Explorers, soldiers, missionaries and others have travelled widely to ensure the greatness of our Nation and if we pay attention we can learn the lessons of Not Getting Lost from their experience. Even when they appear to have got lost, more often than not it has been merely a strategem to ensure that the maximum amount of territory is brought beneath the British Flag. Foreigners frequently get lost, Great Britons never do. In this article, based on wide consultation with Great British Experts in Not Getting Lost, we intend to give you the benefits of an unrivalled and soundly-based ability Not to Get Lost. Once you have read this article and the accompanying book (available from all good booksellers), you need never get lost again.

The Basics.

(1) Look around you and ensure that you are fully aware of (a) where you are, and (b) where you would like to go.

(2) Are you facing in the right direction? If not, adjust your position accordingly.

(3) Are you able to move? If you are lying down, sitting (unless in a vehicle or upon the saddle of a horse or bicycle), restrained by ropes or chains, or entirely enclosed in a small space, to give some examples, you may find that your intended journey, however carefully planned, is rendered impracticable.

Sources of Advice and Information.

(1) Maps are tremendously useful, representing as they do the correct spatial relationships pertaining to an area of the Earth’s surface, scaled down and reproduced in two-dimensional form to render them easy to carry, store, and use. Make sure the map you are using is of the right part of the world, and that you are holding it the correct way up.

(2) In some areas Signs and Notices are useful sources of information, providing such details as names of locations, distances from the spot at which the sign is placed, and (often by implication, if not directly) the best route to follow. If you are going to use Signs, make sure you can read, or have someone who can read with you.

(3) Helpful Locals. See that fellow in a shabby smock, a piece of straw projecting from his weatherbeaten face, a squalid hat on his head? He may not look like it, but he is a gold mine! (A gold mine of information, that is, in which the information stands in for the gold.) He has probably lived here for hundreds of years and will be able to tell you the best way to reach any place, as long as it is within half a mile of his home and is not somewhere he is unlikely to have heard of, such as London.

Using Landmarks.

(1) Your map will tell you what local landmarks may be useful to you in navigating your way to your destination. Check that you know what each symbol represents: a dark circle topped by a cross indicates a Church with a Spire, a solid black line marks a Railway Track, the face of a drooling imbecile is the sign for an Asylum for Mental Idiots, and so on.

(2) Ensure your landmarks are prominent. A large building is better than an old potato in a bucket, for example. Ideally your landmarks should also be fixed and permanent. Landmarks that are capable of movement, such as a lizard or an old man on a bench, can prove deceptive and unreliable.

(3) Ensure your landmarks are actually related to the route you wish to follow. Make sure they are not underground (e.g. a cave), in another country (e.g. the Great Gate of Kiev), or exist only within your own head (e.g. the Huge Ceramic Cat of Preston).

Some Final Points.

(1) Will you know when you have Arrived? Try to remember what the place you are going to is and what is is like — and, ideally, why you wanted to go there — otherwise you might as well have been lost all along, and all your efforts will be wasted.

(2) Are you Prepared? As with any journey, ensure you set out with compass, tent, bribery money, and adequate supplies of food, drink and sex.

(3) Are you Too Stupid to be out at all? Please think this one through seriously. You may well be.

"I will have a small bottle of your deadliest poison please, Mr. Godbold," declared Mrs. Savident in a most decided voice.

“I will have a small bottle of your most deadly poison please, Mr. Godbold,” declared Mrs. Savident in a most decided voice.

“Gawd luv us, Missus,” responded the chemist, reaching under his counter and producing a small dark bottle, “you’ll be careful, won’t yer? ‘Tis terrible potent stuff, Missus. Kill yer stone dead in seckonds, it will.”

“Thank you, Mr. Godbold, I am very aware of the dangers and I assure you that I will be most careful.”

“You will ‘ave to fill in the Deadly Poisons Record Book, Missus, on account of you purchasing that there deadly poison.”

Mrs. Savident quickly filled in the necessary details, paid Mr. Godbold, wished him a good morning and left the shop, bottle in hand.

“Why, Mrs. Savident, what a pleasure to see you again, Madam. What can I provide you with, from the stock of my tool and ironmongery emporium?”

Thus spoke Mr. Ventriss, greeting Mrs. Savident as she passed in through the door of his shop.

“Good day to you, Mr. Ventriss. Do you have a good sharp knife, with a long, strong blade, and a handle well-suited to a firm, repeated forward stabbing motion?”

“Certainly, Madam, I can offer a wide selection. Would you care to examine the available range and make your choice?” So saying, Mr. Ventriss directed Mrs. Savident’s attention to a large display case filled with all kinds of deadly-looking knives.

“This one looks ideal for my purpose,” said Mrs. Savident, examining a kitchen knife with a fine steel blade of exceptional sharpness. “Please to wrap it, and I will take it with me.”

“Certainly, Madam. And how is Mr. Savident, if I may make so bold?” This was the ironmonger’s civil enquiry as he bustled about with brown paper and string.

“I yearn to be free of him. I loathe him, and would do anything to end his tyranny over me,” replied Mrs. Savident, taking the long thin parcel. “Good day to you.”

“And a very good day to you, Mrs. Savident.”

“I am interested in purchasing a length of strong wire, perhaps six feet or so, sturdy enough to act as a tripwire. Would you happen to stock anything suitable?” Mrs. Savident’s question was directed to the civil young man behind the counter of Boldball’s Domestic Stores. To her satisfaction, he was able to provide her with a section of strong wire of just the right length, and at a very reasonable price.

“I see that it is nice and thin, as well as being strong,” observed Mrs. Savident as she examined the wire proferred by the young assistant. “Indeed, yes,” he responded, “thus rendering it difficult to see, particularly if fixed in a relatively ill-lit area such as a staircase.”

“That really is quite ideal,” replied Mrs. Savident.

“Mrs. Savident,” cried old Mr. Spotch as that lady entered his marine requisites shop, “Good morning to you, and I am pleased to be able to say that I have obtained the length of strong rope you rquested. I have it here.”

“This would seem to be excellent, and just what I was looking for,” said Mrs. Savident, examining the good thick hempen rope laid out on the counter for her inspection. “Please let me have six yards.”

“Very good, Madam. Was that Mr. Savident I saw at the Post Office yesterday? I would have stopped to pass the time of day with him, but my engagements did not permit.”

“He is a vile wretch. I wish him cold and in his grave.”

“And very nice too. Well, do give him my regards. Here is your rope, Mrs. Savident.”

“Thank you. And, Mr. Spotch, this being a maritime establishment, I imagine you as the proprietor have an extensive knowledge of knots?”

“Indeed I do, Madam,” answered Mr. Spotch proudly, drawing himself up and puffing out his chest. “I think I can justly claim to have the most extensive knowledge of knots to be found anywhere in London. Was there any particular knot you were interested in knowing about?”

“The slip-knot, if you please, Mr. Spotch.”

Mrs. Savident had just finished putting her purchases carefully away in the drawing-room cupboard she used for her sewing things when she heard the door open behind her and turned to see her husband enter the room.

“Mary, dear, how are you?” he enquired, moving towards her with his arms outstretched, “how good it is to see you at the end of a long hard day.”

“Do not touch me, loathsome creature,” she replied quickly, “you know you make me vomit.” Indeed, she could feel her stomach contracting and bile rising in her throat at the mere sight of him. “Oh! How I long to be free of you! Free to marry my lover and make my own life, my own happiness, at last. Get away from me, worm,” she continued, “supper will be in an hour.”

As his wife left the room, slamming the door behind her, Mr. Savident poured himself a drink and wondered if she was entirely happy. Still, a nice, healthy, safe supper, maybe served with a new sauce that would have a slightly odd taste; then up the dark, steep stairs to bed. Or perhaps he could sit in the study, his back to the door and his head presenting an easy target to an assailant, and read for an hour or so. It is nice to be home, he thought with a smile.

“The deceased is a Mr. Engadine Savident. His wife discovered him first thing this morning,” reported Police Sergeant Trout to Inspector Thomas Bristler of Scotland Yard as the latter arrived at 16 Bindweed Gardens early on the following day. “The body is suspended above the stairs, sir.”

“Suspended above the stairs, eh? Interesting,” responded Bristler, taking his pipe out of his mouth. He pushed the door open and strode into the hall.

“Those are his feet, sir — oh, I see you have encountered them. Are you alright? Let me help you up again.”

“Don’t fuss, Sergeant. Where is my pipe? So this is the body. Remarkable.” Bristler went to work, examining the body and the scene with meticulous care. As ever, his penetrating eyes and bristling moustache missed nothing. After twenty minutes he straightened, took his pipe out of his mouth and said, “we are looking at a dead body here, gentlemen. This man fell down the stairs, was stabbed several times with a sharp knife, and finally had a noose put around his neck and was hanged. There is also evidence that he ingested poison at some point in the last twelve hours. I suspect foul play. This here is a murdered, and we are looking for … a murderer.”

“Well,” said Inspector Bristler, “I was hoping to speak to Mrs. Savident but it appears that she has run away with her lover and gone to live in Switzerland. Perhaps it was suicide. I don’t suppose we’ll ever get to the bottom of this one, Trout.”

To be discontinued.

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It is with profound satisfaction and a gratifying sense of triumph over the machinations of evil men that I take up my pen as Editor of this first issue of the New Series of The Slingshot, the Great British Magazine for Young Chaps. Since its first appearance in a not-distant year, The Slingshot has established itself as the Magazine of Choice for all discerning and enterprising Young Chaps in Great Britain, the Empire, and Beyond. With this New Series of the Magazine, untrammelled by the burdens of financial liabilities incurred in the past, that reputation will be upheld; as before, within the pages of The Slingshot readers will thrill to stories of Adventure, learn fascinating Facts about the world around them, grapple with mind-expanding Puzzles and Games, and absorb sound Advice and bold moral Exhortation. Be sure you have your copy of The Slingshot every month — fold it into your Knapsack — pack it in your Sea-Chest — thrust it playfully down a pal’s Shorts.

Now is not the time to pursue the hard-working Staff and Publishers of this Magazine with past grievances and demands for money. Charges of questionable business practices and financial mismanagement must be swept aside and forgotten, ongoing legal proceedings must be suspended, so that all may join in hailing The Slingshot as, once more, a Fine Influence on Our Nation’s Youth.

The Slingshot will continue to uphold the values of Patriotism, Hard Work, Clean Living and Fair Play that ever flourish beneath the British Flag and in the breast of every Young Briton. The world must own that the propagation of these values is too important a matter to be put at risk for the sake of a few unpaid bills.

– J. Moriarty Clench,
Editor.