Cavaliers and Roundheads

Sir Timothy FitzBerque invited a few of the chaps from The Club to a little Civil War re-enactment yesterday at his Castle in Gloucestershire.

Civil War Chaps

Squire Porter was there proudly showing off a new dainty little parasol which he had recently purchased in little boutique during his last visit to Paris. “It’s just a frivolous frippery but it keeps my blonde locks from the rain and adds a soupcon of style to my dress,” he declared upon his arrival at The Castle.

We also learnt that the origins of the Squire’s dubious wealth was not from the land, but from pilfering loose change and gold earrings from those dastardly rotters The Roundheads. We were all heartly cheered to hear this. All of us chaps were of course on the side of The King and the fact that one of our number was brave enough to have a forbear who would scour the battlefields for dead New Model Army chaps and defrock them of their few valuables is admirable.

Sir Timothy was as ever entertaining. He regaled us with tales from history. Of great wars and splendid Naval Battles where we gave those Frenchie’s a good beating. He fed us fine meats and topped our glasses with the finest mead. As ever he looked at home in his Castle and for good measure he ensured that those scoundrel Roundheads were beaten to a pulp for our entertainment.

Hurrah for the King.

A Hot Buttered Muffin

Today I think I shall extol the virtues of a hot buttered muffin. I have little else to do. The labourers are tilling the fields, the poachers are ensnared, the horses are neighing in the meadow and the travelling tinkers have been sent on their way.

A muffin with melted butter oozing over its decorous sides. There is no finer foodstuff for teatime. With the possible exception of the hot buttered crumpet, the Victoria Sponge and the cucumber sandwich.

I digress.

Dear readers I feel that it is my duty to issue a solemn warning for the future of our divine muffin. I have been alerted to the shocking rumour that there is an imposter muffin circling our island, ready to invade and spread its degrading seed through these shores. It will corrupt our heirs and divert our servants from their chores.

Indeed the degradation wrought may go as far as tempting factory workers into faceless restaurants run by traders such as Mr McDonald (that well known supplier of public conveniences is rumoured to be contemplating putting a restaurant in the path of the latrine, but more of that another day).

This imposter, this so called “muffin” is coming from across the pond. It is not a muffin. It is a very large cup cake.

If we allow such a misnomer to propagate through our shores, the very fabric of England may be rent asunder.

Our very own English muffins will be a mere afterthought, a minor tea time foodstuff, forgotten in the wasteland that is dominated by this American misnomer. Whatever next? Will the colonials start to adulterate the King’s English? Maybe they will start spelling words differently or, heaven forfend, develop their own accent.

Well I say, enough. Are we not made of sterner stuff? Are we not made of English oak? Do we not rule the oceans? Let us defend the rights of our humble muffin and prevent the large cup cake from entering these shores.

I shall propose such legislation to be passed forthwith, or at any rate, the next time that I am sober in the House of Lords.

I Have Survived

Dear readers, I apologise for the delay in updating you of my time spent in the environs of the Hoi Polloi. It has taken me these 72 hours to come to terms with the smell of mass produced pies.

Although Squire Porter did indeed ply us with champagne and meats, he failed in his duties of separating us from the great unwashed. Not only did we imbibe our non vintage champagne amidst the Johnny Come Lately nouveaux types who have done passably well in trade, but we had to sit amongst people who had failed to don a top hat. This meant that as I sat down in my deck chair, not one chap had the decency to doff their hat to me or tug their forelock. I was of a mind to challenge the whole throng to a duel but Squire Porter advised caution:

“These chaps are not acquainted with Queensbury dear boy,” he said “and they will use all sorts of underhand japes to get one over on you.”

Fortunately, the whole game passed in somewhat of a blur. Although I deride non vintage wine, I am not so stubborn that I would decline a drink. Indeed, I feel the neccessity to drink a little more than is my habit in a vain attempt to mask the inferior quality of the liquid.

Upon the final whistle I was advised that there were five occasions upon which grown men kissed and cuddled and that is apparantly good. I fail to see why. My understanding is that one should only kiss and cuddle other men whilst at public school.

I am home now. The butler mops my brow every ten minutes as I recline on the chaise longue traumatized by my experience.