Lord William Daft

On occasion I have been known to cast a friendly glance at our brethren who choose the simple life of a traveller.

Well, the other day these chaps, Ginger, Ed and Will trespassed onto my vast country estate singing ditties in the traditional English folk style. It is my wont to take a 12 bore to these traveling tinker types, and send them on their merrie way with shrapnel in their behind.

However, I took to their simple ways. They did not have a coin between them and instead relied on their vocal chords and ingenuity to get by.

I have always admired the plucky spirit of an Englishman and I saw in these chaps a stout heart and an intrepid nature that inspired me. Not only did I order the servants to give them a sandwich and a jug of ale, but I ordered the labourers, servants and gardeners to take a leaf out of their books and leave their tenanted accommodation and live off the land.

I will then be able to rent their simple cottages out to borgeois holiday makers and everybody will rejoice in my benevolent nature.

If you would like to hear some of these chaps ditties, then you may by pressing this bell.

I have been alerted to the fact that the cad and bounder, Austin, is neglecting his duties at home. His fragrant wife has advised me as much via telegram.

As previously scribed, Austin is one of those unfortunate fellows who works for a living.

He was born into a bourgeois family of moderate means and was sent out to earn a crust whilst still in shorts. You may question how I know such a chap. Well, he managed to bluff his way into the Kodswallop Club where he became a star turn; always ready with a quick jape and his taste for ladies bonnets always raised a chuckle amongst the members.

Austin has remained loyal to the Kodswallop Club, even after I was blackballed for my fey indolence. However, it seems that they are demanding much from him and he is little at home.

So I write this missive in the hope that Austin shall return homeward and attend to his charming Lady. These late nights and long hours do a chap no good. It causes one to lose one’s hair and get ghastly wrinkles. It also leaves less time for a drop or two of the fine stuff.

A while ago, we indulged our colonial children from across the pond, and permitted them a degree of self rule.

This was against our better judgement, but in the spirit of paternalism we ruling classes felt that the Americans could be trusted to have a degree of autonomy.

We have tolerated their mistakes and their occasional petulance: their adolescent punch up of 1812 with the loyalists across the 49th Parallel; their tardy entry into various wars; and their obsession with insipid meat products wrapped in a bun.

However, eight years ago, they seemed to forget their feudal obligations and elect a half wit to run them. It made me wonder why they had got rid of Good King George all those years ago.

My learned colleagues in the Lords were forced to down our port and approach the real chap who runs America, our Queen’s representative the Governor General, and urge him to do something. The GG has said that it is not too easy to sway these colonial whippersnappers without a little tantrum and some attempt to pretend that they have independent thought from their masters in London. 

Lessons needed to be learnt and I am pleased to report that today they have taken our counsel and elected a Jolly Good Fellow to the White House.

It is always immensely gratifying to see our Colonial Children come to heel and learn from their mistakes. Let us hope that this is the end of it and no more shall they have the pretence of “knowing better.” Henceforth, shall they take their master’s advice and defer to England.

Hurrah

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. 

My good chum, Dastardly Willy, has had to flee our Sceptered Isle and make his fortune on the other side of the world.

As you know, Dastardly Willy leads a double life. By day he tends to the coiffures of the finest in the Land, but by night he is a dandy chap who hangs around the backstreets of Bath, lightening unsuspecting chaps of their wealth.

When I heard that he was making his way to the other side of the world, I assumed that the Hand of The Law had something to do with it. After all, the dastardly chap was getting more and more cavalier with his light fingered escapades.

However, I am informed that he departs these shores due to his noblesse oblige. He will favour the islands of New Zealand with his presence, and the tears have not stopped streaming down my face since his departure. 

For Dastardly Willy will leave a large gap in all our lives. His knack of falling asleep after one too many ales in The Club gave us Chaps innumerable opportunities for pranks and much hilarity. We admired his gall at wearing his pink pantaloons to the Prince Regent’s Ball and starting a fashion amongst the more susceptible elements of society. And finally, the coiffure’s of the Great and Good of our isle, will no longer be as fine as they once were.

So raise a tankard to the old boy and his family. We wish him “Bon Voyage” and “Adieu”.

Beware my woolen friends, Dastardly Willy is coming after you…..

As those of you who are in Society, or who try to ingratiate yourself with the Great and Good by devouring the Court pages in The Thunderer will know, the great Naturalist Sir Thumper Dung has produced an offspring.

He has managed to hide his disappointment at not producing a son and heir, by the comforting fact that he may form an advantageous alliance by marrying her off with a member of the English Aristocracy. He has always yearned to improve his rank from a humble baronet and take his seat in the Lords.

Let us hope that his planning for the betrothal takes up his few sober moments, as it may divert his addled mind from doing those preposterous impersonations of Appleborough.

As Mr Sherlock Holmes once pronounced “This is quite a three pipe problem.” Indeed I had to request the finest shag to solve the disappearance of Princess Ien last weekend.

We visited her at her country pile in the New Forest. Little Paulo was of course in attendance regaling us with tales of another investment opportunity. His last one involved Tulips being cultivated in a bubble somewhere near the South Sea. It seemed like a jolly good idea to me, so I invested the odd shilling or two.

We were sitting down for our aperitifs, or sharpeners as one likes to call them, when we realised our hostess was not present. To the uninitiated, this may not seem shocking. Perhaps she was perfecting the balance of her wig, or taking a stroll around her lawn, or ordering her servants to add a little more claret to the Coq au Vin.

Alas, her absence was much more serious. Princess Ien has never been known to miss aperitifs. Even when she has been confined to her sick bed all day complaining of headaches, she still musters the courage to journey to the drawing room for a glug of vin blanc. 

Not wishing to panic Little Paulo, I tried to keep him occupied with amusing anectodes about jolly japes at The Club. However, it was clear that his mind was elsewhere and so we alerted the servants to search high and low.

The maids searched the house, the gardeners, the game keepers and their hounds searched the estate but still no sign of the Lady. Then The Butler had an inspired idea and whispered in my ear that Little Paulo and I should perhaps search in the environs of the wine cellar. The fellow is a genius. Of course she was there. Looking somewhat dishevelled and uttering an incoherent stream of wisdom, she was having the time of her life.

It seems that at some stage during the day, she thought that it would be a good idea to taste the latest Burgundies. Well, one thing led to another and she was on her 4th bottle before she was found  with her tiara askew and her cosmetics smudged.

I do find bank holidays so very tiresome. They were introduced by the trading classes as a sop to those who were even lower down the social scale than themselves.

Why do the labourers feel as though they should have an extra day off? Is not one morning a week to go to Church sufficient? 

If those who serve us have a day at some squalid seaside town, who is there to iron my Thunderer, mix my morning Bloody Mary, or butter my crumpet in the dull time before the bar opens at 6?

Furthermore, the tracks and lanes are full of the hoi polloi traipsing to their Great Aunt’s cabbage infused hovel. I can barely pass them in my Four Wheel Carriage without knocking them into the ditches and drains.

Needless to say, I vehemently opposed the passing of The Bank Holiday Act in the Lords. It was one of the few debates that I have managed to awaken from my drunken slumber during the proceedings and stir myself into arguing a coherent stream of invectives against giving the labourers any rights beyond their feudal obligations. 

We lost the vote due to a large section of Whigs deciding that patronising the lower classes would earn them their love and affection. Do they not realise that this type of behaviour will lead us down the rocky path which can only end in the ghastly guillotine?

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……

It is not often that I can report that that famous glutton, Squire Porter is defeated. However, I can now state that he has indeed had to leave some unfinished food upon his salver.

His country estate will be in shock on hearing this news. His cook will probably faint in anguish and fret as to whether her winter supplies of offal will ever be devoured. His doctor will be anticipating an increase in fees and will even now be browsing for a new pocket watch in celebration. However, the local baker will rue the day that he sold his youngest son to pay for his new bread oven.

It was a wet night in the rum soaked streets of maritime Bristol that the Squire and I met for a snifter and a soupcon of food before our trip to the music hall. We stumbled into an exotic looking eaterie staffed by Romans. Our orders for their finest pie was met with an insolent shrug and they brought us mounds of food the like of which we had ne’er seen since our days at Floggers Boarding School. Doughy products covered in tomato and pigmeat, and a rugger ball sized pile of pasta drenched in mince and tomato.

After approximately 10 minutes, the Squire began to sweat. He mopped his brow and soldiered on. After 15 minutes, the old chap had to loosen his kneckerchief and remove his bulging belt. But the Squire is made of oak. An Englishman does not give up so lightly. We Englishman know how the natives live in the far flung colonies and are proud to eat all that any servant may put before us.

But after 20 minutes the top buttons of his trousers popped. This was too much for our dear friend to bear. His ruddy complexion was beginning to pale and his handkerchief was now drenched in the meat sweats. The chap gave up and still with a nugget of scoff on his plate.

 A beaten man. I never thought that I would see the day. This is the same chap who famously won the great Farmyard Challenge wager of ‘85 when he ate a lamb, a pig and a cow for breakfast.

The oak that stirs within him still beats though. The brave man still accompanied me to the Music Hall and he still managed a few rum toddies at the Sailors Arms, but he drew the line at bouncing the maids upon his knee.