The summer sun bursts through the poplars, dappling the trimmed lawn and shrubs of London's Bedford Square and spraying revellers with the requisite modicum of sunlight. To the right sits a large marquee, where Hendrick's gin and tonics with cucumber are being dispensed to the thirsty and weak of will. A DJ hand-winds an ancient gramophone while a brass band, in full British military evening regalia and boasting an obstreperous euphonium, sit ready to belt out rousing naval shanties and ditties such as Battle of Britain. To the left flutters a Union Jack and some stout armchairs. Behind stands Atters, a dedicated chap in rowing cap, boating blazer, cravat, cream sports trousers and white plimsolls, twirling a walrus-like moustache to rival that of cult British comic actor Terry-Thomas.
Atters is favourite to win bounders, an 'olympic' event in which six rakish, ill-intentioned cads whisper unsavoury sweet-nothings to a pretty maiden. The winner is the recipient of the loudest slap to the cheek, all the while maintaining a smirk. At the starting pistol, the cads meander towards the ladies (a chap never runs - besides, judges dock points for perspiration), checking apparel with aplomb, swivelling malacca canes and tilting hats before delivering their ill-advised observations.
One competitor, in pinstripe suit, spats and trilby, tries the 'viking manoeuvre' and lifts his prey into the shrubbery. 'Bad show,' hoots the crowd. Another bids to cheekily woo a woman holding a baby. 'What's this?' exclaims the compere. 'Someone has already produced an infant. Quite extraordinary.' But there is only one winner here: Atters. He receives the golden bowler on the podium to a chorus of hip-hip hoorays.
'I simply used my moustache as nature intended, blew cigar smoke in her face and uttered some words about the Paps of Anu [two hills revered by the ancient Celts as fertility symbols],' says the victor.
Welcome to the third Chap & Hendrick's Olympiad, in Bloomsbury, in the centre of the British capital. 'An audacious sporting day,' according to the promotional literature, 'where athleticism is not required, competitors better judged on their style, intellect, wit and cut of trouser ... showing what the British do best: dressing inappropriately and making buffoons of ourselves.'
The olympiad is half Henley regatta circa 1950, half Bertie Wooster convention. A 1940s garden party meets 20s Chariots of Fire-style sports day. Part burlesque, part theatre, part pantomime, it bears more than a passing resemblance to Monty Pythons' Upper Class Twit of the Year Show. Whatever it is, the olympiad is a burgeoning event. Some 800 spectators are expected, most dandily dressed men and women, plus 80 contestants vying for the golden cravat.
The olympiad is a social offshoot born of a movement spawned by The Chap magazine, which, in a riotously tongue-in-cheek tone, espouses a return to the civility of yesteryear. To quote its campaign manifesto: 'Pleasantness and civility are being discarded as the worthless ephemera of a bygone age - an age when men doffed their hats to the ladies, and children would mind one's Jack Russell while one took a mild and bitter in the hostelry.'