Fitz and his new Lady

I am pleased to report that after years of philandering, Fitzberque has finally found himself a Lady to share languid days by the trout stream regaling her with tales of heroism from his days in Africa manning the fort against all odds with his trusty Enfield.

Although he shares with her a passion for talking about the Empire at great length, I do have some reservations about her.

Fitzberque shall be bringing her to our annual soirée this week. However, in the past, he was always ready to arrive in time for a glug from the claret jug at 4. Now he informs me that he cannot arrive much before 7pm due to his good lady “working.”

How absurd. A Lady working? I have heard it said that the lower classes have to send their women to the cotton mills to make ends meet, but I have never heard of a lady from good society having to soil her hands with labour.

Fitzberque claims she works for charity. That is all well and good, but if she is donating her time to the great unwashed, surely time spent in the company of Great Men takes precedence?

This leads me to the unfortunate conclusion that this Lady must hail from the middle classes, or, god forbid, the labouring classes.

If this be the case, I urge Fitzberque to hurry her along to elocution lessons and urge her to learn the finer points of etiquette before he takes her to the Regimental Mess to avoid embarrassing silences at the top table.

The Association Football Tournament

The hoi polloi are becoming rather over excited by an impending tournament in our Cape Colony. Emporiums are being decked with the flag of St George in an attempt to encourage the great unwashed to buy more cider and gruel.

Many of you would suspect that I disapprove of such behaviour. On the contrary, I welcome such patriotism. This event keeps the peasants from hatching revolutionary plans such as getting the vote. It enables my steward to work them harder and put their rents up whilst their minds are diverted elsewhere.

The best Club in town

I do find elections rather jolly. All that shouting and egg hurling at hustings. It is a relief that due to to my blue blood, my forbears earnt my place in the Lords.

However, for second eldest sons and commercial types gaining membership of the best chaps Club in town is without a doubt worth the odd rotten egg in the face every five years. Parliament permits them a vague feeling that they are helping the wealthy get wealthier, to drink free claret and to spend copious amounts of the Exchequer’s funds on show girls.

I own two MP’s. I also have another borough where due to those do-gooding Whigs and The Great Reform Act, I now have to consider the wishes of 146 voters. Fortunately, most vote the way I tell them, but some independent minded firebrands need a bottle or two of mead before they come around to my way of thinking.

As the election looms, I shall inform you what my policies are and a contract that I will sign, outlining my promises to you, the Great Unwashed.

Digging up one’s memories

Due to a month abstaining from the soup, our good friend, Canon Coch is lacking inspiration. He is desirous of questions for his new journal which informs the great unwashed of the ways and methods of the gentleman farmer.

I understand he is entitling his new journal, Digging Up One’s Memories.

I have the the following suggestions:

1) At what rate does one raise the rents to one’s tenants each year so that they can just afford a bowl of gruel each day but not a roast on the Day of the Lord

2) What size cup is your favourite milk maid endowed with?

3) After a hard day watching over your labourers tilling the fields, what tipple do you order from your manservant as you rest your aching limbs in your favourite leather armchair?

That should suffice for now. If you have any pertinent questions, I am sure the Canon would be curious to hear from you.


Letting Loose One’s Heir

Our local sage, wit and bon viveur, Sir Stuarte Vivir has permitted his spare a solo jaunt around the back streets of Bath this very morn. He has debated whether to send his manservant on the young chaps trail in order to prevent him falling into mischief.

I remonstrated with Sir Stuarte that such a course of action would not be required. One must let ones heir a free reign to enjoy the temptations of the adult world at the earliest possible age. The local blacksmith happily sends his three year old up a chimney so that a turnip can be put upon his table, so should not a small chap with good blood be given the liberty to enjoy the good things that only a city can confer?

I happily recounted to Sir Stuarte my first experience of being let loose in the seedy enclaves of Bath. Within minutes, I managed to sniff out Miss Tinkle’s establishment. I had a rare old time and had experiences that still bring a smile to one’s face. The experience has put be in good stead ever since and set me on my way to enjoy a long night out without the need to fall into the gutter.

The Evils of Temperance

It is rare that I concern myself with the well being of others. However, I was unable to pass into a peaceful slumber last night such is my anxiety over Canon Coch’s future sanity.

It is well known that the Canon’s dedication to converting his flock to the ways of the Lord is somewhat haphazard. The chap can easily be sidetracked from his calling by a small flutter on the steeplechase, or by catching a fleeting glimpse of a pretty frock, or the sound of a claret bottle being uncorked.

His inattentiveness to his congregation has so far escaped censure from the Bishop. The Canon is adept at delegating tiresome tasks such as writing sermons or visiting the needy to his conscientious curate.

However, the Bishop has now declared that the Canon is simply not fulfilling his duties and is in danger of being defrocked unless he can prove that he is faithful to the Holy Sacrament. He has therefore ordered the Canon to abstain from the soup for a whole month.

Damn it all. This is sacrilegious behaviour from the Bishop. Does he not know the affect such an embargo shall have on the frail mind of the Canon. Without alcohol he can barely string a sentence together. How does the Bishop think the poor chap can ascend to the pulpit and impart his wisdom without a large glug of communal wine? Indeed without his delightful lady, Helena Saint-Even, he would not be able to raise his head from the pillow without her infamous morning tonic.

Of even greater concern, is who shall partner me on a Friday afternoon at The Club? Am I to follow the Canon’s example and pursue temperance for an interminable month. If this be the case, we shall stare at the table in silence, one of us shall occasionally interject with an inane comment of such tedium that we shall look longingly at the bar and wish for salvation from the ennui.

I therefore urge the Bishop to reconsider his edict. For the sake of the poor chaps sanity (and my own). It is inhumane. A whole month of abstinence will leave the poor chap a babbling wreck; knocking on the door of the sanatorium pleading to be let in and be enrobed in a straight jacket.

A Christmas Message

Dear Commoner

At this time of year, ones thoughts turn to those less fortunate than ones self.

For me, however, I feel Such charity is all rather tiresome. The Great and Good are far better spending their time at The Club regaling chums with tales of adventure, rather than traipsing around hovels on their estates. It is an unnecessary deed; proffering a basket of plum puddings in the hope that God will look kindly upon us in the next life. Such benevolence will only encourage sloth in the peasantry. God is an Englishman, and He would not wish empire builders to indulge in charity when there are savages to be tamed in far flung colonies.

Now, for my customary review of the year. My new moat and the emergency replenishment of my wine cellar meant that rents had to be increased three times. My tenants were a tad concerned that I was exploiting them, but were soon comforted by the fact that I had managed to procure a rather splendid case of ’68 Margaux.

I managed to traipse down to The Lords on a couple of occasions. After a particularly languid luncheon, I enthralled the Chamber with a particularly eloquent speech on the evils of Whiggery and the merits of Mistress Tinkle’s Showgirls.

Two dear chums were hounded out from the metropolis and decided to decamp to the West Country. All was not plain sailing. Boogaloo D’Ormant betrayed his anarchist sympathies by attempting to trip our fragrant Mayor and he also entered into a duel with a past rival. Major Steward got a tad overheated when his vegetables were ignored by the esteemed judges at the Village Show. He also insisted on wearing ridiculous checked garments much to the bemusement of the local populace.

Sir Thunper Dung set off on one of his jaunts to Bora Bora land in search of indigenous tribes boys to tutor in the ways of righteousness. Countess Clog continues to find it tiresome to don a gown; preferring to remain on her chaise longue for the duration of the day in her nightgown, munching on doggy bics and bemoaning the injustice of Dung’s new ear trumpet failing to still his insane rants. Sir Piles obsession with new fangled technology means that he hides himself away in his laboratory dreaming up hair brained schemes and absent mindedly growing an amusing moustache.

Canon Coch’s attempts to live by the oath of the Cloth led him to focus his efforts on converting those who frequent back street taverns.. It was his contention that in order to convert these degraded examples of human kind it would be best for him to share their sins with them. He spent a moment grappling with his conscience before setting off on this path of dubious virtue. His confidence in obtaining a sainthood for such sacrifice is heartening.

Fitzberque’s admirable obsession with taking pot shots at peasants continues unabated. He has five hits to his name in this past month and is aiming for a new record during this festive season. Squire Porter is nowhere to be seen which leads me to presume that he is in the corner of some field cradling a flagon of cider.

Lord Daft. December 2009


The Kodswallop Club Reunion

I sauntered up to the metropolis yesterday for a jolly reunion with my old comrade Kodswallopers. An evening of high jinks was anticipated and it did not disappoint.

The chaps were little changed. Baron Schmidt was still in need of a few pies, McFungus whittered on and on about matters of little consequence and Hummus was full of bravodo.

Unfortunately, Austin failed to attend as he was a little emotional. In all likliehood he would have wept. Such effeminate behaviour would have led to a ducking in the Serpentine.

McFungus provided the main entertainment of the evening. As those who are acquainted with him know, he can be a little overwrought and should things not please him, he will make the servants aware of his displeasure.

The latest contretemps was due to the sudden disappearance of his top hat. He searched hither and thither willing to accuse anyone who crossed his path of being a cussed tea leaf. A waiter then advised him that said hat had been tidied away and was residing in the cloakroom.

At this, McFungus stormed downstairs to collect his belongings only to be asked to pay for the privilege. The chap was enraged and launched an acerbic tirade against all small minded jobsworths who dared impede him. At this a rather large bruiser decided that it was time for him to take leave and he was given a rather solid kick up the behind landing on the pavement outside with his top hat following swiftly after him.

That was the last we saw of him. The next day he sent a rather obsequiois telegram rueing his behaviour and imploring us not to blackball him.

The determination of an Englishman

One of the nobler aspects of an Englishman is one’s absolute determination to not let anything hinder the pursuit of one’s hobbies. Today’s musing is to take my top hat off to William Willett.

He is the chap who is responsible for the hour going back today. Now those who complain about this, kindly consider why this is required.

Many mistakenly assume it is due to my tenant farmers wishing to work the land for longer. Pah! Why on earth would we ruling classes wish to incovenience ourselves for the benefit of our tenants? I say to my tenants; get up earlier you slack jawed yokel and drink fewer flagons of cider.

No, the reason for the hour change is because the darker evenings are really most inconvenient for us to pursue our hobbies.

A duel before breakfast, followed by a ride around the estate and then in the afternoon, my favourite pastime of trapping a peasant, are necessary activities for the day. However, these pursuits must be done in daylight and I, like most landowners, really do find it most cumbersome to have to awaken early.

Willett understood this, and managed to draw himself up from his armchair, put his bottle of claret aside and saunter off to persuade those that mattered to make Daylight Saving law.

As a result, I can still nurse my morning hangover and have time to pursue my hobbies in the civilised hours of daylight.

An Anarchist is in our Midst

I have a lot of time for the ex Composer to the Royal Household’s Pets, Boogaloo D’Ormant. However, my patience is beginning to wear thin in light of his latest revolutionary activity.

As those of you who have had the misfortune to spend an hour or two with him in a backstreet ale house, the briefest of time passes before he recounts tales of challenging Dr Brian Mawhinny to a duel, or blathering on about how the railways have gone to the dogs.

This evening he accompanied me to a recital, to which I had been invited to add gravitas and a soupcon of style. I should have realised trouble was in the air when he arrived at my mansion and declared that he was a tad peckish and insisted on mixing with the local riff-raff by going down to what is commonly called “the chippie.”

Upon his return, rather than eat said peasant food in the servants quarters, he insisted on eating it in the Royal Dining Room whilst reading one of  my leather bound first editions. The stench of the working class emanated through my mansion.

We then took the phaeton to the music hall where we imbibed a glass or two of cheap wine and patronised the local dignitaries before listening to a chap play his wind instrument to great affect. I thought the evening had passed without incident; that Boogaloo had been kept off the subject of the railways, until I made the mistake of introducing him to the Mayor.

They shook hands and Boogaloo, sensing an opportunity for notoriety, trod on the Mayor’s frock and she promptly stumbled down the stairs. The militia were quick off the mark, but not before Boogaloo realised  an evening in the stocks was imminent and feigned gallantry by stopping her fall.

The Mayor was all gratitude and graciousness but I knew that all was not what it seemed. I knew that Boogaloo’s revolutionary tendencies had got the better of him but, as with all anarchists, he soon realised that he would be cut off if his Pater discovered such caddish behaviour, and quite frankly, he enjoyed Pater’s benevolence a little too much to stick to these revolutionary whimsies.

« Previous entries Next Page » Next Page »