Enriching The Soul of England

My good friend, the famous nudist, explorer and naturalist, Sir Thumper Dung heard that I was writing this journal for the underclasses. He described it as a

Snob Blog

Well, I have to disagree. I am no snob. I come across servants, travelling tinkers, shop keepers and farm labourers all of the time. Sometimes I even talk to them.

Indeed, I hope that some of my most fervent readers will hail from those less fortunate than me, so that I may enrich their lives in some small way. It is my little contribution to fair England. My hope is that I may help in fertilising and strengthening the root that is our English Oak.

Hot Buttered Crumpets

I have been a member of some frightful clubs in my time. After a while, they become so dull and commonplace, I decide that it is time to corrupt a different set of winsome fellows.

I had my farewell dinner with one such Club in London. All the fine fellows were there. McFungus, a charming leprechaun of a man who never fails to entertain us with a never ending stream of gibberish. Austin, a man who seems to have lost his head of hair and feels it beneath him to invest in a new wig. He purports to be from Surrey but the rumour is that he emanates from Reading. Smith, a northerner who for some reason wishes to return to that icy wasteland. Any self respecting gentleman would drop him like a hot buttered crumpet, but he has a certain joie de vivre (I put it down to drugs myself).

I digress, and the thought of hot buttered crumpets reminds me why I started dictating this to my manservant.

We had had a long, emotional day and evening. Drinking claret by the jug, and regaling each other with tall stories about the state of this world and the next. I was feeling hungry. It had been some time since my last Steak and Kidney Pudding at The Flatulent Pie Shop in that charmingly seedy enclave that is Soho.

So I got up and declared to my fellow drinkers that it was time to experience the common folk and get some street food. They were quite shocked as they had never known me to suggest such a thing. However, I felt adventurous and could see no harm patronising some greasy eaterie.

Our search was long and in vain. Street food was scarce and we ended up on the Tottenham Court Road. I could find no hot buttered crumpets anywhere, not even a muffin or a cup cake. I longed for my school days when I could send my fag to the kitchens and steal some freshly baked pastries from Cook.

Our desperation was such that we ended up at a brightly lit eaterie named after my old Scottish headmaster, McDonald. His family were in trade, but I never thought they had stooped this low. I entered in a state of nervousness.

“Look here Austin,” I said, “this place does not look like a hot buttered crumpet stall.” And indeed it was not. When I requested such a thing, an illiterate common person uttered something which I could not understand.

Austin ordered for me and I ate. It put me in mind of old Flopsy’s slop bucket. Brown, liquid and very smelly.

“Austin,” I said, “never bring me to this hole again. I wanted hot buttered crumpets and you let me down. Now go back to Reading and patronise your workers.”

With that, I turned on my heels and stumbled back home. “It is time to return to the country,” I thought.