Lord William Daft

Those of you who follow Sir Thumper Dung’s ramblings will be aware that he has recently been to the sanatorium for improvements to his hearing.

He has long had to cup a hand to his ear so that he could hear put upon clerks make excuses for their administrative failings. He also has the propensity to bark orders at those about him, unaware that he brays so loudly that he can be heard above a pack of lively hounds readying themselves for the Hunt.

I have been embarrassed to be at his table at The Club on many an occasion as he rants at a simpering waiter, or at his home where he treats his servants in a most unbecoming way.

However, we must make allowances for his behaviour. He claims to be a learned scholar with his mind in different spheres to the common man. More tellingly, he is but a mere baronet and so is not accustomed to the ways of the upper classes. He therefore has the propensity to treat his inferiors with a lack of elan. He has to overcompensate for his humble beginnings from peat burning Irish stock by telling all about him who he is and why he should be elected to The Royal Society forthwith.

In order to repair one of his many deficiencies, he entered into the sanitorium to rectify his ear a few days ago. This had been preceded by lengthy correspondence outlining his expectations of the nurses and surgeons. He made it quite clear that any incompetencies would be met with irate letters filled with acerbic rebukes that would make the most stout hearted surgeon quake in his slippers.

His ranting began as he entered into the sanitorium, continued as he awaited the surgery and was directed to each orderly as they passed.

Although the fitting of an ear trumpet is a pain free and simple procedure, the surgeons decided that a full anaesthetic would be necessary in order to still the insane rantings of this wild baronet who had spent too many years on expeditions with only indigenous men for company.

He was in the middle of a rant “you better not mess this up or you shall be hearing from my …… “, when peace descended onto this world and he was under. The whole sanitorium exhaled and the relief was palpable.

Sir Boogaloo D’Ormant is the latest chap to have fled the metropolis for the tranquility of the West Country. Like Major Steward, he departs in order to remove himself from the disapproving glances of Society.

On this occasion, it is not a duel that has forced the chap to flee, but  due to his dismissal as Composer to the Royal Household’s Pets.

Those who have made his acquaintance will be aware that he is a chap who is prone to hirsuteness. This hand that The Lord dealt him is what has led to his downfall.

The royal hounds mistook him for one of their own, and being of Royal Breeding assumed that Sir Boogaloo was a junior member of their pack. Sir Boogaloo did not take too kindly to this humiliation and in order to subdue the hounds, he fed them with the inferior foodstuffs from the shoddy cafe that fronts public latrines, Mr McDonald.

Upon hearing that the Royal Hounds had been fed such bilge, he was told to stop playing with his organ and remove himself from the Royal Palaces forthwith.

As a result he took the first Great Western steam train out of London and settled in the bohemian enclave of Bishopston in Bristol, where morals are loose and few questions are asked.

It is in this neighbourhood of sin that Sir Thumper Dung resides with his mistress Countess Clog. Living together with child despite their not being down the aisle and making oaths of allegiance before the Archbishop. I am sure Canon Coch will have something to say about this.

However, I digress. Welcome Sir Boogaloo to our little corner of England. Our luncheon Club will benefit from his presence and his tall tales.

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.

It is with a mixture of delight and trepidation that I welcome my good chums, the Stewards to our little corner of Wiltshire. After fleeing from the metropolis, they may find our charming country ways a little strange at first, but I have no doubt that after a bottle or two of Claret they will settle down, don their cravats and patronise the hoi polloi in a suitable way.

As the pre-eminent chap in this area, it is beholden on me to lay out some ground rules for them so that they do not make asses of themselves as is their wont:

1) If they should meet me in the street, they should doff their cap and offer to purchase a pint of the finest frothing ale from the nearest tavern.

2) They should refrain from mentioning that they once resided in London. It is most unseemly and considered frightfully gauche.

3) The temptation to rush hither and thither, as if they were still in the metropolis, will be strong. However, there really is no need to whip their horses into a gallop. The peasants are far more amenable and deferential in our corner of Wiltshire and so time can be taken to enjoy country ways and to savour the sight of labourers tilling the fields whilst trotting along the byways.

4) One has to be ready for a shopkeeper, or a member of the petit bourgeoisie, to strike up a conversation. Do not take it as impertinence, but merely a way for them to ingratiate themselves. Always be ready with a quip, both to put them at their ease and to put them in their place.

5) God forbid, but if Major Steward feels it neccessary to don his gaudy checked shirt on an outing, then he must wear a suitably sober Morning Coat to cover its worst excess.

If the Stewards can comply with these simple guidelines, I feel certain that they will have a super time here. Failing this, I will order the serfs to horsewhip them out of the estate and send them packing to the eel pie infested neighbourhood  they have just come from.

It is with great sadness that I heard on the wires that our brave Lions have been defeated on the high veldt by those pesky Boers.

The error of course was in the choice of Captain. No side proclaiming to represent this Sceptered Isle should be led into battle by anyone other than a proud upstanding Englishman. I acknowledge that our Celtic brethren make super infantrymen and they work wonders with a pick axe down the mine.

However, all on these isles look to the charm of an Englishmen to lead the line into battle and outwit our colonial opponents with a caddish wink and a languid air.

The clerks of Petty Insurance Brokers may breathe a deep sigh of relief. Those who receive telegrams from irate bores may sup a glass of beer in peace. The letters editor of The Morning Post may take a day off, as his post bag will be lighter than usual. Serfs who take the modern moniker of “Customer Service Representatives” may throw their flat caps in the air and take the steam train to a sordid seaside resort, partake of an afternoon nap followed by a small flutter at the dog track.

Sir Thumper Dung is leaving these shores for a few short weeks.

His abrasive letters filled with acerbic put downs shall pause. His quill shall have some respite and prepare for the next round of intense ranting.

Countess Clog shall journey to the latrine facaded MacDonald eaterie for a surreptitious beef carccass pie.

Hymns shall be sung in Westminster Abbey praising the Lord for the respite from the Hectoring of the Dung. Our fine Land shall relax and ease itself into a jamboree that shall last from the day Dung boards the steam liner until the dark day that his ship lands again at port.

In the meantime, New Mexico will suffer from his braying, baritone voice caterwauling at  the ineptitude of bell boys, the incompetence of tavern keepers and the inexperience of his bag carriers.

The old curmudgeon is coming to New Mexico. May God be with you.

This ghastly furore from the lower orders about their rulers extravagant expense claims is most unseemly. Of what concern is it to the common man how their betters spend their money?

I was born a noble aristocrat and it has been both my solemn duty and my solemn burden to rule this country.

Since the days of Elizabeth I, us Daft’s have taken our role seriously. We have always tempered our intake of claret before a jaunt to Parliament. Should we be called upon to speak we could still string a salient sentence together without recourse to slurring or the need for support whilst standing to deliver our powerful oration.

However, it seems that I am being forced by some jumped up little serf that I should publish my expense claim. For me this is barbaric, and will only make the lower orders envious of my wealth and brazen cheek.

My claims are as follows:

i) 5 guineas: The services of one wet nurse for when I am overburdened with my duties.

ii) 1 guinea: The polishing of my collection of silver spoons

iii) 3 guineas: The daily ironing of my copy of The Thunderer

iv) 224 guineas: To pay for my debts at the backgammon table in the Lords Dining Room whilst awaiting the end of a particularly tedious debate

… I really do find all this rather beneath me. It is all very tiresome and although I have many more claims that would bring tears of joy to your eyes, I feel a tad fatigued and so I shall order Butler to open a bottle of vintage claret and relax on my chaise longue.

Last night was spent in the environs of the maritime seaport of Bristol with a number of chums from my old alma mater. The evening was a jolly one as we imbibed copious amounts of vintage claret and regaled each other with lurid tales of yore.

As the evening passed ever more into a haze, offence was taken between two chaps over a misdemeanour that had occurred one drunken night in our youth.

Sir Boogaloo D’Ormant, Composer to the Royal Household’s Pets, had once taken a turn around the room with a charming lady who had otherwise been spoken for. His claims that he was unaware of her obligation, was met with hoots of derision by us fellows, as it was his wont to deploy his unbounded charm and serenade many a Lady that took his fancy.

The Lady in question’s chap was made aware of this transgression, but managed to contain it within his bosom for many a year; until last night.

One drop of port too much, and the hurt chap implored me to set up a meeting with Sir Boogaloo to iron out their differences. Always one for a duel, I suggested that pistols at dawn may be the most heroic way to settle the argument. There is nothing like a good duel first thing in the morning to build up one’s appetite for a hearty English breakfast.

The hurt chap concurred and so I hurried off to select the pistols and inform Sir Boogaloo of the exciting news that sport was to be had in the morn. Sir Boogaloo was not best pleased with the development as he was more than happy to continue supping a little more alcohol in preparation for a lengthly slumber. The last thing on his mind was a dawn rise and a spot of pistol practice.

Then the famous killjoy, Lord Piles Collarbone, waded in and declared the idea monstrous. He ordered us to go to the waiting carriage and return homeward forthwith. His actions thus depriving us sporting fellows a chance for a flutter on who would get hit.

Forgive me, for I have been tardy. I neglected to scribe a missive in honour of that fine upstanding chap, St George.

I was a little under the weather yesterday. I arrived at the Club early for our annual celebration, and we raised a glass to many an English hero. The toasts were numerous and it all got a little misty eyed.

As I am as solid as an English Oak, I am beholden to remind one what it is that makes an Englishman the Chosen One. What gives an Englishman the right to patronise the world?

It is priorities. A true, upstanding Englishman knows how to be a gentleman.

For example, if one looks at Raleigh, one sees a chap who carried on playing the games he was taught at boarding school, whilst that damn Armada had the temerity to sail into our waters. Once he finished his game, and only until then, did he turn a steely glance upon the swarthy infidels and use his guile to send them on their way.

Here is a chap who knew what was important. A chap should never interrupt a game of cricket for anything but a cup of tea and a slice of cake. A call at the Club from ones bookmaker should be brushed aside until the last drop from the bottle of vintage claret has been drunk.

So, dear fellows, I hope that your St George’s Day saw the oak in your grounds grow ever stronger, and that you managed to sing Rule Britannia very loudly until your voice was hoarse.

It has been a while since I last stirred myself from my excessive langour and put pen to to paper for this journal. However, a most concerning development has occurred amongst some of my closest chums and I feel duty bound to warn the populace against following their most disturbing lead.

It all started when that most gullible of chaps, Major Steward, moved to Bath and began indulging himself in little whimsies. Now that he is a country gentleman he has become rather lax and he feels that he is able to wear clothes that are most unbecoming of a gentleman.

The particular attire that he has taken to wearing is something imported from our errant colonial cousins across the pond, and it is called a Lumberjack Shirt. I had never heard of such drapery before. The most shocking thing about this “shirt”, is that it is nigh on impossible to wear a cravat.

To me, a man without a cravat to add a soupcon of style and élan to his attire, is a man who has lost his love of life. A cravat worn at a jaunty angle, shows those beneath him in society, and those who are his equal, just the type of chap he is. A man without a cravat, however, lends himself to inciting all sorts of revolutionary fervour.

If such behaviour was not enough, I have yet more disturbing news. It is that Lord and Lady Piles Collarbone are now following his lead, purchased said “shirt” and intend to wear it on our next evening together. The mind recoils with horror at such wanton abandon of all societal norms. Does this mean that I shall be the only chap wearing a cravat? Does it mean that Lady Collarbone will not be wearing a frock? The mind shudders. It feels like 1776 and 1789 all rolled into one.

So beware my readers, if you see such lemming like behaviour amongst your acquaintances, please inform me, and I shall raise the matter with the utmost urgency both in The House and with the local magistrate.