For years, I have – secretly – gone to bed regularly with Martin Jarvis. We went public in the hallowed precincts of The Arts Club, Dover Street, around 9.30 p.m. on Sunday, July 15, embracing before enthused onlookers.

It was a moment of personal pleasure to receive from his hands the cow-creamer (contemporary Polish rather than Modern Dutch or 17th Century English) which a generous hierarchy had awarded for my modest part in Wodehouse Week. I just wish I had thought at this, our first meeting, to acknowledge to Martin how much I have enjoyed my bedtime routine of listening to his just-right readings of PGW on tape and CD. Along with the peerless Jonathan Cecil, Martin helps erase cares of the day and worries of the morrow, as he takes me so easily, late night, into the escapist World of Wodehouse. This was my moment – but we all had our many moments on a festival evening in the best traditions of The PG Wodehouse Society (UK), even if those traditions have been established over a mere ten years.

There were sixty-plus at dinner to round off A Week With Wodehouse. We spared a thought for the luckless Alison Pitman, whisked from our midst by the sudden demands of her work.

A dressy occasion

"Smart casual" was the order of the day, we were advised by the organisers – and it was a reminder of the sometimes idiosyncratic approach to dress of Plummies, a la Lord Emsworth, that this was interpreted to mean anything from T-shirts to Tad Boehmer’s slick tux (as I gather our friends from across the water call black tie).

We had one late extra guest for dinner in the shape of Henry "Blowers" Blofeld, a genuine Wodehouse enthusiast able to find time only for this evening rather than the whole tour. Knowing Henry much better than I do Martin Jarvis, I was deputed to welcome him and make him feel at home, which required minimal effort. Easy peasy, he was able to park right outside the Arts Club. How often does THAT happen to ordinary mortals?! And he escorted Wendy Harmon, who responded to my words of introduction by saying she knew the club quite well, thanks. She was in fact a member of its governing board.

The milling throng was soon buzzing happily in the Lounge, which exudes a distinct air of dignified age, but is in fact a reproduction, Club Chairman (and good PGW member) Mike Godbee assured me. The 18th Century building was bombed out in World War Two with only its façade surviving. It was rebuilt and reopened in 1956 and provided a magnificent setting for our dinner, for which we were very grateful. A feature is a superb tree, guessed to be “most likely a London Plane” in the delightful walled garden, towering above the rooftops, and something like 150 years old – a splendid spot for Summer evening relaxation.

Cricket groupies

Henry B was seized by our cricket-loving Indian visitors, Ranjitha Ashok and Sushmita Sen Gupta, who announced with much satisfaction that their pictures with the man behind the best known voice of radio cricket commentary would notably boost their status back home. And Bill Franklin from San Francisco grabbed autographs for the special benefit of his three-year-old son William EM, who identifies Henry’s OE tones on the BBC, to rush into Bill’s company, and announce breathlessly: “Daddy – cricket!”. That boy will go far …

Adjourned to the dining room, we were in the skilled hands of master of ceremonies Tony Ring. He'd have made a marvellous Butlin's Redcoat, with his ability to help a crowd enjoy itself. Formalities began with the Society’s Grace, elegantly given by classics tutor Roger Davies; guests that had not quite kept up their Latin were relieved to see the witty and Wodehousean translation in their menus. There followed excellent browsing and a modicum of sluicing and then, a moment of tribute, as Sir Edward Cazalet proposed the toast to Plum, his immortal step-grandfather, reminding us that this was the nicest, kindest man you could ever wish.

Around this stage, Tony called up the first of three groups given singularly appropriate PGW quotations to read – some mere snippets, others a mini-scenario, but all attuned precisely to the night. The range of Wodehouse’s World was emphasised by the varying accents – after all, there were nine nationalities enrolled for the Week – and Henry Blofeld could not resist opening with his catchphrase "My dear old things". It was about this moment that I suddenly remembered I was there not just as a Plum buff, but also as a reporter, charged with the onerous duty of recording the evening for the Society website. Normally nothing takes the gloss off a dinner more smartly than the realisation that you have to work there, but such is the euphoria of a Wodehouse night, that I continued to enjoy the evening just as much.

Psubdued psingers

However – with reluctance, but using to the full the freedom of the press, I must at this point record one distinct disappointment about the evening. Our community singing was not up to scratch, and the organisers may need to institute an inquiry.

Were we just not confident enough to let rip? (Surely not?)

Were we unfamiliar with the tunes? (Perhaps so – certainly with the verses, as distinct from the chorus.)

Or were we handicapped – as I was – by inability in the shaded lighting to read the words on the elegant menu? (With the best of intent, this was lettered in gold – the result being distinctly hard to follow.)

Our splendid pianist, Tony Britten, did a marvellous job but even he could not get us into full-throated action for Boiled Beef and Carrots; Rolled Into One (by PGW and Jerome Kern); or Burlington Bertie. (A thought: perhaps we could be set homework to learn and rehearse all three. Come the next dinner in seven years, or whenever, we should make a fair fist of it.)

Leaving it to the professionals

Much better were the contributions from members who had gallantly volunteered to stand and sing for their dinner. Doug Jeffords began with a tribute 'Dear Old London', and revealed himself to be the possessor of a very good voice, which had certainly not suffered from years of shouting orders as a senior officer in the United States Navy.

Paul Abrinko and Monika Eckfield, who had been distinctly a happy couple on tour, were delightful in Plum’s sweetly sentimental duet 'You Never Knew About Me' (lovers wondering how they would have faced each other as children) which was also recorded by Hal Cazalet et al on their Wodehouse album a few years ago.

Not the Market Snodsbury prizegiving

Martin Jarvis then was called up to present the tour prizes, the daily quiz winners being John Graham, Karen Shotting, Elin Murphy and Kris Fowler with Kris taking the overall award. Despite some dispute as to whether Americans – or indeed one Australian – qualified for the award for contestants not having English as their native language, this went, to universal applause, to Tamaki Morimura, translator of PGW into Japanese. Tad Boehmer scooped The Organisers’ Special Award for Helpfulness and then came the presentation of the cow creamer, donated by Jamie Jarret and awarded for the Most Helpful Ephemeral Contribution. Modesty naturally forbids my naming its recipient.

Martin, having shaken hands with, or been embraced by, the prizewinners, was called on for his party piece – introduced with recollections of his Broadway role as Jeeves, when an early performance was disrupted by a mobile phone. This brought the impromptu line from John Shearer as Bertie: “Did I hear a cell-phone?” Martin responded: “I hardly think so, Sir. They have not been invented yet.” He told us: “I was so pleased that I had it written into the show for the rest of the run”.

The room was hushed as he began a reading of Fixing It For Freddie, with Bertie’s scene-setting explanation – and then a gasp of delighted recognition swept the tables as we heard those sonorous tones of Jeeves, so familiar from Martin’s recorded readings. The tale runs to all of 7,500 words – and it was not a word too long, as the crash of continuous applause confirmed. A sighting later of Martin’s script, with its markings to indicate presentation requirements, was a reminder of just how professional is a professional.

Then it was back to the songs, first a capella by Arthur Findlay which, as Tony said in his introduction, was surely a Wodehouse event “first”. Wikipedia informs me that this is “vocal or music or singing without instrumental accompaniment, originally intended to differentiate between Renaissance polyphony and baroque concertato style”. It worked out rather well, Arthur alternating between singing and a sort of recitative which made you listen closely for the full impact. Now all he has to do is polish up on his Renaissance polyphony and baroque concertato for the next tour programme.

Wodehouse dinners have one unassailable musical tradition, that Lara Cazalet should sing 'Bill' and then the encore always demanded to the accompaniment of cheers, table-thumping and the stamping of feet. We were promised what amounted to a revolution this night: Lara would sing 'Till the Clouds Roll By' with diners privileged to join in the chorus. But to our regret we learned that Lara, while contributing by modelling the special Week tea-towels most effectively (yes, tea-towels CAN be modelled), was unable to sing because of throat trouble.

So Bill became the responsibility of Tamaki, who was simply top-hole, bringing out the pathos in the song that at first was not considered good enough for public performance, until it became a hit in Showboat. If there had been an award for costume of the night, then Tamaki would have won by a mile, as she wore some floating creation whose details entirely escape this (male) reporter, but whose overall effect was stunning.

Wodehouse programmes are constructed usually with much careful preparation, but we learned that Karen Shotting and Carey Tynan had never met before the Week, agreed to sing a duet only by email exchange and, like the others, had to make do with a quick run-through with accompanist Tony just before the formalities. They were lots of fun and they got better and better as they advanced from email planning to actual presentation.

Soup to Nuts but no pork

Chairman Hilary Bruce first had the pleasing duty of thanking all who had contributed to the evening, and the festive days just gone, voicing our unanimous agreement that it had been great fun – and then, the melancholy task of closing the Week. There were truly tears in various eyes as Wodehousians, many of whom had never met until the previous Sunday, said their goodbyes and vowed eternal communication.

One shadow hung over the jaunty scene – the absence of Pighooey. Our beloved Jean Tillson, anglophile extraordinaire, now clothed in the dignity of President of The Wodehouse Society, was obliged to remain at home in Massachusetts, preparing for the October Convention.

Those of us who will not make it to Providence, Rhode Island can only envy those who will, as they throw themselves with gusto into yet another of the extravaganzas that make such a stimulating, rewarding, joyous occasion for the Wodehouse enthusiast.

Tour photographs taken by Tamaki Morimura and added to Hetty Litjens' website (click here)