swing to bop

Any jazz lover will know what BOP is. On the other hand, a birder will instinctively interpret the term as an acronym for bird of prey. Men of a certain age will give it yet another meaning: Boy’s Own Paper. I’m a jazz lover, a birder and a self-confessed former avid reader of the magazine. Note the apostrophe in the title, suggesting the magazine was mine and mine alone. If I was intended to share it, I figured the apostrophe would come after the s.


I hadn’t thought about BOP for about 50 years until I encountered a herd of cows. And I immediately recalled a tale I read from its pages when I was about 9 years old.

In the story, an intrepid explorer found himself alone and lost during a trek in the African jungle, or perhaps it was a remote part of the Hindu Kush. He’d left his gun behind, or maybe he’d lost it or run out of bullets. My memory is not what it used to be.

When he was at his weakest and most despairing, he suddenly found himself surrounded by a pride of lions, or tigers, or cheetahs. His situation was desperate. The panthers, or cougars, were evidently hungry. They sat eyeing him, slavering at the jowls and licking their licks with all the delicacy of a pack of starving wolves. Maybe they were wolves, come to think of it.

Then, the creatures started to circle him, crouching low like tabby-cat stalking a mouse. The explorer reached for his gun which would normally have been slung across his back. His hand felt something hard and long and he grasped it with a trembling fist, and dragged it quickly round to the front. With a sinking heart, he discovered it was no more than an umbrella. He was English, obviously.

What does the man do? As the big cats slowly close in for the kill, he waits until he can almost smell what they had for breakfast. And, as the leader of the pack (pride?) crouches for the ultimate tail-swishing gory leap, our intrepid hero opens the umbrella at the same time as emitting a blood-curling yell. The cats scattered and disappeared back into the bush, frightened by the awesome sight of an Englishman armed with a decorously rose-printed small bore umbrella.

If you’ve ever walked over London Bridge during a wet rush hour, you’ll appreciate that fear of the umbrella is not irrational. Big cats never risk having their eyes poked out.

The explorer lived to tell the tale. So did we. Cows can be dangerous, too. A herd of them were grazing below the bank of the River Great Ouse. As we approached, the entire bunch of them suddenly broke into a canter and hurtled up the grassy slope to greet us in one beef-mountainous stampede. I had an instant replay of the story from BOP and cursed my foolishness for not carrying a gamp. I’ve always wondered why Nicholas Crane always has an umbrella strapped to his rucksack. He never uses it in the rain, but then as far as I’m aware he’s never been attacked by a herd of thirsty jaguars. But I suppose it’s there if he ever needs it on his walks into big game jeopardy around Beachy Head.

Lacking umbrellas, we utilised our cameras so at least our next-of-kin would have photographic evidence of the culprits should we be trampled underfoot. The cows halted instantly and posed considerately, turning their more elegant profiles towards us and, while they were engrossed in their own self-importance and conceit, we slipped by unharmed.

I’ve now bought an umbrella and give thanks for the wonderful Boy’s Own Paper