Lord William Daft

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.