Ear Trumpet

Those of you who follow Sir Thumper Dung’s ramblings will be aware that he has recently been to the sanatorium for improvements to his hearing.

He has long had to cup a hand to his ear so that he could hear put upon clerks make excuses for their administrative failings. He also has the propensity to bark orders at those about him, unaware that he brays so loudly that he can be heard above a pack of lively hounds readying themselves for the Hunt.

I have been embarrassed to be at his table at The Club on many an occasion as he rants at a simpering waiter, or at his home where he treats his servants in a most unbecoming way.

However, we must make allowances for his behaviour. He claims to be a learned scholar with his mind in different spheres to the common man. More tellingly, he is but a mere baronet and so is not accustomed to the ways of the upper classes. He therefore has the propensity to treat his inferiors with a lack of elan. He has to overcompensate for his humble beginnings from peat burning Irish stock by telling all about him who he is and why he should be elected to The Royal Society forthwith.

In order to repair one of his many deficiencies, he entered into the sanitorium to rectify his ear a few days ago. This had been preceded by lengthy correspondence outlining his expectations of the nurses and surgeons. He made it quite clear that any incompetencies would be met with irate letters filled with acerbic rebukes that would make the most stout hearted surgeon quake in his slippers.

His ranting began as he entered into the sanitorium, continued as he awaited the surgery and was directed to each orderly as they passed.

Although the fitting of an ear trumpet is a pain free and simple procedure, the surgeons decided that a full anaesthetic would be necessary in order to still the insane rantings of this wild baronet who had spent too many years on expeditions with only indigenous men for company.

He was in the middle of a rant “you better not mess this up or you shall be hearing from my …… “, when peace descended onto this world and he was under. The whole sanitorium exhaled and the relief was palpable.

Sir Boogaloo D’Ormant and the Royal Hounds

Sir Boogaloo D’Ormant is the latest chap to have fled the metropolis for the tranquility of the West Country. Like Major Steward, he departs in order to remove himself from the disapproving glances of Society.

On this occasion, it is not a duel that has forced the chap to flee, but  due to his dismissal as Composer to the Royal Household’s Pets.

Those who have made his acquaintance will be aware that he is a chap who is prone to hirsuteness. This hand that The Lord dealt him is what has led to his downfall.

The royal hounds mistook him for one of their own, and being of Royal Breeding assumed that Sir Boogaloo was a junior member of their pack. Sir Boogaloo did not take too kindly to this humiliation and in order to subdue the hounds, he fed them with the inferior foodstuffs from the shoddy cafe that fronts public latrines, Mr McDonald.

Upon hearing that the Royal Hounds had been fed such bilge, he was told to stop playing with his organ and remove himself from the Royal Palaces forthwith.

As a result he took the first Great Western steam train out of London and settled in the bohemian enclave of Bishopston in Bristol, where morals are loose and few questions are asked.

It is in this neighbourhood of sin that Sir Thumper Dung resides with his mistress Countess Clog. Living together with child despite their not being down the aisle and making oaths of allegiance before the Archbishop. I am sure Canon Coch will have something to say about this.

However, I digress. Welcome Sir Boogaloo to our little corner of England. Our luncheon Club will benefit from his presence and his tall tales.

Lady B Is Going On a Jaunt to Borneo

Lady B is doing what all fine Ladies should do once in one’s life, and that is to go on an adventure.

She will leave her parasol behind and don her finest tweed for an exploration of the jungle. Her plan is to help the orangutans who reside in the jungle. She hopes that she can learn from them in order to gain a better understanding of how our very own working class live.

In this way, she will be able to return with novel thoughts as to how best patronise her tenants. Indeed, she owns vast swathes of tenements in Bristol and it is her ambition to increase their rents without them resorting to rioting. A few weeks in the jungle should prepare her very well.

She has been advised by the clerks who run this adventure, that she must attain a certain level of fitness. Lady B may mesmerise the chaps with her prowess in the ballroom, but at all other times she leads a sedate life and is carried hither and thither in a sedan chair by her long suffering footmen.

To walk through the jungle, albeit for the benefit of England, will be a trial. However, her upper lip is stiff and I have no doubt that she will bear her burdens with the fortitude that is the hallmark of all God-fearing English folk.

I am advised that she will have a team of lackeys who will carry her tea caddies, pull her new open air carriage and carry her trunks filled with ball gowns. She is absolutely determined that life in the jungle will not compromise the comforts that she is accustomed to. Indeed, natives are already preparing for her arrival by clearing a part of the jungle for her ballroom.

Whigs and revolutionaries may say this is an unnecessary expense. However, it is the English way to retain all creature comforts abroad, both for the benefit for us as rulers, and also for the benefit of the indigenous population. By seeing our customs, they will willingly embrace our ways and entreat us to colonise them for their own good.