A Viscount Speaks

On the pressing problem of proles on tour

What ho, oiks!

Ah, this is more like it.  This, indeed, is precisely what we men of the shires fervently wished for when we reluctantly passed our pencil over the UKIP candidate and instead wrote our 'x' next to the Tory candidate's name at the last general election:

"We don't want more people from Sheffield flying away on cheap holidays".

No, old bean, we certainly do not!  Poor old Pedro has quite enough on his plate without being subjected to a summer influx of Yorkshire yobbos puking their way across the Costa del Sol.  But why, I ask, are these same oiks permitted to ramble across an Englishman's land from dawn until dusk?  I quite agree that the ghastly stench of the proletarian classes ought not to be inflicted on our poor Continental cousins, but surely the same courtesy should be extended to me and to other landowners?  I spend most of my summers chasing shell-suited plebs off my estate with a shotgun and frankly, chaps, it gets rather wearying.  

Let us hope the admirable Mr Letwin turns his attention to this much more pressing problem. The leafy shires of our own realm require cleansing before we even think about protecting Pedro from the barbarian hordes. 

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

 

 

William's wedding ring

What ho, royalists!

I gave William a bit of a kicking yesterday, so it is gratifying to report that, in some respects at least, the young fellow is made of the right stuff.  This news is most heartening, for it suggests that the Prince is not quite as taken with vulgar modern moeurs as we had feared. 

Let me be quite clear: no gentleman wears a wedding ring on his fourth finger.  It is the height of vulgarity, a gruesome practice traditionally confined to travelling salesmen and footballers but now sadly creeping up the social ladder like a particularly vigorous fungus. 

That said, in this age of generic middle-class accents, the wearing or non-wearing of a wedding band is at least a highy useful method of ascertaining whether or not one's new acquaintance is a pukka chap or a raging oik in gentlemen's clothing.  A sly little peek at the fellow's left hand tells you all you need to know.

I do hope that none of my readers wears a wedding ring; if so, I kindly point you in the direction of the door. 

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback