Like something from Boy’s Own comic, The Dawdlers Club started many years ago in the wind-swept plains of North Africa. Towards the end of the Second World War, my grandfather, serving with the Royal Air Force, was regularly tasked to ‘dawdle’ across the deserts of North Africa. The journeys were slow, dirty & tedious, & as you could imagine, fraught with danger.
As night approached, for safety, he would often meet with other chaps at a rendezvous point in the middle-of-nowhere. Being ingenious types, with absolutely no desire to ‘rough-it’, tarpaulin marquees were erected, charcoal braziers were lit & out would come tables, chairs, china plates, cutlery, glasses – even silverware made by local craftsmen in Cairo. And although food was heavily rationed, supplementary bits & pieces was often acquired en-route. So in a period of extreme hardship, in the middle of the desert, the gentlemen of The Dawdlers Club managed to make the most of the situation & dine with typical British eccentric style & decorum.