Lord William Daft

As those of you who are in Society, or who try to ingratiate yourself with the Great and Good by devouring the Court pages in The Thunderer will know, the great Naturalist Sir Thumper Dung has produced an offspring.

He has managed to hide his disappointment at not producing a son and heir, by the comforting fact that he may form an advantageous alliance by marrying her off with a member of the English Aristocracy. He has always yearned to improve his rank from a humble baronet and take his seat in the Lords.

Let us hope that his planning for the betrothal takes up his few sober moments, as it may divert his addled mind from doing those preposterous impersonations of Appleborough.

As Mr Sherlock Holmes once pronounced “This is quite a three pipe problem.” Indeed I had to request the finest shag to solve the disappearance of Princess Ien last weekend.

We visited her at her country pile in the New Forest. Little Paulo was of course in attendance regaling us with tales of another investment opportunity. His last one involved Tulips being cultivated in a bubble somewhere near the South Sea. It seemed like a jolly good idea to me, so I invested the odd shilling or two.

We were sitting down for our aperitifs, or sharpeners as one likes to call them, when we realised our hostess was not present. To the uninitiated, this may not seem shocking. Perhaps she was perfecting the balance of her wig, or taking a stroll around her lawn, or ordering her servants to add a little more claret to the Coq au Vin.

Alas, her absence was much more serious. Princess Ien has never been known to miss aperitifs. Even when she has been confined to her sick bed all day complaining of headaches, she still musters the courage to journey to the drawing room for a glug of vin blanc. 

Not wishing to panic Little Paulo, I tried to keep him occupied with amusing anectodes about jolly japes at The Club. However, it was clear that his mind was elsewhere and so we alerted the servants to search high and low.

The maids searched the house, the gardeners, the game keepers and their hounds searched the estate but still no sign of the Lady. Then The Butler had an inspired idea and whispered in my ear that Little Paulo and I should perhaps search in the environs of the wine cellar. The fellow is a genius. Of course she was there. Looking somewhat dishevelled and uttering an incoherent stream of wisdom, she was having the time of her life.

It seems that at some stage during the day, she thought that it would be a good idea to taste the latest Burgundies. Well, one thing led to another and she was on her 4th bottle before she was found  with her tiara askew and her cosmetics smudged.

I do find bank holidays so very tiresome. They were introduced by the trading classes as a sop to those who were even lower down the social scale than themselves.

Why do the labourers feel as though they should have an extra day off? Is not one morning a week to go to Church sufficient? 

If those who serve us have a day at some squalid seaside town, who is there to iron my Thunderer, mix my morning Bloody Mary, or butter my crumpet in the dull time before the bar opens at 6?

Furthermore, the tracks and lanes are full of the hoi polloi traipsing to their Great Aunt’s cabbage infused hovel. I can barely pass them in my Four Wheel Carriage without knocking them into the ditches and drains.

Needless to say, I vehemently opposed the passing of The Bank Holiday Act in the Lords. It was one of the few debates that I have managed to awaken from my drunken slumber during the proceedings and stir myself into arguing a coherent stream of invectives against giving the labourers any rights beyond their feudal obligations. 

We lost the vote due to a large section of Whigs deciding that patronising the lower classes would earn them their love and affection. Do they not realise that this type of behaviour will lead us down the rocky path which can only end in the ghastly guillotine?

We are honoured with the presence of Lady Consuelo Cortinovis this week and all the days of her stay have been spent discussing this evenings excursion to the docks of Bristol for a soiree at the Music Hall. The ladies have become quite faint with the excitement of mixing with the rum soaked seafarers and imbibing copious quantities of cheap intoxicants.

I have been left to tend the country pile while my good Lady Barrington Beak and Lady Consuelo take the carriage to the port. There, they will meet Miss Mary Pommes de Frites and their escort, Anton Sparkman, who just for this evening will don a pink gown and pink lipstick, and become Antonietta Sparklemaid.

And it is not any old Music Hall that they are visiting, but one which has taken the fashion from the East where they have to sing the songs themselves. My concern that they would have to mix with the hoi polloi have been tempered by the fact that they have their own private booth and hopefully their own private safe for the diamonds.

They can therefore sing to their hearts content without bringing embarrassment upon our aristocratic brethren. It is bad enough that they are within the proximity of the sea salt infused commoners, but to have to perform in front of them would have brought shame upon the ruling classes. Next our heirs will be marrying showgirls.

I fear that the soiree may be a little messy……

It is not often that I can report that that famous glutton, Squire Porter is defeated. However, I can now state that he has indeed had to leave some unfinished food upon his salver.

His country estate will be in shock on hearing this news. His cook will probably faint in anguish and fret as to whether her winter supplies of offal will ever be devoured. His doctor will be anticipating an increase in fees and will even now be browsing for a new pocket watch in celebration. However, the local baker will rue the day that he sold his youngest son to pay for his new bread oven.

It was a wet night in the rum soaked streets of maritime Bristol that the Squire and I met for a snifter and a soupcon of food before our trip to the music hall. We stumbled into an exotic looking eaterie staffed by Romans. Our orders for their finest pie was met with an insolent shrug and they brought us mounds of food the like of which we had ne’er seen since our days at Floggers Boarding School. Doughy products covered in tomato and pigmeat, and a rugger ball sized pile of pasta drenched in mince and tomato.

After approximately 10 minutes, the Squire began to sweat. He mopped his brow and soldiered on. After 15 minutes, the old chap had to loosen his kneckerchief and remove his bulging belt. But the Squire is made of oak. An Englishman does not give up so lightly. We Englishman know how the natives live in the far flung colonies and are proud to eat all that any servant may put before us.

But after 20 minutes the top buttons of his trousers popped. This was too much for our dear friend to bear. His ruddy complexion was beginning to pale and his handkerchief was now drenched in the meat sweats. The chap gave up and still with a nugget of scoff on his plate.

 A beaten man. I never thought that I would see the day. This is the same chap who famously won the great Farmyard Challenge wager of ‘85 when he ate a lamb, a pig and a cow for breakfast.

The oak that stirs within him still beats though. The brave man still accompanied me to the Music Hall and he still managed a few rum toddies at the Sailors Arms, but he drew the line at bouncing the maids upon his knee.

It has been some time since my last journal. For this, dear readers, I must humbly apologise. I could offer many excuses such as indolence, fecklessness, loucheness and being in an opiate haze.

However, I must tell the truth; which is that my ghastly Aunt Canute has been trying to fix me up with a Lady. I will tell you more of this in all its sordid detail another time.

For now, I must write of food as it has been so courteously requested by the esteemed Lady Piles Collarbone.

“Dear Lord Daft,” she said, “you are a well known glutton and I am sure that the populace would like to know what you eat. Do write, oh please do,” she proclaimed. At first, I was far too foppish to be bothered, but on further consideration I thought that the peasants of our nation should know how I eat so that they can vicariously enjoy my indulgences.

I normally have breakfast at the crack of dawn; as eleven bells strike on the Grandfather Clock. Firstly, a Bloody Mary (half vodka, half worcester sauce and a dash of tomato juice) awakens me and reminds me of the previous evening japes. I then eat a hearty breakfast of poached quails eggs, smoked rabbit and wild boar sausages smothered in hollandaise sauce.

This hearty fare up keeps me going for an hour or two before I take a hansom down to The Club for a spot of billiards and humorous banter with the chaps. Luncheon soon follows. Steak and Kidney Pudding, Sponge Pudding and a flagon of claret sets me up for the afternoon. I may wash this down with an ale to prevent me getting too dehydrated.

Afternoon tea is the one part of the day that is a duty. Some dull relation demands my attendance at some harrowing social occasion. Having to be courteous is so very taxing with only a hot buttered muffin and a cup of Earl Grey for comfort. However, I normally take my leave within twenty minutes and saunter back to the club for dinner.

I can rarely remember what I perchance devour for dinner as it is normally quite late and I always seem to find myself a little hazy.

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Squire Porter and his Ladies visited the country pile this weekend and brought with them their cider infused, ruddy complexions from the countryside.

As I may have mentioned some months ago, I have purchased the very latest Penny Farthing and it was with great delight when the Porters suggested that we go on a bicycling jaunt to see how many peasants we can run over on the tow path.

Well, the going was slow during the first half of our sojourn. Those pesky peasants were far too quick for us and managed to evade us. I turned to the Squire and suggested that a liquid lunch may be in order. He readily agreed and so we found a rather modern looking establishment staffed by those coarse colonials from Down Under.

Jugs of Pimms were the order of the day, in a vain effort to cool down. My top hat and tails may have made me look very dapper atop my grand bycicle, however, it rather made me glow.

It was good to see The Squire sup his Pimms with all the aplomb and the haste of a yeokel drinking a flagon of cider after a morning harvesting the hay.

After luncheon we felt suitably refreshed and a little giddy. We were ready for our challenge and by jove did we succeed. Fuelled by Pimms and an inability to focus on any single living object, we managed to displace parasols owned by the petit borgeoisie as they took their Sunday strolls, knock peasants into trees and push anglers into the canal as we cycled past at break neck speed.

News reaches me that Austin may be turfed out of the Kodswallop Club. This is the very same club that blackballed me a year ago for my unfettered indolence.

The market traders who have stormed the commitee had the temerity to request that I pull my weight and contribute something. I accused them of having to buy their own furniture which they did not take too kindly and so they began a campaign for my removal along with Flasher McFungus, Baron Scmidt and Lady Alexpanda. It is my understanding that the club is a dull and dreary place since our departures.

Of course, The Kodswallop Club has been going downhill for a number of years. When us chaps first joined it was filled with Men of Consequence. The types who would lead the Empire to greater things. This is no longer the case.

It has become a haven of chaps who did not have the benefit of being flogged at Public School and have the unfortunate handicap of having local accents. So I therefore urge Austin to take his leave of the ne’er do wells and become a man of consequence once again.

It is with great sadness that I have to report that my dear, dear friend Sir Thumper Dung has been transgressed. A street urchin broke into his back passage, dismantled the sash windows to his bijou town house and stole away with his moving picture box.

Needless to say Sir Dung was heartbroken. That picture box was his obsession. Since Sir David Appleborough had expelled him from his inner circle for shoddy impersonations, he has felt bereft. He only had a lone telegram and a moving picture of The Great Man left to obssess over.

Sir Dung would spend long evenings cradling a cheap blended whiskey, sobbing into his first editions of ‘Blight on Earth’ and watching moving pictures of The Great Man for comfort. O what small solace they did provide, but now his moving picture box has been stolen, he no longer has that comfort.

I do worry for the dear, dear boy….

Once a year I am forced, by centuries of precedence, to open the gates to of my country pile to the great unwashed of the neighbourhood. Peasants from the village, who rely on my patronage, are allowed onto my manicured lawns for an afternoon of games, competitions, ale and cake.

As a proud Englishman, I am conscious that without the peasants yeoman like hard work, our proud nation would degenerate into foppish sloveness and our fields would not be tilled. Therefore, I see it as a proud responsibility to put on a jolly good show as an act of gratitude for all their hard work through the year.

This year, as is true of every year, the most popular stall was Flog The Poacher. The crowds always take great delight in horsewhipping these lawless scoundrels.

The Wet Wench competition drew a large crowd of flatulent, bawdy lower class types. The wenches stand in line and are interviewed by the Blacksmith about how they like puppies and do good works at the local Work House. The wenches then have to sit on my knee, and with suitable coyness have to tell me what a marvelous landlord I am. However, the highlight is undoubtedly the Wet Petticoat Competition, from which we judges decide who will be crowned Wet Wench Of The Year.

All in all, the whole day was a success. This is despite Squire Porter embarrassing us all by appearing in his new Gold Thigh Length Boots and singing camp songs into the early hours after one too many glasses of mead.