KOPPELMAN IN BLIGHTY

The music critic Bob Koppelman's annual trip to London was the highlight of his autumn tour of Europe. He loved the pronounced transition from late summer to autumn where the leaves fell from the trees like discarded sweet wrappers and where even the famously dreaded British combination of cold and wet brought about a welcome atmospheric contrast to the insufferable heat he had endured back in New York City for the past four months.

"As someone who carries a considerable amount of weight around my middle; 'bit of a bay window, eh what?' I find too often that my beloved T-shirts stick uncomfortably to the old 'bicycle tyres' and get all caught up in the 'nooks and crannies'. Therefore it a genuine relief to find myself wearing an actual shirt and jumper and feeling as if I am well assimilated with the terrible Brit weather we're currently having."

Since arriving in England, Bob had been enjoying using his own collection of quaint phrases and idioms borrowed from the Brits in his latest blog posts and video updates. He had an almost tourettic compulsion to keep talking and writing in this way and doubted it would stop the entire time he was enjoying his holiday abroad.

"I've come over all Dick Van Dyke since arriving in London and I have absolutely no intention of reverting back to my American persona. If only for the sole reason it infuriates all my stuck up English colleagues who think I'm 'taking the piss' out of them. Gor blimey Governor! Get a bloody move on!"

Aside from the various classical concerts Bob planned to attend he also felt it would be fun to sneak in a couple of the music society lectures he had gotten wind of through his inner circle of internet spies, after all, he rather fancied bumping into some of his old adversaries of "not so Merry England." Persona non gratis amongst his English peers since exposing the nepotistic corruption of the classical music critics in Blighty and their recent, suspiciously uncritical devotion to the mop haired conductor Felix Christopher, an over enthusiastic student of the repertoire to Bob's mind.

"I'm afraid we haven't seen such adulation of a mop haired musician since the Beatles. Only Christopher is no Beatle. Or at best he's an infinitesimally small one. A Ptiliidae if you will. Gawd luv a duck."

Bob was especially proud of his focus on exposing the connection to unwaveringly positive reviews of Felix Christopher's recordings and critics on the payroll to the flagship British record company AMI.

"One thing I can assure you, dear readers, is that there's nothing these old boys love more than a bit of 'bread and honey' (money) to inspire their excessively gushing reviews of mediocre talents. It's been this way for years and they hate that it took a yank to reveal their con job. Haha! If anything happens to me while I'm away please note that I am of sound mind. In other words Koppelman did not kill himself. Wink, wink!"

Unable to afford even a single night at the Savoy, Bob decided to enjoy at least an afternoon tea at London's grandest hotel.

"Scones and tea are just the thing when you're in London town. What's even better is having it all to yourself and not having to share it with some ungrateful travel companion. God knows the times I've wished I was travelling in solitude."

But just as he put the finishing touches to the latest entry in his notebook, a man's deep, resonant voice broke his train of thought.

"Dr Koppelman, I presume."

Bob looked up at the familar mop haired man and greeted him as if he hadn't just had an internal panic attack at being caught alone with his cream tea for two.

"Why, if it isn't the magnificent Felix Christopher."

"You've got some cream on your cheek," the conductor said, clearly delighted he had drawn 'first blood' in their conversation, pointing out the white blob on Bob's face.

"Ah. I'm the cat that got the cream, I fear," Bob replied in his best Dick Van Dyke, seemingly oblivious to embarrassment thus far in their first ever exchange.

"I may as well join you. Unless, that is, you're expecting company."

"Well I ..."

"Perfect. That's settled then."

The conductor unwound his scarf from his neck and took off his coat then set about enjoying one of Bob's scones without any hesitation, smothering copious amounts of cream on top of it with the critic's knife that he'd nabbed without permission.

"Help yourself why don't you?"

"I thought I would. You owe me far more than a scone. Your attack videos and blogs on my work and career have earned you record amount of clicks and views I believe."

Bob now realised that the initial pleasantries were more passive agressive than genuine.

"It's gratifying to know you've been studying my metrics. However, you really shouldn't take what I say personally, my boy. It's an opinion. Like arseholes. Everyone's got one."

"Yeah, well. My opinion is that you're an arsehole. A professional arsehole."

Though he would never admit it to the precocious conductor, Bob was secretly feeling enraged about his scone being devoured by the smug musician without any thought for asking if it was okay. It was psychological warfare as he saw it and what made it even worse was the disgusting way Felix dipped his knife now covered in cream deep into the pot of fresh strawberry jam.

"I thought you English were meant to be the epitome of etiquette when it comes to your food. Maybe I'm mistaken."

Felix smiled back at the critic, mouth crammed full of scone, jam and cream.

"You've got some cream on your cheek," Bob said pointing at the conductor's face.

Dabbing at the cream with his finger and then eating it, Mr Christopher clearly relished any opportunity to wind up Koppelman further.

"Does my manner make you uncomfortable? Would you say I've overstepped the mark by eating one of your scones?"

"If I wasn't a gentleman I would undoubtedly say you've overstepped the mark."

Felix clapped his hands together, enjoying Bob's touche.

"Now for some tea."

The conductor hailed a passing waiter and commanded him to bring him his very own cup as Bob could feel his blood pressure rising.

"What was it, lad? My takedown of your Beethoven 5? Your Sibelius 2?

Dabbing away at the jam at the side of his mouth, Felix finally put Bob's napkin down that he'd briefly taken hostage.

"Neither. It was your review of my Schoenberg disc."

Suddenly empowered by Christopher's honest answer, Koppelman took the opportunity to breathe on his glasses and give them a clean with the pristine table cloth.

"So much for decorum!" Felix shook his head at Bob's uncouth method of cleaning his glasses.

"Listen. You're a big boy now. I think we can both admit that disc was an unmitigated disaster."

Now it was Bob's time to turn the tables. "I've got you you little shit," he thought to himself privately.

"Well. How about you start thinking about your weight, you obese little yank nerd before you break that chair you're sitting on. I'll be off now but before I do let me  help you watch your weight by taking a couple more of these for my taxi ride to the airport."

And with that he stood up, put on his stylish light brown winter coat and plopped two scones into the deep dark depths of his right pocket.

"Those'll be a little dry without any cream."

"You're a little dry without any cream!"

Bob laughed. He lived for this type of infantile conversational combat

"Where are you off to? Back to music college?"

Wrapping his red telephone box scarf around his neck, the young conductor smirked.

"I'm off to your neck of the woods. New York, New York. They're begging me to take over the NY Phil. We'll be able to spend a lot more time together in the Big Apple Bob. I'll make sure to play plenty of Schoenberg for your delectation."

And with that he winked at Koppelman and snatched the final scone, leaving him truly bereft.

"Bastard! Waiter!"

To compensate for his upset, Bob ordered another round of scones and contemplated his revenge on Mr Christopher. Frantically scribbling in his notebook, he put down his first thoughts into words.

"Some say the way to an Englishman's heart is through his stomach. Well having seen the way Mr Christopher eats, I'm surprised he doesn't conduct with more guts. Only time will tell whether he can deliver a full course meal or leave us forever wanting more."

Content with his preparatory future line of attack, Bob tried to get back to the business of scones and tea before any further thought of his latest adversary invited the onset of indigestion.

Later, on his way back through Hyde Park, Bob was delighted to hear his favourite Elgar piece being played by a small string ensemble in the Victorian bandstand as the late afternoon sun began its steady retreat.

"Hearing the Cockaigne Overture carried on the cold and misty November air and thinking of that smug bastard's face, makes me think I might move here to Blighty permanently. Who knows? Perhaps we can switch apartments like in that delightful movie 'The Holiday'. Finally, I might be able to infiltrate the secret circle of Brit music critics and break up their circle jerk once and for all. Tally ho! The game is afoot!"