Lord William Daft

We are honoured with the presence of Lady Consuelo Cortinovis this week and all the days of her stay have been spent discussing this evenings excursion to the docks of Bristol for a soiree at the Music Hall. The ladies have become quite faint with the excitement of mixing with the rum soaked seafarers and imbibing copious quantities of cheap intoxicants.

I have been left to tend the country pile while my good Lady Barrington Beak and Lady Consuelo take the carriage to the port. There, they will meet Miss Mary Pommes de Frites and their escort, Anton Sparkman, who just for this evening will don a pink gown and pink lipstick, and become Antonietta Sparklemaid.

And it is not any old Music Hall that they are visiting, but one which has taken the fashion from the East where they have to sing the songs themselves. My concern that they would have to mix with the hoi polloi have been tempered by the fact that they have their own private booth and hopefully their own private safe for the diamonds.

They can therefore sing to their hearts content without bringing embarrassment upon our aristocratic brethren. It is bad enough that they are within the proximity of the sea salt infused commoners, but to have to perform in front of them would have brought shame upon the ruling classes. Next our heirs will be marrying showgirls.

I fear that the soiree may be a little messy……

Dear readers, I apologise for the delay in updating you of my time spent in the environs of the Hoi Polloi. It has taken me these 72 hours to come to terms with the smell of mass produced pies.

Although Squire Porter did indeed ply us with champagne and meats, he failed in his duties of separating us from the great unwashed. Not only did we imbibe our non vintage champagne amidst the Johnny Come Lately nouveaux types who have done passably well in trade, but we had to sit amongst people who had failed to don a top hat. This meant that as I sat down in my deck chair, not one chap had the decency to doff their hat to me or tug their forelock. I was of a mind to challenge the whole throng to a duel but Squire Porter advised caution:

“These chaps are not acquainted with Queensbury dear boy,” he said “and they will use all sorts of underhand japes to get one over on you.”

Fortunately, the whole game passed in somewhat of a blur. Although I deride non vintage wine, I am not so stubborn that I would decline a drink. Indeed, I feel the neccessity to drink a little more than is my habit in a vain attempt to mask the inferior quality of the liquid.

Upon the final whistle I was advised that there were five occasions upon which grown men kissed and cuddled and that is apparantly good. I fail to see why. My understanding is that one should only kiss and cuddle other men whilst at public school.

I am home now. The butler mops my brow every ten minutes as I recline on the chaise longue traumatized by my experience.

My good chum, Squire Porter of Longtown, has invited me to attend a game of Association Football. For those of you in the dark, this a modern game played by tradesmen. They chase around some wasteland following the movements of a rotund piece of leather and they intermittently cuddle each other in a state of euphoria.

On the periphery of this wasteland, are the masses. A vast throng of tradesmen attired in cloth caps and tattered tweed raincoats, singing music hall ditties, cheering their favoured players and uttering crude phrases that would make the Ladies shudder.

It is jolly good of The Squire to include me as my sensitivities are such, that when I am in such close contact with a high spirited rabble of common folk, I can come up in a rash. Fortunately, he has managed to cordon off half the arena for our sole use where he has promised to ply us with vintage claret and fine foods.

The Squire also advises that there is much money to be made out of Association Football. Miners and factory workers are apparantly keen to spend their earnings on their chosen teams paraphanalia.They are even known to voluntarily wear their team’s jumpers on market day.

So, I am minded to go. The Squire has kindly given me some tips so that I may enjoy myself:

1) I must cheer with unbridled joy whenever I see two chaps kissing and cuddling.

2) I must proclaim that the umpire is a blessed idiot on at least four occasions.

3) I must sing the school hymn very loudly. However, if I sing in Latin I am likely to get some warm ale poured over me.

4) It is inadvisable to wear my top hat.

If I follow this advice, then I should have a jolly good day. If I survive, I will report to you, my dear readers, my anthropological findings next week.

Adieu.

I have just returned from a little jaunt to Rome. I do enjoy patronising our European cousins and regaling them with tales about the magnificence of our Empire.

When in Rome, I would never dream to do as the Romans do. Instead I amble to the Tevi Fountain and lead the assembled throng in a proud rendition of ‘Rule Britannia’ which they all seem to enjoy.

My aim for this particular jaunt was to add to my collection of classic sculptures. I had been inspecting my country estate two weeks ago, and noticed that my morning room was a little bare.

I immediately rang the bell and my supercilious butler appeared so quickly that I suspect he must have been spying on me. I ordered him to pack my portmanteau and we were soon aboard the steam train.

I had a very successful trip bribing, pilfering and where absolutely neccessary, procuring some classic Roman sculptures. My morning room is now so full I can barely enter it without being poked by some protruding marble digit.