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. 

Squire Porter and his Ladies visited the country pile this weekend and brought with them their cider infused, ruddy complexions from the countryside.

As I may have mentioned some months ago, I have purchased the very latest Penny Farthing and it was with great delight when the Porters suggested that we go on a bicycling jaunt to see how many peasants we can run over on the tow path.

Well, the going was slow during the first half of our sojourn. Those pesky peasants were far too quick for us and managed to evade us. I turned to the Squire and suggested that a liquid lunch may be in order. He readily agreed and so we found a rather modern looking establishment staffed by those coarse colonials from Down Under.

Jugs of Pimms were the order of the day, in a vain effort to cool down. My top hat and tails may have made me look very dapper atop my grand bycicle, however, it rather made me glow.

It was good to see The Squire sup his Pimms with all the aplomb and the haste of a yeokel drinking a flagon of cider after a morning harvesting the hay.

After luncheon we felt suitably refreshed and a little giddy. We were ready for our challenge and by jove did we succeed. Fuelled by Pimms and an inability to focus on any single living object, we managed to displace parasols owned by the petit borgeoisie as they took their Sunday strolls, knock peasants into trees and push anglers into the canal as we cycled past at break neck speed.

The butler has just brought me my neatly pressed copy of The Times.

Whilst perusing, I nearly choked on my kipper.

Once again those chaps from Fleet Street have got a bee in their bonnet and are bleating on and on about their latest tedious concern; the increase in Manurehouse gases. It really is quite a bore.

They rant on and on about how there are far too many carriages on the road and that the horses are producing so much beastly excrement, that the roads are becoming nigh on impassable to those on foot. Supposedly due to both the gentle aroma of manure and the mountains of it piling up on the roads.

I say, balderdash and piffle.

What are people doing walking on roads? Clearly, only the lower classes would do such a thing.

If that is the case, and I am reliably informed by a travelling tinker that it is, why on earth should it be of any concern to the ruling classes? It is not as if it matters whether their clothes get covered in excrement, as I am reliably informed that they do not wash.

Besides, I have just purchased the largest and fastest four wheel drive carriage from Selfish, Guzzler, Twerp & Co, and from my lofty position I am not aware of any manurehouse gases.

So there you have it, dear readers. I am completely oblivious to the existence of manurehouse gases, so they clearly do not exist. You may rest easily in your beds.

As you know, I have recently purchased the very latest Penny Farthing. My good friend Major Nicholas Steward always has the latest bycicle and seeing as he will be visiting us at our estate in Wiltshire in a few weeks, I felt that I must have the largest front wheels possible. Besides, I think I look remarkably dandy sitting atop the bycicle in my top hat and tails.

Anyhow, I thought that I would take the Penny Farthing for a spin in town and give the horses a rest after last night’s race around The Square with that frightful cad, Austin.

Well, I was aghast at the state of the roads. When will the Aldermen do something about the potholes and the beastly mud? I was riding around one of these potholes when suddenly a bear of a man in a rather plain carriage had the temerity to blow his fog horn at me and utter all manner of expletives. Why is it otherwise placid people become monsters in carriages and think that they own the muddy track? It’s the type of behaviour one would expect from working class type of chap, but not someone who owns a carriage (albeit a plain one).