Lord William Daft

Once a year I am forced, by centuries of precedence, to open the gates to of my country pile to the great unwashed of the neighbourhood. Peasants from the village, who rely on my patronage, are allowed onto my manicured lawns for an afternoon of games, competitions, ale and cake.

As a proud Englishman, I am conscious that without the peasants yeoman like hard work, our proud nation would degenerate into foppish sloveness and our fields would not be tilled. Therefore, I see it as a proud responsibility to put on a jolly good show as an act of gratitude for all their hard work through the year.

This year, as is true of every year, the most popular stall was Flog The Poacher. The crowds always take great delight in horsewhipping these lawless scoundrels.

The Wet Wench competition drew a large crowd of flatulent, bawdy lower class types. The wenches stand in line and are interviewed by the Blacksmith about how they like puppies and do good works at the local Work House. The wenches then have to sit on my knee, and with suitable coyness have to tell me what a marvelous landlord I am. However, the highlight is undoubtedly the Wet Petticoat Competition, from which we judges decide who will be crowned Wet Wench Of The Year.

All in all, the whole day was a success. This is despite Squire Porter embarrassing us all by appearing in his new Gold Thigh Length Boots and singing camp songs into the early hours after one too many glasses of mead.

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.

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.

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 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.

I am a very concerned. It seems that the Whigs have nothing better to do than cause sleepless nights amongst the Great and Good of our proud nation. Their latest wheeze to upset all upstanding Englishmen, is to suggest that we might like to extend the vote to the middle classes.

Hogwash.

Do these cads not realise to what we owe our Empire? Do they not realise it is because we are run by chaps who have not had to buy their own furniture?

If we let those who are not gentleman vote, they who have to work for a living; then the fabric of our nation will crumble. Yokels will no longer doff their caps as I pass, we will all be forced to speak French and bounders everywhere will insist that we eat cucumber sandwiches with the crusts left on. I shudder to think of such cavalier behaviour.

So next time you come across a Whig, challenge him to a duel. It is the sole language they comprehend.

My good friend, the famous nudist, explorer and naturalist, Sir Thumper Dung heard that I was writing this journal for the underclasses. He described it as a

Snob Blog

Well, I have to disagree. I am no snob. I come across servants, travelling tinkers, shop keepers and farm labourers all of the time. Sometimes I even talk to them.

Indeed, I hope that some of my most fervent readers will hail from those less fortunate than me, so that I may enrich their lives in some small way. It is my little contribution to fair England. My hope is that I may help in fertilising and strengthening the root that is our English Oak.