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There are three in the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, but no less than five in London’s Imperial War Museum. (Worthy of note is the singularly fine example of a one-legged swan in cabinet five of the Anglo-Zulu War room.)
The “Blenkinsopp” found itself back on English soil 1902 and in the keep of a war veteran, Corporal Mendip McCohen, who had sadly been emasculated by a strategically aimed Zulu spear while defending the outpost at Rork’s Drift. Within days, however, the press passed into the avaricious hands of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who managed to persuade the hapless soldier to part with it. Doyle had been doodling around with some short stories about an eccentric, smart-Alec detective, and he was determined to maximise any profits that might come his way should the novels meet with any degree of success. Consequently self-publishing was an obvious route to take.
Tragedy struck, however, when his stories finally did take off. The unprecedented demand for the fables meant that the “Blenkinsopp” found itself being soundly thrashed 24/7. After six months of relentless thrapping it simply ground to a halt. The “Big Seize Up”, as it came to be known, came at the zenith of a steadily growing mountain of relatively minor defects that the press developed, and it was their compounded synchretisation that eventually did for it.
Here are some of the problems it developed:
- Its Bladder-Grommets repeatedly overheated causing the Ring Modules to develop hairline cracks.
- The Bronsvonculator developed an alarming judder when it approached 80,000 revs. The resulting vibration from the latticed framework through the floor mountings had the effect of creating a sense of nauseous apoplexy in the operators.
- The Interossiter Flange started to expand due to a gradual build-up of silt in its soon to be patented Mandrake-Horne Canal. And you don’t have to be a genius to work out what effect that would have, do you?
- The Eccles Valves started to jam intermittently when the ink viscosity reached perihelion. This, of course led to the formation of filigrees of metal fatigue that almost imperceptibly fanned out from the Puckelsheim Nipples.
- The final straw came when the Flux Capacitor fell off. (It has been conjectured that this would likely not have happened had WD40 been invented. But it hadn’t. So it did.
It is worthy of note that repairs were undertaken by a young army officer called T. E. Lawrence. He was a member of the Ancient Order of Soldering Iron & Beeswax Interns, and he happened to know Sir Arthur through an uncle. This enterprising young man effected the repairs with his trusty soldering iron and some strategic daubs of beeswax. He would later find notoriety by going blonde, getting a turban and a camel, and becoming Lawrence of Arabia.
The continuing saga…
Why Africa? Well, the intention was to print propaganda leaflets for distribution among the Zulu tribes. However, when it eventually arrived - just before the battle at Rorke’s Drift - they learned that in reality only the High Chief, Prince Dabulamanzi, could read. The “Blenkinsopp” was cosequentially redundant before it even struck a bat!
As a side note, had it not been for a Chinese laundryman (Tai Ni Poe Nee) teaching the English troops the then highly secret, and mysterious art of Origami, the huge rolls of paper that accompanied the press would have been totally wasted.
Only a few examples of the soldiers paper folding have survived.
