A Christmas Message

Dear Commoner

At this time of year, ones thoughts turn to those less fortunate than ones self.

For me, however, I feel Such charity is all rather tiresome. The Great and Good are far better spending their time at The Club regaling chums with tales of adventure, rather than traipsing around hovels on their estates. It is an unnecessary deed; proffering a basket of plum puddings in the hope that God will look kindly upon us in the next life. Such benevolence will only encourage sloth in the peasantry. God is an Englishman, and He would not wish empire builders to indulge in charity when there are savages to be tamed in far flung colonies.

Now, for my customary review of the year. My new moat and the emergency replenishment of my wine cellar meant that rents had to be increased three times. My tenants were a tad concerned that I was exploiting them, but were soon comforted by the fact that I had managed to procure a rather splendid case of ’68 Margaux.

I managed to traipse down to The Lords on a couple of occasions. After a particularly languid luncheon, I enthralled the Chamber with a particularly eloquent speech on the evils of Whiggery and the merits of Mistress Tinkle’s Showgirls.

Two dear chums were hounded out from the metropolis and decided to decamp to the West Country. All was not plain sailing. Boogaloo D’Ormant betrayed his anarchist sympathies by attempting to trip our fragrant Mayor and he also entered into a duel with a past rival. Major Steward got a tad overheated when his vegetables were ignored by the esteemed judges at the Village Show. He also insisted on wearing ridiculous checked garments much to the bemusement of the local populace.

Sir Thunper Dung set off on one of his jaunts to Bora Bora land in search of indigenous tribes boys to tutor in the ways of righteousness. Countess Clog continues to find it tiresome to don a gown; preferring to remain on her chaise longue for the duration of the day in her nightgown, munching on doggy bics and bemoaning the injustice of Dung’s new ear trumpet failing to still his insane rants. Sir Piles obsession with new fangled technology means that he hides himself away in his laboratory dreaming up hair brained schemes and absent mindedly growing an amusing moustache.

Canon Coch’s attempts to live by the oath of the Cloth led him to focus his efforts on converting those who frequent back street taverns.. It was his contention that in order to convert these degraded examples of human kind it would be best for him to share their sins with them. He spent a moment grappling with his conscience before setting off on this path of dubious virtue. His confidence in obtaining a sainthood for such sacrifice is heartening.

Fitzberque’s admirable obsession with taking pot shots at peasants continues unabated. He has five hits to his name in this past month and is aiming for a new record during this festive season. Squire Porter is nowhere to be seen which leads me to presume that he is in the corner of some field cradling a flagon of cider.

Lord Daft. December 2009