Lord William Daft

It is with great sadness that I heard on the wires that our brave Lions have been defeated on the high veldt by those pesky Boers.

The error of course was in the choice of Captain. No side proclaiming to represent this Sceptered Isle should be led into battle by anyone other than a proud upstanding Englishman. I acknowledge that our Celtic brethren make super infantrymen and they work wonders with a pick axe down the mine.

However, all on these isles look to the charm of an Englishmen to lead the line into battle and outwit our colonial opponents with a caddish wink and a languid air.

The clerks of Petty Insurance Brokers may breathe a deep sigh of relief. Those who receive telegrams from irate bores may sup a glass of beer in peace. The letters editor of The Morning Post may take a day off, as his post bag will be lighter than usual. Serfs who take the modern moniker of “Customer Service Representatives” may throw their flat caps in the air and take the steam train to a sordid seaside resort, partake of an afternoon nap followed by a small flutter at the dog track.

Sir Thumper Dung is leaving these shores for a few short weeks.

His abrasive letters filled with acerbic put downs shall pause. His quill shall have some respite and prepare for the next round of intense ranting.

Countess Clog shall journey to the latrine facaded MacDonald eaterie for a surreptitious beef carccass pie.

Hymns shall be sung in Westminster Abbey praising the Lord for the respite from the Hectoring of the Dung. Our fine Land shall relax and ease itself into a jamboree that shall last from the day Dung boards the steam liner until the dark day that his ship lands again at port.

In the meantime, New Mexico will suffer from his braying, baritone voice caterwauling at  the ineptitude of bell boys, the incompetence of tavern keepers and the inexperience of his bag carriers.

The old curmudgeon is coming to New Mexico. May God be with you.

This ghastly furore from the lower orders about their rulers extravagant expense claims is most unseemly. Of what concern is it to the common man how their betters spend their money?

I was born a noble aristocrat and it has been both my solemn duty and my solemn burden to rule this country.

Since the days of Elizabeth I, us Daft’s have taken our role seriously. We have always tempered our intake of claret before a jaunt to Parliament. Should we be called upon to speak we could still string a salient sentence together without recourse to slurring or the need for support whilst standing to deliver our powerful oration.

However, it seems that I am being forced by some jumped up little serf that I should publish my expense claim. For me this is barbaric, and will only make the lower orders envious of my wealth and brazen cheek.

My claims are as follows:

i) 5 guineas: The services of one wet nurse for when I am overburdened with my duties.

ii) 1 guinea: The polishing of my collection of silver spoons

iii) 3 guineas: The daily ironing of my copy of The Thunderer

iv) 224 guineas: To pay for my debts at the backgammon table in the Lords Dining Room whilst awaiting the end of a particularly tedious debate

… I really do find all this rather beneath me. It is all very tiresome and although I have many more claims that would bring tears of joy to your eyes, I feel a tad fatigued and so I shall order Butler to open a bottle of vintage claret and relax on my chaise longue.

Last night was spent in the environs of the maritime seaport of Bristol with a number of chums from my old alma mater. The evening was a jolly one as we imbibed copious amounts of vintage claret and regaled each other with lurid tales of yore.

As the evening passed ever more into a haze, offence was taken between two chaps over a misdemeanour that had occurred one drunken night in our youth.

Sir Boogaloo D’Ormant, Composer to the Royal Household’s Pets, had once taken a turn around the room with a charming lady who had otherwise been spoken for. His claims that he was unaware of her obligation, was met with hoots of derision by us fellows, as it was his wont to deploy his unbounded charm and serenade many a Lady that took his fancy.

The Lady in question’s chap was made aware of this transgression, but managed to contain it within his bosom for many a year; until last night.

One drop of port too much, and the hurt chap implored me to set up a meeting with Sir Boogaloo to iron out their differences. Always one for a duel, I suggested that pistols at dawn may be the most heroic way to settle the argument. There is nothing like a good duel first thing in the morning to build up one’s appetite for a hearty English breakfast.

The hurt chap concurred and so I hurried off to select the pistols and inform Sir Boogaloo of the exciting news that sport was to be had in the morn. Sir Boogaloo was not best pleased with the development as he was more than happy to continue supping a little more alcohol in preparation for a lengthly slumber. The last thing on his mind was a dawn rise and a spot of pistol practice.

Then the famous killjoy, Lord Piles Collarbone, waded in and declared the idea monstrous. He ordered us to go to the waiting carriage and return homeward forthwith. His actions thus depriving us sporting fellows a chance for a flutter on who would get hit.

Forgive me, for I have been tardy. I neglected to scribe a missive in honour of that fine upstanding chap, St George.

I was a little under the weather yesterday. I arrived at the Club early for our annual celebration, and we raised a glass to many an English hero. The toasts were numerous and it all got a little misty eyed.

As I am as solid as an English Oak, I am beholden to remind one what it is that makes an Englishman the Chosen One. What gives an Englishman the right to patronise the world?

It is priorities. A true, upstanding Englishman knows how to be a gentleman.

For example, if one looks at Raleigh, one sees a chap who carried on playing the games he was taught at boarding school, whilst that damn Armada had the temerity to sail into our waters. Once he finished his game, and only until then, did he turn a steely glance upon the swarthy infidels and use his guile to send them on their way.

Here is a chap who knew what was important. A chap should never interrupt a game of cricket for anything but a cup of tea and a slice of cake. A call at the Club from ones bookmaker should be brushed aside until the last drop from the bottle of vintage claret has been drunk.

So, dear fellows, I hope that your St George’s Day saw the oak in your grounds grow ever stronger, and that you managed to sing Rule Britannia very loudly until your voice was hoarse.

It has been a while since I last stirred myself from my excessive langour and put pen to to paper for this journal. However, a most concerning development has occurred amongst some of my closest chums and I feel duty bound to warn the populace against following their most disturbing lead.

It all started when that most gullible of chaps, Major Steward, moved to Bath and began indulging himself in little whimsies. Now that he is a country gentleman he has become rather lax and he feels that he is able to wear clothes that are most unbecoming of a gentleman.

The particular attire that he has taken to wearing is something imported from our errant colonial cousins across the pond, and it is called a Lumberjack Shirt. I had never heard of such drapery before. The most shocking thing about this “shirt”, is that it is nigh on impossible to wear a cravat.

To me, a man without a cravat to add a soupcon of style and élan to his attire, is a man who has lost his love of life. A cravat worn at a jaunty angle, shows those beneath him in society, and those who are his equal, just the type of chap he is. A man without a cravat, however, lends himself to inciting all sorts of revolutionary fervour.

If such behaviour was not enough, I have yet more disturbing news. It is that Lord and Lady Piles Collarbone are now following his lead, purchased said “shirt” and intend to wear it on our next evening together. The mind recoils with horror at such wanton abandon of all societal norms. Does this mean that I shall be the only chap wearing a cravat? Does it mean that Lady Collarbone will not be wearing a frock? The mind shudders. It feels like 1776 and 1789 all rolled into one.

So beware my readers, if you see such lemming like behaviour amongst your acquaintances, please inform me, and I shall raise the matter with the utmost urgency both in The House and with the local magistrate.

On occasion I have been known to cast a friendly glance at our brethren who choose the simple life of a traveller.

Well, the other day these chaps, Ginger, Ed and Will trespassed onto my vast country estate singing ditties in the traditional English folk style. It is my wont to take a 12 bore to these traveling tinker types, and send them on their merrie way with shrapnel in their behind.

However, I took to their simple ways. They did not have a coin between them and instead relied on their vocal chords and ingenuity to get by.

I have always admired the plucky spirit of an Englishman and I saw in these chaps a stout heart and an intrepid nature that inspired me. Not only did I order the servants to give them a sandwich and a jug of ale, but I ordered the labourers, servants and gardeners to take a leaf out of their books and leave their tenanted accommodation and live off the land.

I will then be able to rent their simple cottages out to borgeois holiday makers and everybody will rejoice in my benevolent nature.

If you would like to hear some of these chaps ditties, then you may by pressing this bell.

I have been alerted to the fact that the cad and bounder, Austin, is neglecting his duties at home. His fragrant wife has advised me as much via telegram.

As previously scribed, Austin is one of those unfortunate fellows who works for a living.

He was born into a bourgeois family of moderate means and was sent out to earn a crust whilst still in shorts. You may question how I know such a chap. Well, he managed to bluff his way into the Kodswallop Club where he became a star turn; always ready with a quick jape and his taste for ladies bonnets always raised a chuckle amongst the members.

Austin has remained loyal to the Kodswallop Club, even after I was blackballed for my fey indolence. However, it seems that they are demanding much from him and he is little at home.

So I write this missive in the hope that Austin shall return homeward and attend to his charming Lady. These late nights and long hours do a chap no good. It causes one to lose one’s hair and get ghastly wrinkles. It also leaves less time for a drop or two of the fine stuff.

A while ago, we indulged our colonial children from across the pond, and permitted them a degree of self rule.

This was against our better judgement, but in the spirit of paternalism we ruling classes felt that the Americans could be trusted to have a degree of autonomy.

We have tolerated their mistakes and their occasional petulance: their adolescent punch up of 1812 with the loyalists across the 49th Parallel; their tardy entry into various wars; and their obsession with insipid meat products wrapped in a bun.

However, eight years ago, they seemed to forget their feudal obligations and elect a half wit to run them. It made me wonder why they had got rid of Good King George all those years ago.

My learned colleagues in the Lords were forced to down our port and approach the real chap who runs America, our Queen’s representative the Governor General, and urge him to do something. The GG has said that it is not too easy to sway these colonial whippersnappers without a little tantrum and some attempt to pretend that they have independent thought from their masters in London. 

Lessons needed to be learnt and I am pleased to report that today they have taken our counsel and elected a Jolly Good Fellow to the White House.

It is always immensely gratifying to see our Colonial Children come to heel and learn from their mistakes. Let us hope that this is the end of it and no more shall they have the pretence of “knowing better.” Henceforth, shall they take their master’s advice and defer to England.

Hurrah

Our dear chums The Stewards have decamped to Bath; fleeing the infestations of London.

Rumours abound that the Major was blackballed from his Club for being over zealous and most un-English in the pursuit of winning the Beefsteak Cup. As a result, no Club would accept him. Feeling wretched he has come to Bath hoping that such caddish behaviour will be overlooked and he will be welcomed to the finer establishments once again.

The Stewards have found the move to require some acclimatisation. Madam Steward has been most put out that shopkeepers and tinkers have the temerity to speak to her. She has had to speak down to them on more than one occasion to advise them not speak to her unless first spoken to. 

Major Steward has not been immune to cavalier behaviour either. He was merrily pootling along upon his brand new Penny Farthing when he was slapped on his behind by some young rotters overtaking him in a Sports Carriage. The Major would normally have enjoyed a slap on his behind, taking him into a reverie of reminiscence of his time in the Headmasters study at McNuggets School For Young Stowaways. Forsooth, in this instance the slap took him by surprise and he almost fell off his bicycle.

I hope that they will soon call this place home and that they leave their London ways behind for the benefit of all mankind.