On this, the opening day of his cyber portal, Sir Gerald has hand picked an extract from his first memoir to share with you. Remember, if you enjoy this, "The Not Very Civil Servant" is available from all respectable bookshops and reassuringly highly priced. None of this need to reduce it due to low sales. Oh no indeed.

Taken from Chapter Five of "The Not Very Civil Servant" by Sir Gerald Horatio Benson, this extract shows Sir Gerald (or Mr Benson as he was in those days) dealing with his intellectual inferiors without ever losing his cool. He is about to leave for an important trip to America and, as always, his quest for a quiet life is meeting with all manner of disruptions.

The lavatory (or “bath room” as I would have to get used to calling it across the pond) was easily found. It took basically no effort to locate. Nor was getting inside a problem - the door was labeled in the traditional manner and swung open without a sound. The air was filled with something which smelled not completely dissimilar to flowers. If I may put it thus, if flowers are Brazil then this was the smell of Bolivia. I was thrown slightly when there was a uniformed gentlemen standing with a towel over his arm and a fixed smile upon his face. He was wearing a tasteful gold badge which read Tarquin. His hair was begelled (and if that isn't a word then it jolly well ought to be) and his skin just the right side of tanned. He welcomed me almost immediately.

“Good morning sir, I am the lavatory valet, my name is Tarquin. Do please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your brief stay here more comfortable.”

“Thank you” was the best I could manage.

“Would sir like a short shoulder massage, it is thought very helpful before a long flight.” His words appealed - a weekend with Mrs. Benson and an hour with my colleagues had left me knotted and fraught. I removed my jacket, handed it to Tarquin (who hung it up with genuine style) and sat on the indicated stool. Tarquin placed his hands on my shoulders with masculine force. He squeezed them for a minute or so and then slowly began to move them. The feeling was rather nice and I felt better almost immediately. He moved his hands up to my neck and really got his iron fingers into the fibers. Not literally of course - I merely attempt to add some colour. This was rapidly turning into my most enjoyable visit to the toile since my teenage years when the auto flush mechanism built into the urinals burst into life like that volcano which so spoilt Pompeii. I would have assumed that Tarquin would have been prepared for this but from the way he spasmed I must have been wrong. Unfortunately he was still clutching my neck when he jolted with the result that my neck also jolted. It locked into an upright position (more memories of my teenage years) and wouldn't move.

“Help” I gasped.

“Ah.” he replied helpfully. “I don't know any first aid. Sorry”

“Do you think it will wear off?” I asked with hushed panic.

“Maybe. Maybe not. This has never happened before. Apart from the other time it happened.” He didn't sound as if that story had a happy ending.

“What happened to him?”

“He died.”

“Because of his neck?”

“No - it was a teacher of mine from Valet school. Passed away last year after a dose of adultery.” This was getting us nowhere. To make matters worse, my bladder began reminding me of the reason I came into the toilet in the first place. I told Tarquin to point me in the direction of the cubicle and open the door. He duly obliged and I found myself standing over a receptacle that I couldn't actually see. It gave me insight into the life of a fat man. I could just about stifle the pain enough to unzip my trousers and relieve myself. I could smell a new aroma as I performed. It had nothing to do with me I hasten to add. It was stronger than before but still floral. Maybe Venezuela or Argentina to continue the earlier analogy. There was a slosh, the provenience of which I was unable to determine. I finished my actions, zipped myself up and turned round. An oil tanker could have maneuvered more nimbly but I reached 180 degrees eventually. I lifted my arm to the lock and slid it back. It took everything I had left. I pushed the door open (it was one of those damn outwardly opening doors) and heard it collide with something metallic. Tarquin yelped as water sloshed from his bucket and covered the floor. It became obvious that the earlier sloshing had been Tarquin cleaning a bottle of liquid that he had knocked off the counter in the jolting incident. The water must have cascaded from the bucket and rebounded off the wall. It sent a wave back in my direction and soaked the bottom of my trousers. My socks too. Tarquin watched this with horror. His apologies reached new heights as he observed my battered and moist state. He may have been imagining a scene where he was ordered to appear before the Valets Council and sentenced to a life of scrubbing old men such as Sir Davenport or Mr. Piggot in a rest home. The carpet soaked up much of the water - a fine pile - and Tarquin suggested I should remove my trousers. He indicated that he had a hair drier which he could use to dry my lower garment. My jacket was still hanging safely on a small hook so that was a comfort. I reluctantly removed my “pants” (more American) and handed them over. I pulled my shirt down as far as it would go - one has one's modesty plus one was becoming concerned over a picture that hung near my jacket of Tarquin standing next to Elton John. As Tarquin blew on my trousers, not personally of course, I moved to the sink to wash my hands. One has one's standards you know. With the aid of the mirror I was able to see well enough to find the soap. My hands were lathered as I attempted to operate the tap. I was operating with touch alone so must have given it an unwise twist. The tap came away in my hand and water shot out of it. Not the part that was in my hand you understand - the water came from the part that was left. It was a stroke of luck that the water emerged in such a high arc that it went right over my head (one of the few things ever to do that). Less lucky was that, in the mirror, I saw the jet of fluid hit Tarquin, my trousers and the wall. It trickled down and reached the socket into which the hair drier was plugged. The resulting explosion shot flame from the hair drier into my trousers. It just had to hit the one dry bit didn't it. Just my luck. Tarquin flung the flaming garment to the floor and began to shake his singed hand. How selfish can one get - he seemed to have totally forgotten me and my problems. He rushed over to the sink, pushed he out of the way and cooled his hand under the one functioning tap left. Curious thing was that the shove and subsequent collision with the wall fixed my neck problem. I turned painlessly and surveyed the carnage. The water level in the room was slowly rising as the carpet reached it’s storage capacity. Tarquin leapt up to the counter (sending bottle of floral smelling fluids flying) to keep dry. I was already wet so stayed where I was. Steam rose from what was left of my trousers and I knew they were beyond hope.

“Tarquin, give me your trousers” I said in my best voice.

“Why ?”

“Because you have ruined mine and I cannot go to a shop and buy a new pair like this.” That is the marvelous thing about airports - one can buy just about everything there. Gone are the days when they stocked a few paperbacks and bags of boiled sweets. I had already noticed a branch of Dawson and Son Gentlemen's Outfitters on one of the concourses. I explained this to Tarquin and he reluctantly agreed. He shuffled out of his trousers, staying on the counter while he did so, and threw them over to me. I climbed up onto the toilet seat and put them on. They were rather a good fit and surprisingly dry considering what their former occupier had been through. I climbed gently down and tip toed across the river. I told Tarquin that I would be back in no more than 10 minutes, collected my jacket and left. It was only when I was outside that I came to the conclusion that these were actually nicer trousers that the ones I had recently lost. They even matched my jacket. They certainly adorn their staff well in British Airports. Well, in the first class area anyway. I strolled away from the toilet humming and hoped that someone would find Tarquin before he drowned. It had been a strange and messy business.

Actually, as I write this it has struck me that the above might actually have been the plot of the Norman Wisdom film we saw on the plane. Although, if that were true then I must have got the new trousers some other way. I forget.

Mrs Vinglandd was elsewhere when I retook my seat so I whipped out my novel (not ‘my’ novel as this is my first novel, although it shouldn't be confused with fiction of course, but a tome purchased on Saturday morning. Classical scholars would turn their noses up at literature from a supermarket but it had 17% off so I would have been a fool to turn it down.) It was entitled “Suicide is a Lifestyle Choice” and that should have told me that it was not my sort of book. The first chapter dealt with the narrator's decent into a life of depression and self inflicted injuries. It contained seven words that I had never heard before and three practices which, since coming to power, I have made illegal. I read the second chapter and began to hope that the afore mentioned character would go ahead with his suicidal ambitions. I dropped the offending item into the nearest bin and set off to buy something better.

Ten minutes later I was back with the latest Jeffrey Archer, Portarlington Priques’ “Claude St Moritz and the Case of the Crumbling Cathedral” and this month’s Chap magazine. It had that blonde woman from that television show on the cover. Her bottom featured heavily throughout the issue but I had no interest in that. I found my seat but my bag was missing. I looked round and saw two large security guards carrying it away.

“Hoy” I exclaimed.

“Sir ?” said LSG (large security guard) 1.

“That’s my bag” I said truthfully.

“We have received orders that it is a suspicious package and we’re going to blow it up.” replied LSG 2.

“But it isn't suspicious - it’s mine”

“It was left alone. Like a bomb” said LSG 2.

“But I was only away a moment.”

“We have found that 97% of bombers leave their bombs before detonating them.”

“Only 97% ?”

“The research has a 3% margin of error”

“But if you open it you’ll see it isn't a bomb”

“If it was a bomb then opening it might make it explode.”

“But it’s my bag and I would have noticed a bomb”

“How do we know it is yours ?”

“Because it is. If I open it then I’ll prove it is mine.”

“But if you’re wrong then we’ll all be blown up.”

“Why don't I go over there” I pointed “and open it. Then only I will be blown up.”

“So you admit there is a bomb in it.”

“No - there is no bomb in my bag. There is nothing suspicious about me”. At this point Tarquin appeared wearing overalls and accused me of stealing his trousers.

“Nothing suspicious sir ?” said LSG 1 sarcastically.

“There is a difference between bombs and trousers” I offered.

“Flares can be both bombs and trousers” said Tarquin. I suspected he was deliberately trying to drop me in it.

“See sir.” said LSG 2. They turned and started taking my bag away again. I once more stepped in.

“Why do you want to blow it up ?”

“It is the only perk in this job.”

“Couldn't we come to any arrangement ?” I hinted.

“Are you offering a bribe sir ?”

“If you want one.”

“£50 and you can have your bag back.”

“My pleasure” I lied “My wallet is in my bag.”

“But If I give you the bag then you might blow us up.”

“But if you really think there is a bomb in it then why are you prepared to give it back to me for a mere £50 ?”

“You’re right - make it £100.”

“You would risk the lives of every body in this airport for £100 ?” I was straying from my point.

“But you said there was no bomb.” LSG 1 said

“There isn't.”

“But you said there was.”

“No I didn't - you said there was a bomb and I said there wasn't. You said I could bribe you to give me my bag back, I said that you shouldn't do that if you think there is a bomb. Since you did make the suggestion then it stands to reason that there can't be a bomb. QED now give me my bag.” I had them in a logical head lock. But they had guns.

“But you might be a suicide bomber.” Was LSG 1’s reaction.

“Do I look like a suicide bomber ?” Which was a silly thing to say since no one knows what suicide bombers look like - pretty much the moment they became suicide bombers they tend to be blown up.

“Let’s assume for one moment that you’re not a bomber, which would mean we don't get to blow anything up. We like blowing things up.”

“Then why not become bombers yourselves.” I really should curb my incredible wit.

“That sounded like an insult Darren” said LSG 1. That made LSG2 Darren. It suited him.

“Damn right Tristan.” said Darren. LSG 1 = Tristan. That was unexpected. They once more turned and started to leave with my bag. I grabbed Tristan’s shoulder. He swung round and tried to punch me. I flung myself to the floor and covered my head. He contented himself with punching my bag. Which was a silly thing if he actually thought there was a bomb in it. I heard a cracking sound (not as in a sound that was cracking (meaning fun, super, exciting, pleasant, desirable, pleasurable etc.) but a literal cracking sound) and knew that my imitation porcelain statuette of The Tower of London was gone for ever. I had bought it to use it for barter should the need arise in America. They are all suckers for genuine British artefacts. Even fake ones. I clambered to my feet and brushed some imaginary dust from my person. I returned to the matter of the bag.

“I can hear something” said Darren. He held the bag up to his ear. “It’s ticking”. Just my luck - his fist had started my alarm clock. The situation was rapidly descending into cliché and ludicrousness. I had to put my foot down before a vicar with big teeth showed up.

“It’s not a bomb” I said. Darren didn't hear me and hurled the bag as far as he could. Which wasn't far as the shoulder strap became tangled in his preposterously chunky “combat-style” wrist watch. The bag swung down, collided with his leg and a fragment of the tower of London sliced through the leather and into his shin. He turned his face to me and I saw the most horrific grimace this side of Sir Davenport. He loomed in my direction but was halted by a voice.

“What is going on here ?” It inquired. It was Laura. I explained, then Darren explained, then Tarquin and Tristan put their opinions into the mix and it ended with all four of us speaking at once. Laura yelled “Enough.” and we were silent. She grabbed my bag from the injured security man, handed it to me and pulled me out of the danger zone. I looked back to see Darren and Tristan slapping each other over who was to blame. Tristan seemed to be winning while Tarquin tried to break it up. He got a bloody nose for his trouble.