Outside The Sherlock Holmes Museum, 221b Baker Street, London

A man dressed in police uniform stands at the entrance to The Sherlock Holmes Museum. Note to the proprietors of The Sherlock Holmes Museum: The presence of a man dressed in police uniform outside a building, whilst perhaps of novelty value given the crime-fighting exploits of the character celebrated by the museum, may easily be misconstrued.

Generally, policemen stand outside buildings when:
A) A serious crime has been committed and forensic tests are being carried out.
B) The building contains rich and/or powerful people and the general public is not permitted to enter.

I would suggest that neither of these scenarios are likely to encourage prospective visitors to approach the entrance. I wonder how many Sherlock Holmes fans have been put off entering by the policeman.

[ Ozzie 1: Aw, bonzer! I can't believe, having come all the way from Australia for the express purpose of seeing The Sherlock Holmes Museum, we're almost at 221b Baker Street.
Ozzie 2: Yeah, we've put so much effort into organising this once-in-a-lifetime trip so the 24 members of the Brisbane Sherlock Holmes Appreciation Society can be here. I'm so excited.
Ozzie 1: Wait! There it is! 221b Baker Street.
Ozzie 2: Hang on. Isn't that a copper standing at the entrance?
Ozzie 1: Oh my God, it is! Well, it's obvious that either a serious crime has been committed and forensic tests are being carried out or the building contains rich and/or powerful people and the general public is not permitted to enter. Drat!
Ozzie 2: Sorry, guys, we can't go to the museum. Let's just go back to Heathrow and see if we can get a flight home. ]

Inside The Sherlock Holmes Museum

I enter 'Dr Watson's sitting room'. An old ham playing Dr Watson greets myself and a pretty Russian girl. Having established where we are from, he puts together a short staccato monologue in Russian, causing the girl to giggle. He has the manner of one who is a little drunk or quite mad. Or both.

'Do you speak Irish,' I ask.

'No, but I know an Irish joke,' he beams.

I feel nationalism well up from the pit of my stomach, as though it were a visceral force. Like nausea. (I recognise the same feeling I had in the British Library, where Séamus Heaney and Oscar Wilde are passed off as British)

'I'm not sure I'd like to hear it.'
The man is clearly a buffoon. If a black person walked in to Dr Watson's sitting room, would he ask them if they'd like to be called a nigger? Just, you know, for old time's sake, old boy. Perhaps he is actually is a survivor of the late 19th century, giving him more authenticity in his role as Dr Watson.
'Well, one can always try,' he says, not discomfited in the slightest.
I despise this man.
'I know some English jokes, as a matter of fact,' I say.
Revenge.

Actually, I don't know any English jokes. I only know subversions of the 'Paddy Englishman, Paddy Irishman' gags, where the Brit rather than the Irishman is portrayed as the fool.

Then Dr Watson loses interest in me, the simian Irish peasant from Punch magazine, and focuses instead on the pretty Russian girl. He commences a disquisition on languages in general. It appears I have wandered into a lecture on comparative philology.
'Now,' begins Dr Watson, 'people say Italian is the most beautiful language. Bah!'
Here he flings out his right arm in a dismissive gesture. He is clearly classically trained.
'No, no! Russian is the most beautiful.'
He rolls out some more Russian phrases. Somewhere on this man's bookshelf is a Berlitz Russian phrasebook. I know this because he never speaks more than one short sentence at a time and each new sentence is unconnected to the last. It is also possible that he is telling his Irish joke to the Russian girl.

'Closely followed, that is, by Portuguese.'
He disgorges a handful of short, unconnected Portuguese phrases, translating for our benefit. He is a Berlitz polyglot. Perhaps he bought an entire set of Berlitz phrasebooks. Except the Irish one.

' I was in Russia once, you know. St Petersburg. Beautiful city.'
Here he is addressing the Russian girl. He then turns to me.
'And beautiful women.' He stops just short of licking his lips.

If the Russian girl were my sister, I would give serious consideration to punching him in the face right now. Instead, I make some non-commital response and leave the room.

I wander around the rest of the museum. It's a poor display. And there is no sign of Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps he's snorting cocaine in the bathroom. You'd need something to get through the day working with Dr Watson.