The Good Ladies Are Having A Soiree

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……

 

 

Squire Porter is Defeated

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.

Imbibing and Feasting

It has been some time since my last journal. For this, dear readers, I must humbly apologise. I could offer many excuses such as indolence, fecklessness, loucheness and being in an opiate haze.

However, I must tell the truth; which is that my ghastly Aunt Canute has been trying to fix me up with a Lady. I will tell you more of this in all its sordid detail another time.

For now, I must write of food as it has been so courteously requested by the esteemed Lady Piles Collarbone.

“Dear Lord Daft,” she said, “you are a well known glutton and I am sure that the populace would like to know what you eat. Do write, oh please do,” she proclaimed. At first, I was far too foppish to be bothered, but on further consideration I thought that the peasants of our nation should know how I eat so that they can vicariously enjoy my indulgences.

I normally have breakfast at the crack of dawn; as eleven bells strike on the Grandfather Clock. Firstly, a Bloody Mary (half vodka, half worcester sauce and a dash of tomato juice) awakens me and reminds me of the previous evening japes. I then eat a hearty breakfast of poached quails eggs, smoked rabbit and wild boar sausages smothered in hollandaise sauce.

This hearty fare up keeps me going for an hour or two before I take a hansom down to The Club for a spot of billiards and humorous banter with the chaps. Luncheon soon follows. Steak and Kidney Pudding, Sponge Pudding and a flagon of claret sets me up for the afternoon. I may wash this down with an ale to prevent me getting too dehydrated.

Afternoon tea is the one part of the day that is a duty. Some dull relation demands my attendance at some harrowing social occasion. Having to be courteous is so very taxing with only a hot buttered muffin and a cup of Earl Grey for comfort. However, I normally take my leave within twenty minutes and saunter back to the club for dinner.

I can rarely remember what I perchance devour for dinner as it is normally quite late and I always seem to find myself a little hazy.

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A Ride on the Penny Farthing

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 Kodswallop Club

News reaches me that Austin may be turfed out of the Kodswallop Club. This is the very same club that blackballed me a year ago for my unfettered indolence.

Austin Sans Wig

The market traders who have stormed the commitee had the temerity to request that I pull my weight and contribute something. I accused them of having to buy their own furniture which they did not take too kindly and so they began a campaign for my removal along with Flasher McFungus, Baron Scmidt and Lady Alexpanda. It is my understanding that the club is a dull and dreary place since our departures.

Of course, The Kodswallop Club has been going downhill for a number of years. When us chaps first joined it was filled with Men of Consequence. The types who would lead the Empire to greater things. This is no longer the case.

It has become a haven of chaps who did not have the benefit of being flogged at Public School and have the unfortunate handicap of having local accents. So I therefore urge Austin to take his leave of the ne’er do wells and become a man of consequence once again.

Sir Thumper Dung Has Been Infiltrated

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….

The Village Fete

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 Almost Had to Dismiss Cuddly Cook

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.

Cavaliers and Roundheads

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.

Civil War Chaps

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.

A Hot Buttered Muffin

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.

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