Thumpress Dung

As those of you who are in Society, or who try to ingratiate yourself with the Great and Good by devouring the Court pages in The Thunderer will know, the great Naturalist Sir Thumper Dung has produced an offspring.

He has managed to hide his disappointment at not producing a son and heir, by the comforting fact that he may form an advantageous alliance by marrying her off with a member of the English Aristocracy. He has always yearned to improve his rank from a humble baronet and take his seat in the Lords.

Let us hope that his planning for the betrothal takes up his few sober moments, as it may divert his addled mind from doing those preposterous impersonations of Appleborough.



Squire Porter is Defeated

It is not often that I can report that that famous glutton, Squire Porter is defeated. However, I can now state that he has indeed had to leave some unfinished food upon his salver.

His country estate will be in shock on hearing this news. His cook will probably faint in anguish and fret as to whether her winter supplies of offal will ever be devoured. His doctor will be anticipating an increase in fees and will even now be browsing for a new pocket watch in celebration. However, the local baker will rue the day that he sold his youngest son to pay for his new bread oven.

It was a wet night in the rum soaked streets of maritime Bristol that the Squire and I met for a snifter and a soupcon of food before our trip to the music hall. We stumbled into an exotic looking eaterie staffed by Romans. Our orders for their finest pie was met with an insolent shrug and they brought us mounds of food the like of which we had ne’er seen since our days at Floggers Boarding School. Doughy products covered in tomato and pigmeat, and a rugger ball sized pile of pasta drenched in mince and tomato.

After approximately 10 minutes, the Squire began to sweat. He mopped his brow and soldiered on. After 15 minutes, the old chap had to loosen his kneckerchief and remove his bulging belt. But the Squire is made of oak. An Englishman does not give up so lightly. We Englishman know how the natives live in the far flung colonies and are proud to eat all that any servant may put before us.

But after 20 minutes the top buttons of his trousers popped. This was too much for our dear friend to bear. His ruddy complexion was beginning to pale and his handkerchief was now drenched in the meat sweats. The chap gave up and still with a nugget of scoff on his plate.

 A beaten man. I never thought that I would see the day. This is the same chap who famously won the great Farmyard Challenge wager of ’85 when he ate a lamb, a pig and a cow for breakfast.

The oak that stirs within him still beats though. The brave man still accompanied me to the Music Hall and he still managed a few rum toddies at the Sailors Arms, but he drew the line at bouncing the maids upon his knee.

Imbibing and Feasting

It has been some time since my last journal. For this, dear readers, I must humbly apologise. I could offer many excuses such as indolence, fecklessness, loucheness and being in an opiate haze.

However, I must tell the truth; which is that my ghastly Aunt Canute has been trying to fix me up with a Lady. I will tell you more of this in all its sordid detail another time.

For now, I must write of food as it has been so courteously requested by the esteemed Lady Piles Collarbone.

“Dear Lord Daft,” she said, “you are a well known glutton and I am sure that the populace would like to know what you eat. Do write, oh please do,” she proclaimed. At first, I was far too foppish to be bothered, but on further consideration I thought that the peasants of our nation should know how I eat so that they can vicariously enjoy my indulgences.

I normally have breakfast at the crack of dawn; as eleven bells strike on the Grandfather Clock. Firstly, a Bloody Mary (half vodka, half worcester sauce and a dash of tomato juice) awakens me and reminds me of the previous evening japes. I then eat a hearty breakfast of poached quails eggs, smoked rabbit and wild boar sausages smothered in hollandaise sauce.

This hearty fare up keeps me going for an hour or two before I take a hansom down to The Club for a spot of billiards and humorous banter with the chaps. Luncheon soon follows. Steak and Kidney Pudding, Sponge Pudding and a flagon of claret sets me up for the afternoon. I may wash this down with an ale to prevent me getting too dehydrated.

Afternoon tea is the one part of the day that is a duty. Some dull relation demands my attendance at some harrowing social occasion. Having to be courteous is so very taxing with only a hot buttered muffin and a cup of Earl Grey for comfort. However, I normally take my leave within twenty minutes and saunter back to the club for dinner.

I can rarely remember what I perchance devour for dinner as it is normally quite late and I always seem to find myself a little hazy.

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I Almost Had to Dismiss Cuddly Cook

I had a busy day yesterday, what with celebrating the trapping of another poacher, reducing the wages of my loyal servants and sharing two bottles of my finest vintage port with that hairless cad Austin over a rather fine luncheon.

Furthermore, Butler was having his one day off a year visting his Great Aunt in some squalid seaside town, in what is affectionately known as The North. The combination of my hard working day and the thought of Butler enjoying some Mr Whippylash ice-cream induced me into a state of peckishness.

In Butler’s absence, I knew that I would have to alert Cook to my requirments, but in my befuddled state I realised that I had absolutely no idea how to do this. I therefore took the foolhardy decision to embark on an adventure into the nether regions of my mansion.

It was a long journey down dark corridors where natural light had barely penetrated for decades. The smells of venison stew and turtle soup were unmistakeable as I drew near Cuddly Cook’s lair. I opened the door and there was the bustle of ten wenches from the lower classes busying themselves with pots and fires, jellies and pies, gravies and puddings.

The sight of labour made me even more ravenous and so I announced in my loudest voice

“Where is my tea Cuddly Cook?”

At this, the bustle ceased and all the wenches turned to look at me in a state of shock. It was rather gratifying to see them all tug their greasy forelocks and curtsy before Cook said

“But master, the cakes are still in the oven and will not be ready for another 20 minutes.”

At this, I flew into a rage of similar ferocity as when I lost 10 Guineas to Dastardly Willy in a bet over how many steak and kidney puddings one could fit into one’s pantaloons at The Club. Willy had cheated by wearing his expanding pantaloons which he had put on for his planned jaunt to the seedy end of town later that evening.

Anyway, Cook had the temerity to suggest that I was ordering tea some half an hour early which was why my cakes were not ready. Well, I was in no mood to be corrected and uttered the words

“As a member of the lower classes, how could you possibly know anything? I have a good mind to dismiss you from my employ at once.”

The wenches were aghast and Cuddly Cook began to cry.

Now, you may think of me as a chap made with a heart as hard as Matron’s behind. With a lip so stiff that a whining puppy could not soften it. A man so upright that a storm that blows an English Oak over, could not bend me.

Dear reader, you are wrong. My heart is as soft as blancmange. There is nothing that softens a soak like me than to see a member of the those less fortunate than me, cry. It makes me yearn to patronise them, to make them awfully glad that they have such a generous Master as me.

“Cuddly Cook, you have served me and my forebears for many years. In view of your outstanding Treacle Sponge Pudding, I will not dismiss you today. However, be sure to give me double portions of your fine Victoria Sponge Cake for tea and we will say nothing more about this sordid affair. Good Day wenches.”

With that I turned and climbed the stairs to breathe in the fresh air of aristocracy that seeps through my home and my bones.

A Hot Buttered Muffin

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.

Croquet on The Lawn

It is with great delight to announce that the croquet pitch has been laid out for the summer. It always warms my heart to see the hoops put up and to see the table by the side of the pitch laden with lemonade, cucumber sandwiches and Victoria Sponge Cake.

This year is even more exciting than previous years in that the pitch is new. My old pitch had been brutalised by beastly moles.

I did attempt to coerce that cad Austin’s young boy to go down the holes and try and gas the beasts out, but Austin’s wife refused. Apparantly on the grounds that it was too cruel to allow a two year old do such a chore. I could not see it myself but I do not like arguing with the fairer sex. They always seem to get the better of us poor chaps with their wily ways.

Anyhow, I had to give up on the pitch and rather than find a a new one in my large estates I thought that I should select a tenant farmer to have the honour of hosting my croquet pitch. And as I am a generous landlord, I decided to increase the lucky farmer’s rents for the honour.

I selected McFungus’ farm. He is such a pleasant chap with a cheery demeanour and a long line in tedious stories. We managed to flatten half his crops in the process but he is so amiable that he still waves at me with his middle finger whenever we pass and mutters all sorts of pleasantries under his breath.

A Jolly Spiffing Day

Well, yesterday was a jolly spiffing day.

Lord and Lady Piles Collarbone invited us to their new town house in Bath. They proudly showed us where they had cleared the labourers cottages away so that they could build the house of their dreams. It is always heartening to see fellow aristocrats have a vision and not let trivilaities get in the way.

This is despite an attempt by the labourers to protest against Lord Piles and claim that they had lived in those cottages for generations. Lord Piles retort that he was from a long line of philanderers that went all the way back to the Norman Conquest thankfully won the day and the magistrate found in his favour.

Furthermore, their cook made a feast which I will remember for as long as the alcohol allows me to. I have a good mind to lure her away with the promise of a sovereign to come and cook for me at my country pile.

Today has been equally spiffing. The sun shines on the righteous and I have donned my boater and gone for a punt around my lake. It has put me in such a jolly mood, I think I will go to the Steward and tell him to put the rents up.

Hot Buttered Crumpets

I have been a member of some frightful clubs in my time. After a while, they become so dull and commonplace, I decide that it is time to corrupt a different set of winsome fellows.

I had my farewell dinner with one such Club in London. All the fine fellows were there. McFungus, a charming leprechaun of a man who never fails to entertain us with a never ending stream of gibberish. Austin, a man who seems to have lost his head of hair and feels it beneath him to invest in a new wig. He purports to be from Surrey but the rumour is that he emanates from Reading. Smith, a northerner who for some reason wishes to return to that icy wasteland. Any self respecting gentleman would drop him like a hot buttered crumpet, but he has a certain joie de vivre (I put it down to drugs myself).

I digress, and the thought of hot buttered crumpets reminds me why I started dictating this to my manservant.

We had had a long, emotional day and evening. Drinking claret by the jug, and regaling each other with tall stories about the state of this world and the next. I was feeling hungry. It had been some time since my last Steak and Kidney Pudding at The Flatulent Pie Shop in that charmingly seedy enclave that is Soho.

So I got up and declared to my fellow drinkers that it was time to experience the common folk and get some street food. They were quite shocked as they had never known me to suggest such a thing. However, I felt adventurous and could see no harm patronising some greasy eaterie.

Our search was long and in vain. Street food was scarce and we ended up on the Tottenham Court Road. I could find no hot buttered crumpets anywhere, not even a muffin or a cup cake. I longed for my school days when I could send my fag to the kitchens and steal some freshly baked pastries from Cook.

Our desperation was such that we ended up at a brightly lit eaterie named after my old Scottish headmaster, McDonald. His family were in trade, but I never thought they had stooped this low. I entered in a state of nervousness.

“Look here Austin,” I said, “this place does not look like a hot buttered crumpet stall.” And indeed it was not. When I requested such a thing, an illiterate common person uttered something which I could not understand.

Austin ordered for me and I ate. It put me in mind of old Flopsy’s slop bucket. Brown, liquid and very smelly.

“Austin,” I said, “never bring me to this hole again. I wanted hot buttered crumpets and you let me down. Now go back to Reading and patronise your workers.”

With that, I turned on my heels and stumbled back home. “It is time to return to the country,” I thought.