttee, elephants, and extraction of Indian ink from cuttlefish.

Special August Bank Holiday attractions, including the burial alive of Yamayama, the world-famous Yogi, upside-down in a barrel of tallow…


N. DAKOTA  —  Stay at the commodious family wigwam, “Big Sea Water View,” under the management of Big Chief Hiawatha (“Roaring Cheese”).  Ample accommodation for braves and squaws. Papooses not objected to.

Excellent cuisine, under personal supervision of Old Nikomia, specially noted for its sturgeon, pike, pemmican, buffalo marrow, haunch of deer, hump of bison, yellow cakes and wild rice.

Flute-and-drum dance-band every evening.  Exhibition dances…  Every facility for recreation: quoits, ball-play, bowl-and-counters, plum-stones.

Outdoor attractions include scalping-parties, shooting the falls of Minnehaha, and canoe-racing on Gitchi Gumee.

Ashley Sterne Getting Into Hot Water

A short trifle from Ashley Sterne, republished on 25 September 1920 in the Richmond Guardian, Victoria.


Amongst the presents I received at Christmas was a most acceptable one in the shape of a hot-water bottle from my Aunt Louisa. Not only was it in the shape of a hot-water bottle, but it actually was a hot-water bottle.

Aunt Louisa always gives useful presents; I still cherish a blotting-book she gave me a few years ago, the cover of which is of wood decorated in pokerwork with a pelican swallowing a soused mackerel. I keep handkerchiefs in it, as the blotting-paper with which it is supplied must, I fancy, have come out of a post-office. It blots beautifully.  Yon couldn't blot a letter better if you rubbed your sleeve over it.

Then, too, I have a gorgeous knitted tie which I have preserved for many years, its rich variety of hues would put Joseph's coat to shame. It's the best pen-wiper I ever had.

I was delighted, of course, with the hot-water bottle. It was one of the kind that I had always coveted—india-rubber encased in a nice, red, fluffy jacket. During, the winter months I suffer agonies with frozen feet, especially in bed. I am certain that my feet could not possibly get colder if I used chunk of the North Pole as a hassock.

Before the bottle arrived I used to take my cat up to bed with me and induce it to repose on the eiderdown over my feet. But this device had its drawbacks, as the cat frequently imagined that my toes were mice. Twice in one night the animal killed my big toe, and after toying with it for half an hour tried to bite its head off through the bedclothes.

However, with the advent of Aunt Louisa's present, my troubles, I felt sure, would be at an end. They were. I'll tell you which end directly.

Now Aunt Louisa has a positive mania for working initials. I remember how it required all Uncle Peter’s tact and diplomacy to prevent her embroidering his initials on the cloth of his billiard-table. Consequently I was not surprised to find my own initials worked upon the red, fluffy jacket of the hot-water bottle.

Anxious to try its efficacy, I filled it with the hottest water I could produce.  I placed the bottle in my bed so that it could get busy putting up the temperature while I was undressing. This latter operation took me rather longer than usual because in my hurry I got knots in both my bootlaces. However, I got into bed eventually and switched off the light.

The bed was beautifully warm. I could have grown orchids or peaches in it.  It was quite nice to feel my feet again, notwithstanding that Charles — a chilblain which I thought I had drowned in iodine some weeks before — suddenly revived and began to tickle me. I soon dropped off to sleep.

An hour later I awoke to find the bed full of icicles and frost and snowballs. The cause of the trouble was, of course, the hot-water bottle. I had not omitted to screw the bottle's neck, though I admit there was another neck I badly wanted to screw when I at length discovered just what had occurred. Aunt Louisa in her excessive zeal had embroidered my initials not merely on the red, fluffy jacket, but with every stitch she took she had pierced the india-rubber cover, too.

Ashley Sterne Hunting a House

Here is one of Ashley Sterne’s clever Gladys Paggs stories, republished in the Richmond Guardian, Victoria, on 25 September 1920. 


Hunting a House

How Miss Paggs Nearly Secured a Home


The leases of both my own flat and the Paggs’s are up soon.  Round this catastrophe has been hatched a fiendish plot to hasten on my wedding with Gladys Paggs.  Now, if there’s one thing a man ought not to be hurried over it is his wedding.  It’s a very serious step he’s taking, and once taken he can’t undo it just as if it were a safety-pin or a home-made sock.

You’d think a girl would appreciate that point, but Miss Paggs didn’t.  She suddenly heard of a house to let, and that was taken as sufficient reason for getting a move on.  I said I didn’t want to live in a house.  I wanted to save up until we could live in a Park Lane mansion, and have a French maid named Suzanne for my wife and a valet named Wackerbath for me.

Gladys retorted that she’d life her wedding to come before her funeral, if possible, and would I just come round and look at the house?  She had already secured an order to view.

“Where is this insanitary hovel?” I asked, as we started off that afternoon.

“Number five Acacia Gardens,” said Gladys.

“Well, I don’t like acacias,” I objected.  “They attract the moth and lightning and hawkers and circulars.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Gladys.  “Did you ever know a house called ‘Belle Vue’ that looked out on anything but a bill-poster’s hoarding in front and a mews at the back?

“Then the drains will be all wrong,” I continued, “or there won’t be any at all, or the house will turn out to be haunted by the ghost of a woman who suffocated her husband with a patent mop and drowned all her children in the soap dish.”

“You do seem to meet trouble half-way,” commented Gladys, and immediately after that I ran into an errand-boy who met me just below the watch-chain.  He had a smut on his nose and a facial affliction that I took to be toothache, but which subsequently transpired to be chewing-gum.  He directed us to Acacia Gardens, and when we got there we found a queue of about twenty others — all men with notebooks who looked somewhat askance at Gladys and myself.  A policeman was at the gate keeping the queue in order, examining the orders to view, and passing the folks in two at a time at about intervals of a quarter of an hour.

Waiting our turn became a tedious business.  It was bitterly cold, and I felt myself catching chilblains in all directions.  Gladys’s nose went red, then blue, then heliotrope.  I sneezed seventeen times straight off the reel, and the man in front of me put up his umbrella.

“I think,” I said at last, “it will be quicker to go home and wait for the Park Lane mansion.  Here we are catching quinsies and pneumonia, and malaria and calceolaria, when we might be sitting by the fire holding one another’s thumbs and masticating crumpets.”

“Never mind,” said Gladys.  “Fancy, if we can one secure number five Acacia Gardens for our own!  Won’t it be worth the waiting?


I was about to reply that even the whole of the Zoological Gardens wasn’t worth waiting two hours and a half for with a blizzard blowing down the back of your neck, twenty degrees of frost in each boot, and the microbes of every disease known to pathology assaulting you at every unprotected spot, when the man in front looked round.

“Excuse me,” he said politely, “but did I hear this lady mention number five Acacia Gardens?


“You did,” I replied, “and as man to man I may tell you that she’s mentioned nothing else but Acacia Gardens at intervals during the whole of the day.”

“Well,” he continued, “I don’t know whether you know it, but this is number five Laburnum Gardens.”

I said I was very glad to hear it, as I much preferred laburnums to acacias.

“Laburnum Gardens!” cried Gladys.  “I must have put the address down wrong.  It is so easy to confuse acacias and laburnums.

“Quite,” I remarked.  “They’re only spelt differently, pronounced differently, and look differently.  Otherwise they’re exactly the same.

“May I inquire your object in waiting?” asked the man.

And we told him.  We opened our hearts to him.  We unbosomed ourselves to him.  We laid bare our souls to him.  I almost took off my boots and laid bare my heels to him.

“Guess you’ve made a mistake,” he said at length.  “Number five Acacia Gardens is doubtless to let.  Number five Laburnum Gardens was this morning the scene of a dastardly robbery.  Old lady found gagged with a Bath bun and bound to the piano-leg with her own boot-laces.  Thieves decamped with a pound of butter, a ton of coal, and the poor lady’s sugar card.  This queue is composed of reporters.  I represent the ‘Daily Mug.’  This means a couple of columns to me.”

“It means a temporary reprieve from a life-sentence for me,” I said cheerily.  “Come along, Gladys.”

She didn’t conceal her disappointment.  Inquiries at the house-agent’s later elicited the fact that number five Acacia Gardens had been let that very afternoon.

“I shall now try to secure a self-contained flat,” said Gladys, as we discussed the matter that evening.

Well, I can give her the name of one self-contained flat she’s secured already.

Ashley Sterne Empire Day Thoughts

Ashley Sterne’s article, “Empire Day Thoughts,” was reprinted in The Week, Victoria, B.C., June 14, 1913.  The original publication was in London Opinion.  My grasp of history is unfortunately too meager to understand most of Sterne’s Imperial jokes and allusions. 

There is the sad irony that the British Empire Sterne celebrates here would be dismantled in the decades following The Great War.  Empire Day, celebrated on Saturday May 24th in 1913, was subsequently demoted to Commonwealth Day in 1958, and is now celebrated (tepidly) on the second Monday in March.



This Saturday is Empire Day, the day when some of England’s youth may attempt to paint the town red in celebration of the even more noteworthy endeavours of our Empire-builders to dye the map a similar hue.

On this day, in many a hostel throughout the length and breadth of our dear Motherland, glasses will be raised — filled with the product of the still more expensive Vaterland — to “the glory of our blood and state”, to the deeds that have made England what she is today; to the projects that shall make her what she will be tomorrow.  Then will our youth be led gently home — in severe cases frog-marched — to wake some hours later to the conviction that to think imperially is a waste of time, while there is still so much good work to be done on the football field at home.

We are not taught to think imperially at a sufficiently early age.  We are expected to take an interest in Imperial affairs at times when we have all our work cut out to get our work out.  It is impossible for a man to give his mind to such a question as, for example, Colonial Preference, when his whole mental equipment is called upon to decide whether violet socks clash or harmonize with green Harris tweeds.

But if from the earliest days we are taught more about modern history and less about ancient, such questions would cause us scarcely any difficulty.  As it is, however, we know a vast deal about King Canute’s throwing burnt cakes into the sea; King John’s lamentable oversight in sending Magna Charta to the Wash; the extraordinary colour scheme in transporting the Black Prince to the Crusades in a white ship; Henry VIII’s offer of poison or dagger to Katharine the Paragon; and other landmarks that serve to indicate the progress of the British Constitution from an Absolute Monarchy to a test for sobriety.

But what, I ask, does the average man know of our more modern history?  I’ll willingly stake your last half-crown that if I were to stop the first man I met in the street and ask him to tell me the cause of the Chartist Riots, he would unhesitatingly reply, “Lloyd George.”  We take it for granted that so long as we can give within two places of decimals the dates of England’s stop-press news, we are at liberty to let the rest of the fruit go bad.

What we require is a broadening of the mind, even though it should necessitate a consequent readjustment in the latitude of our hats.  And this can only be brought about by a thorough spring-cleaning of our old systems.

With this end in view I have devised a short primer which covers the principal events in the story of our Empire, commencing with the capture of Ireland from the Nationalist, and culminating in the publication of the Half-Seas-Over Edition of the Daily Mail.  It shows how Columbus fitted out regardless of expense, and told to discover Canada under pain of having his licence endorsed.  I go on to tell the story of how Mr. Keir Hardie found India as she really isn’t.  For the first time in any history book I relate how G. L. Jessop, having thoroughly demoralized the dream of British trundlers, set out for fresh worlds to conquer, and hit on Australia.  I show how refugees flying from the burdens of a super-tax, ran slap into South Africa, and enriched the Union Jack with a large hunk of unused territory and Solly Joel.  I give the details of how Burgess, sauntering casually on his back down the Straits of Magellan, bumped his head against the pier on Desolation Island, found a Scotsman there, and ultimately decided that annexation — from a business point of view — was not worth while.  The narrative, too, is set forth of how the British occupation of Egypt ultimately came about through the untiring efforts of Messrs. Salmon & Gluckstein to produce a reliable cigarette at a popular price.  These, and many other absorbing accounts, equally true, are given in the picturesque and vivid style that is so peculiarly my own; and the illustrations are in the best possible taste.

If my work succeeds in its object of teaching men to think imperially from the time their early doors open, I shall feel that the time spent upon its production has not been uselessly filched from Greenwich Observatory.  Or if it so influences Mr. Someone of Surbiton, or Mr. Nobody of Norbury as to cause him to take but a passing interest in Imperial affairs, I feel that I shall not do down to posterity unhonoured, though it is possible I may go unhung. — London Opinion