Lapsang Oolong and Water Cress - TV Guide Nov 1966

Our British correspondent drops in for tea at U.N.C.L.E. Hq., U.S.A. By Ronald Searle

"Cup of tea, Mr. Searle?" The voice was polite and measured. "Have no fear - it is our own special blend, computer checked, X-rayed for hostile bodies and transported here, leaf by leaf, by our own Mr. Kuryakin, over devious routes not unknown to Marco Polo." He placed two teaspoonfuls into the already warmed pot. "And one for the pot, as my mother used to say," he added. "Fine woman. They don't make them like that nowadays. Now where was I? Ah, yes...transported here by our own Mr. Polo along routes not unknown to Marco Solo. Plucked from bushes in the Pleasure Grounds belonging to the president of a great foreign power, which shall remained nameless. We call it Lapsang Oolong. The tea, that is; not the country of course." It was reassuring to know that the director of all that incredible, all-powerful, international organization U.N.C.L.E., occupied though he might be with matters of such moment that presidential burdens appear featherweight by comparison, was still able to give minute attention to the minor pleasures of life. Say what you like, you can't beat the English gentleman for calm - especially when it is coupled with cunning. In the face of such formidable direction, how could Thrush and its evil like ever overcome these powers of G.O.O.D.? Evil the enemy certainly is. "And foreigners too, dammit," as Mr. Waverly said. "No offense meant, of course." Here in the inner sanctum of U.N.C.L.E. Hq., U.S.A., while my ears still rang from the chaos of impenetrable steel doors closing behind me on my arrival, the lace doilies under the death-ray pistol on the desk strikes a friendly note which was echoed by the chintz tablecloth and the authentic Chipping Campden scones which were set out before us. Flanking them were plates of water-cress sandwiches, and seedcake of such authenticity that I was immediately transported back to my youth and memories of choking at Sunday school treats. The silence was rudely shattered by a high-pitched buzz which seemed to come from a plate before us. With a movement rapid for a man of mature years, Mr. Waverly excused himself and raised a water-cress sandwich to his ear. He listened intently... "Yes...Yes...All dead, you say, Mr. Solo? Congratulations! Proceed at once to Geneva. I shall close the file here... Eh?... I don't understand what, Mr. Solo?... Oh, you mean it is our organization there which has been wiped out... Er yes, that does make a difference, doesn't it?... Very well, Mr. Solo, make yourself a cup of tea while I inform next of kith - er - kin." He replaced the cunningly disguised receiver and thoughtfully brushed some cress from his ear. The calm and control of the man was truly astounding in the face of events which would have stunned a lesser being. "Where was I?" he said. "Ah, yes... as I said, transported here by devious routes not unknown to Napoleon... er, one lump or two, Mr. ... er... Seal?" It seemed an age since I had walked the length of That Corridor, after being fingerprinted, photographed, computerized, alpha-rayed, gamma-rayed, mechanically frisked and damn near filleted. Now here, inside this mighty fortress, it was difficult to believe that I was anywhere but taking tea in a gentle country vicarage, far removed from sordid undercurrents of international intrigue and decisions upon which the lives of many millions depended - save, that is, for the impenetrable steel casing in which we sat; the electrical fence of many millions of volts which surrounded us; the myriad flashing lights on the massed control panels covered by buttons which, at a touch, could bring the heads of most civilized states running from their foundation-stone laying; and also, the fact that I was rather in the way of the cameras on Stage 10 at MGM studios, Culver City, Cal. Despite the efforts of the effects department with its smoke bombs, the air of calm on the set reflected the air of calm which typifies the three main characters involved in The Man from U.N.C.L.E. There may be an echo of Bond in the fantasy of the situations, but that by no means diminished the suspense. With Robert Vaughn, David McCallum and Leo G. Carroll to give credibility to the incredible nonsense of most of the installments, what might have been merely another juvenile comic strip is jacked up to the level of thoroughly enjoyable rubbish. They know that we know and we know that they know that the whole thing is a great big send-up and that if Mr. Waverly pressed too firmly on one of those International-Intercom-Supersensitized-Holocaust buttons, far from blasting us to kingdom come, it would be more likely to fall out and get stuck in a crack between the floor boards. Ronald Searle is a satirical comic artist best known for creating the "Girls of St. Trinian's" series about a British girls' school full of demonic, gin-swigging juvenile delinquents. It was later made into a film series. Thanks to Paul W for the information and scanning this article!

TV Guide cover (80K) "And one for the pot, as my mother used to say." (44K) NS and IK under attack (93K) Say what you like, you can't beat the English gentleman for calm - especially when it is coupled with cunning (40K)