An Anarchist is in our Midst

I have a lot of time for the ex Composer to the Royal Household’s Pets, Boogaloo D’Ormant. However, my patience is beginning to wear thin in light of his latest revolutionary activity.

As those of you who have had the misfortune to spend an hour or two with him in a backstreet ale house, the briefest of time passes before he recounts tales of challenging Dr Brian Mawhinny to a duel, or blathering on about how the railways have gone to the dogs.

This evening he accompanied me to a recital, to which I had been invited to add gravitas and a soupcon of style. I should have realised trouble was in the air when he arrived at my mansion and declared that he was a tad peckish and insisted on mixing with the local riff-raff by going down to what is commonly called “the chippie.”

Upon his return, rather than eat said peasant food in the servants quarters, he insisted on eating it in the Royal Dining Room whilst reading one of  my leather bound first editions. The stench of the working class emanated through my mansion.

We then took the phaeton to the music hall where we imbibed a glass or two of cheap wine and patronised the local dignitaries before listening to a chap play his wind instrument to great affect. I thought the evening had passed without incident; that Boogaloo had been kept off the subject of the railways, until I made the mistake of introducing him to the Mayor.

They shook hands and Boogaloo, sensing an opportunity for notoriety, trod on the Mayor’s frock and she promptly stumbled down the stairs. The militia were quick off the mark, but not before Boogaloo realised  an evening in the stocks was imminent and feigned gallantry by stopping her fall.

The Mayor was all gratitude and graciousness but I knew that all was not what it seemed. I knew that Boogaloo’s revolutionary tendencies had got the better of him but, as with all anarchists, he soon realised that he would be cut off if his Pater discovered such caddish behaviour, and quite frankly, he enjoyed Pater’s benevolence a little too much to stick to these revolutionary whimsies.

Judging

As the pre-eminent chap in the area, I often receive requests to judge competitions at local fetes and jamborees. I find it all rather tedious, although seeing the hoi polloi simper and bow before me is always rather gratifying.

Recently, Lady Crapp requested that I add a certain gravitas to her Box Brownie Competition and cast my eye over some images that a few of the local peasants had submitted. Why anybody should wish to expend such effort for the honour of having your work hung in a public place, I have no idea. It seems to be a better use of one’s time to be in The Club regaling chums with tales of mischief whilst supping a bottle of vintage claret.

I did said judging with one languid eye on the images and the other on an ale. The winners were announced today to great fanfare. However, Major Steward, who has a most unbecoming competitive edge, has taken offence at his lack of success and sent me the following, embittered telegram:

“I write to express my absolute outrage at the results of your photo competition!

Clearly my talents are far too sophisticated to be recognised by small town snappers. When my talent was so blatantly obvious I can only assume you decided not to award me any prizes as you thought I was a professional and it was a competition for amateurs only.

You’ll be hearing from my legal representatives…”

The presumption of the cad made me choke on my luncheon and I ordered an immediate response

“If you consider your out of focus, poorly composed, dull photos were worthy of a prize you are more misguided than I thought.

Your wife, however, clearly has the eye of an all seeing God, and can espy opportunities with her faithful Box Brownie that passed your myopic eye. If you were man enough, you would free her from the burdens of looking after your Estate and permit her to attend our Box Brownie Club.

You could try and sue, but I fear that it would end in ridicule and your being hounded out of our Town, just as you were hounded out of London.”

I have now had a simpering reply, acknowledging that I am correct and he withdrawals all accusations. He is not only a scoundrel, but also a coward. Pah!

Ear Trumpet

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 and the Royal Hounds

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 Going On a Jaunt to Borneo

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.

Some Ground Rules For The Stewards

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.

Our Brave Lions Have Been Defeated

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.

Dung Is Departing

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.

My Expense Claim

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.

A Duel

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.

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