Lord William Daft

Our dear chums The Stewards have decamped to Bath; fleeing the infestations of London.

Rumours abound that the Major was blackballed from his Club for being over zealous and most un-English in the pursuit of winning the Beefsteak Cup. As a result, no Club would accept him. Feeling wretched he has come to Bath hoping that such caddish behaviour will be overlooked and he will be welcomed to the finer establishments once again.

The Stewards have found the move to require some acclimatisation. Madam Steward has been most put out that shopkeepers and tinkers have the temerity to speak to her. She has had to speak down to them on more than one occasion to advise them not speak to her unless first spoken to. 

Major Steward has not been immune to cavalier behaviour either. He was merrily pootling along upon his brand new Penny Farthing when he was slapped on his behind by some young rotters overtaking him in a Sports Carriage. The Major would normally have enjoyed a slap on his behind, taking him into a reverie of reminiscence of his time in the Headmasters study at McNuggets School For Young Stowaways. Forsooth, in this instance the slap took him by surprise and he almost fell off his bicycle.

I hope that they will soon call this place home and that they leave their London ways behind for the benefit of all mankind. 

My good chum, Dastardly Willy, has had to flee our Sceptered Isle and make his fortune on the other side of the world.

As you know, Dastardly Willy leads a double life. By day he tends to the coiffures of the finest in the Land, but by night he is a dandy chap who hangs around the backstreets of Bath, lightening unsuspecting chaps of their wealth.

When I heard that he was making his way to the other side of the world, I assumed that the Hand of The Law had something to do with it. After all, the dastardly chap was getting more and more cavalier with his light fingered escapades.

However, I am informed that he departs these shores due to his noblesse oblige. He will favour the islands of New Zealand with his presence, and the tears have not stopped streaming down my face since his departure. 

For Dastardly Willy will leave a large gap in all our lives. His knack of falling asleep after one too many ales in The Club gave us Chaps innumerable opportunities for pranks and much hilarity. We admired his gall at wearing his pink pantaloons to the Prince Regent’s Ball and starting a fashion amongst the more susceptible elements of society. And finally, the coiffure’s of the Great and Good of our isle, will no longer be as fine as they once were.

So raise a tankard to the old boy and his family. We wish him “Bon Voyage” and “Adieu”.

Beware my woolen friends, Dastardly Willy is coming after you…..

As Mr Sherlock Holmes once pronounced “This is quite a three pipe problem.” Indeed I had to request the finest shag to solve the disappearance of Princess Ien last weekend.

We visited her at her country pile in the New Forest. Little Paulo was of course in attendance regaling us with tales of another investment opportunity. His last one involved Tulips being cultivated in a bubble somewhere near the South Sea. It seemed like a jolly good idea to me, so I invested the odd shilling or two.

We were sitting down for our aperitifs, or sharpeners as one likes to call them, when we realised our hostess was not present. To the uninitiated, this may not seem shocking. Perhaps she was perfecting the balance of her wig, or taking a stroll around her lawn, or ordering her servants to add a little more claret to the Coq au Vin.

Alas, her absence was much more serious. Princess Ien has never been known to miss aperitifs. Even when she has been confined to her sick bed all day complaining of headaches, she still musters the courage to journey to the drawing room for a glug of vin blanc. 

Not wishing to panic Little Paulo, I tried to keep him occupied with amusing anectodes about jolly japes at The Club. However, it was clear that his mind was elsewhere and so we alerted the servants to search high and low.

The maids searched the house, the gardeners, the game keepers and their hounds searched the estate but still no sign of the Lady. Then The Butler had an inspired idea and whispered in my ear that Little Paulo and I should perhaps search in the environs of the wine cellar. The fellow is a genius. Of course she was there. Looking somewhat dishevelled and uttering an incoherent stream of wisdom, she was having the time of her life.

It seems that at some stage during the day, she thought that it would be a good idea to taste the latest Burgundies. Well, one thing led to another and she was on her 4th bottle before she was found  with her tiara askew and her cosmetics smudged.

News reaches me that Austin may be turfed out of the Kodswallop Club. This is the very same club that blackballed me a year ago for my unfettered indolence.

The market traders who have stormed the commitee had the temerity to request that I pull my weight and contribute something. I accused them of having to buy their own furniture which they did not take too kindly and so they began a campaign for my removal along with Flasher McFungus, Baron Scmidt and Lady Alexpanda. It is my understanding that the club is a dull and dreary place since our departures.

Of course, The Kodswallop Club has been going downhill for a number of years. When us chaps first joined it was filled with Men of Consequence. The types who would lead the Empire to greater things. This is no longer the case.

It has become a haven of chaps who did not have the benefit of being flogged at Public School and have the unfortunate handicap of having local accents. So I therefore urge Austin to take his leave of the ne’er do wells and become a man of consequence once again.

It is with great sadness that I have to report that my dear, dear friend Sir Thumper Dung has been transgressed. A street urchin broke into his back passage, dismantled the sash windows to his bijou town house and stole away with his moving picture box.

Needless to say Sir Dung was heartbroken. That picture box was his obsession. Since Sir David Appleborough had expelled him from his inner circle for shoddy impersonations, he has felt bereft. He only had a lone telegram and a moving picture of The Great Man left to obssess over.

Sir Dung would spend long evenings cradling a cheap blended whiskey, sobbing into his first editions of ‘Blight on Earth’ and watching moving pictures of The Great Man for comfort. O what small solace they did provide, but now his moving picture box has been stolen, he no longer has that comfort.

I do worry for the dear, dear boy….

I have been honoured by the presence of the little known Scandinavian Princess Ien, this Easter weekend. Her claim to have royal blood has been unverified by Debretts but she is awfully good fun and so we shall let that pass. Her penchant for the finest champagne means that we never hear a peep from her before midday.

The Princess has impeccable manners. She has the appearance of a Lady with a permanent smell under her nose. It is a demeanour that reflects well on her and assures me that she is from impeccable lineage.

She has a loyal companion, Little Paulo.

A dapper chap of small stature and a twinkle in his eye. Some say he is descended from travelling tinkers. Others that he is a scion of the Medici family. He deals in second hand carriages and golden trinkets and has the frightful habit of sending and receiving telegrams at all hours of the day. It is ghastly carry on and I mean to have a word with the old boy.

It is perhaps disconcerting that I have to cavort with a chap who works for a living, but he provides us with many amusing anectodes of the trading classes. The japes that he relates convinces me that trade can contribute nothing to the governance of our proud nation.

Legislation is the preserve of the aristocarcy and it is our duty, for the good of England, to continue to guard our own narrow interests. Hip Hip Hurrah.

Last week, my hair was a little unkempt after challenging a Whig to a duel, and so a visit to my good friend Dastardly Willy was in order. He does the finest coiffure in the West of England.

Here is a photograph of the old chap.

I am pleased to report that his genius with a pair of scissors meant that I came out of his back street emporium with my head held high and in pristeen condition. I therefore decided to head towards the seedy end of town for a crafty ale and a spot of high jinx at the cabaret before returning to The Club.

However, on my way I was accosted by a dandy chap with a pair of pink pantaloons and a mask on. He threatened to knock my top hat off and scratch my monocle if I did not give him a sovereign. I considered laughing at his camp manner, but I was too affronted by his nerve in accosting a member of the English aristocracy. I said as much and then something quite extraordinary happened. The dandy chap proceeded to remove his mask and I was flabbergasted to see that it was my old mucker Dastardly Willy.

“Sorry old bean,” Dastardly said, “but I did not realise it was you. I must have had too much brandy for breakfast and your face was somewhat a blur.”

Dastardly went onto explain that styling hair no longer holds the fascination it once did and so in his spare time he likes nothing better than to burgle his way through the backstreets of Bath. Well it sounded like an awful lot of fun but I declined to become his assistant as I had the pressing matter of an ale and the cabaret to attend to.

I have nothing against Roman Catholicism. Indeed some of my oldest chums are lapsed Catholics including my Turf Accountant, Old Dave and the famous explorer and naturist Sir Thumper Dung.

However, whilst bribing the local officials in Rome for fine marble sculptures, I casually sauntered into the Church of San Maria Maggiore and was faced with that bounder of a Pope, Pius V. He, who had the temerity to excommunicate Good Queen Bess.

Now Good Queen Bess has a special place in the hearts of Daft’s for it was she who ennobled my great forbear Sir Willy Daft. I was therefore of the mind to protect the honour of Good Queen Bess and place a defiant portrait of her on the statue of Pope Pius V.

I was within five feet before being craftily intercepted by a Priest who had the presumption that I should go to confession.

Now, I am not pure by any stretch of the imagination, but I do find it beastly to have to admit to my sins. As a member of the English Aristocracy, I am so busy down at The Club imbibing the finest Claret with my chums, I find it inconvenient to have any.

I was therefore left quite speechless for the first time in my life. To be polite I regaled him with tales about mischevous pranks that I played on Nanny when I was a child, and how I had perhaps been a tad too hard on the Butler three months ago when I refused him his one days holiday a year because I wanted my monocle polished.

This seemed to do the trick. Now, I may have misheard the Priest, but I am sure that he ordered me to drink 19 Bloody Marys at the nearest Trattoria. I followed his advice despite the fact that I do not like to water down my spirits with hideous tomato juice.

By the end of my repentance, I decided that I was quite partial to Catholicism and would never again try to interfere with a statue of any Pope.

I have already mentioned my good friend Sir Thumper Dung in relation to his slanderous comments regarding my journal as a Snob Blog.

Here is a picture of him on one of his many expeditions with only a couple of small indigenous boys for company.

On the whole he is a good chap. He searched yonder African dale and desert for the naturist missionary Dr Appleborough. Sir Dung is the old bean who uttered the immortal words upon finding the Doctor in Lake Tanganyika:

“Dr Appleborough, I presume.”

However, of Sir Dung’s many faults (my dear reader, you would find his long list of faults impossibly tedious to read), it is his obsession with Dr Appleborough that threatens the sanity of all who know him.

When he has one too many glasses of vintage port, he will start a monologe about the virtues of the Doctor. After his eigth glass, he will attempt a shoddy impersonation of the Doctor. We chuckle with him in order to help keep his upper lip stiff and his chin up, but we know that all he yearns for is an evening by the fire with The Great Man …….