Lord William Daft

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.

Well, yesterday was a jolly spiffing day.

Lord and Lady Piles Collarbone invited us to their new town house in Bath. They proudly showed us where they had cleared the labourers cottages away so that they could build the house of their dreams. It is always heartening to see fellow aristocrats have a vision and not let trivilaities get in the way.

This is despite an attempt by the labourers to protest against Lord Piles and claim that they had lived in those cottages for generations. Lord Piles retort that he was from a long line of philanderers that went all the way back to the Norman Conquest thankfully won the day and the magistrate found in his favour.

Furthermore, their cook made a feast which I will remember for as long as the alcohol allows me to. I have a good mind to lure her away with the promise of a sovereign to come and cook for me at my country pile.

Today has been equally spiffing. The sun shines on the righteous and I have donned my boater and gone for a punt around my lake. It has put me in such a jolly mood, I think I will go to the Steward and tell him to put the rents up.

I am a very concerned. It seems that the Whigs have nothing better to do than cause sleepless nights amongst the Great and Good of our proud nation. Their latest wheeze to upset all upstanding Englishmen, is to suggest that we might like to extend the vote to the middle classes.

Hogwash.

Do these cads not realise to what we owe our Empire? Do they not realise it is because we are run by chaps who have not had to buy their own furniture?

If we let those who are not gentleman vote, they who have to work for a living; then the fabric of our nation will crumble. Yokels will no longer doff their caps as I pass, we will all be forced to speak French and bounders everywhere will insist that we eat cucumber sandwiches with the crusts left on. I shudder to think of such cavalier behaviour.

So next time you come across a Whig, challenge him to a duel. It is the sole language they comprehend.

The butler has just brought me my neatly pressed copy of The Times.

Whilst perusing, I nearly choked on my kipper.

Once again those chaps from Fleet Street have got a bee in their bonnet and are bleating on and on about their latest tedious concern; the increase in Manurehouse gases. It really is quite a bore.

They rant on and on about how there are far too many carriages on the road and that the horses are producing so much beastly excrement, that the roads are becoming nigh on impassable to those on foot. Supposedly due to both the gentle aroma of manure and the mountains of it piling up on the roads.

I say, balderdash and piffle.

What are people doing walking on roads? Clearly, only the lower classes would do such a thing.

If that is the case, and I am reliably informed by a travelling tinker that it is, why on earth should it be of any concern to the ruling classes? It is not as if it matters whether their clothes get covered in excrement, as I am reliably informed that they do not wash.

Besides, I have just purchased the largest and fastest four wheel drive carriage from Selfish, Guzzler, Twerp & Co, and from my lofty position I am not aware of any manurehouse gases.

So there you have it, dear readers. I am completely oblivious to the existence of manurehouse gases, so they clearly do not exist. You may rest easily in your beds.

I have nothing against Roman Catholicism. Indeed some of my oldest chums are lapsed Catholics including my Turf Accountant, Old Dave and the famous explorer and naturist Sir Thumper Dung.

However, whilst bribing the local officials in Rome for fine marble sculptures, I casually sauntered into the Church of San Maria Maggiore and was faced with that bounder of a Pope, Pius V. He, who had the temerity to excommunicate Good Queen Bess.

Now Good Queen Bess has a special place in the hearts of Daft’s for it was she who ennobled my great forbear Sir Willy Daft. I was therefore of the mind to protect the honour of Good Queen Bess and place a defiant portrait of her on the statue of Pope Pius V.

I was within five feet before being craftily intercepted by a Priest who had the presumption that I should go to confession.

Now, I am not pure by any stretch of the imagination, but I do find it beastly to have to admit to my sins. As a member of the English Aristocracy, I am so busy down at The Club imbibing the finest Claret with my chums, I find it inconvenient to have any.

I was therefore left quite speechless for the first time in my life. To be polite I regaled him with tales about mischevous pranks that I played on Nanny when I was a child, and how I had perhaps been a tad too hard on the Butler three months ago when I refused him his one days holiday a year because I wanted my monocle polished.

This seemed to do the trick. Now, I may have misheard the Priest, but I am sure that he ordered me to drink 19 Bloody Marys at the nearest Trattoria. I followed his advice despite the fact that I do not like to water down my spirits with hideous tomato juice.

By the end of my repentance, I decided that I was quite partial to Catholicism and would never again try to interfere with a statue of any Pope.

I have just returned from a little jaunt to Rome. I do enjoy patronising our European cousins and regaling them with tales about the magnificence of our Empire.

When in Rome, I would never dream to do as the Romans do. Instead I amble to the Tevi Fountain and lead the assembled throng in a proud rendition of ‘Rule Britannia’ which they all seem to enjoy.

My aim for this particular jaunt was to add to my collection of classic sculptures. I had been inspecting my country estate two weeks ago, and noticed that my morning room was a little bare.

I immediately rang the bell and my supercilious butler appeared so quickly that I suspect he must have been spying on me. I ordered him to pack my portmanteau and we were soon aboard the steam train.

I had a very successful trip bribing, pilfering and where absolutely neccessary, procuring some classic Roman sculptures. My morning room is now so full I can barely enter it without being poked by some protruding marble digit.