Lord William Daft

Our local sage, wit and bon viveur, Sir Stuarte Vivir has permitted his spare a solo jaunt around the back streets of Bath this very morn. He has debated whether to send his manservant on the young chaps trail in order to prevent him falling into mischief.

I remonstrated with Sir Stuarte that such a course of action would not be required. One must let ones heir a free reign to enjoy the temptations of the adult world at the earliest possible age. The local blacksmith happily sends his three year old up a chimney so that a turnip can be put upon his table, so should not a small chap with good blood be given the liberty to enjoy the good things that only a city can confer?

I happily recounted to Sir Stuarte my first experience of being let loose in the seedy enclaves of Bath. Within minutes, I managed to sniff out Miss Tinkle’s establishment. I had a rare old time and had experiences that still bring a smile to one’s face. The experience has put be in good stead ever since and set me on my way to enjoy a long night out without the need to fall into the gutter.

Lady B is doing what all fine Ladies should do once in one’s life, and that is to go on an adventure.

She will leave her parasol behind and don her finest tweed for an exploration of the jungle. Her plan is to help the orangutans who reside in the jungle. She hopes that she can learn from them in order to gain a better understanding of how our very own working class live.

In this way, she will be able to return with novel thoughts as to how best patronise her tenants. Indeed, she owns vast swathes of tenements in Bristol and it is her ambition to increase their rents without them resorting to rioting. A few weeks in the jungle should prepare her very well.

She has been advised by the clerks who run this adventure, that she must attain a certain level of fitness. Lady B may mesmerise the chaps with her prowess in the ballroom, but at all other times she leads a sedate life and is carried hither and thither in a sedan chair by her long suffering footmen.

To walk through the jungle, albeit for the benefit of England, will be a trial. However, her upper lip is stiff and I have no doubt that she will bear her burdens with the fortitude that is the hallmark of all God-fearing English folk.

I am advised that she will have a team of lackeys who will carry her tea caddies, pull her new open air carriage and carry her trunks filled with ball gowns. She is absolutely determined that life in the jungle will not compromise the comforts that she is accustomed to. Indeed, natives are already preparing for her arrival by clearing a part of the jungle for her ballroom.

Whigs and revolutionaries may say this is an unnecessary expense. However, it is the English way to retain all creature comforts abroad, both for the benefit for us as rulers, and also for the benefit of the indigenous population. By seeing our customs, they will willingly embrace our ways and entreat us to colonise them for their own good.

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.