Lord William Daft

It is with great sadness that I have to report that my dear, dear friend Sir Thumper Dung has been transgressed. A street urchin broke into his back passage, dismantled the sash windows to his bijou town house and stole away with his moving picture box.

Needless to say Sir Dung was heartbroken. That picture box was his obsession. Since Sir David Appleborough had expelled him from his inner circle for shoddy impersonations, he has felt bereft. He only had a lone telegram and a moving picture of The Great Man left to obssess over.

Sir Dung would spend long evenings cradling a cheap blended whiskey, sobbing into his first editions of ‘Blight on Earth’ and watching moving pictures of The Great Man for comfort. O what small solace they did provide, but now his moving picture box has been stolen, he no longer has that comfort.

I do worry for the dear, dear boy….

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Last week, my hair was a little unkempt after challenging a Whig to a duel, and so a visit to my good friend Dastardly Willy was in order. He does the finest coiffure in the West of England.

Here is a photograph of the old chap.

I am pleased to report that his genius with a pair of scissors meant that I came out of his back street emporium with my head held high and in pristeen condition. I therefore decided to head towards the seedy end of town for a crafty ale and a spot of high jinx at the cabaret before returning to The Club.

However, on my way I was accosted by a dandy chap with a pair of pink pantaloons and a mask on. He threatened to knock my top hat off and scratch my monocle if I did not give him a sovereign. I considered laughing at his camp manner, but I was too affronted by his nerve in accosting a member of the English aristocracy. I said as much and then something quite extraordinary happened. The dandy chap proceeded to remove his mask and I was flabbergasted to see that it was my old mucker Dastardly Willy.

“Sorry old bean,” Dastardly said, “but I did not realise it was you. I must have had too much brandy for breakfast and your face was somewhat a blur.”

Dastardly went onto explain that styling hair no longer holds the fascination it once did and so in his spare time he likes nothing better than to burgle his way through the backstreets of Bath. Well it sounded like an awful lot of fun but I declined to become his assistant as I had the pressing matter of an ale and the cabaret to attend to.