A Viscount Speaks

Monday Filly

What ho, boffers!

    I say, look who we have here!  Chaps - meet Katrin Radmacher, a German heiress who recently dished her ne'er-do-well Froggie husband in a High Court divorce case.  Unlucky, Jean Pierre!

 

 

 

    Ding dong!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Friday Picture

What ho, chums!

    I thought this infamous photograph might be an appropriate start to the morning.

    No nasty jibes at Brillo, chaps.  We've all been there, some more recently than others!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

I'm back!

What ho, Englishmen!

    Bloody hell – am I the most infrequent blogger ever or what, what!  I am truly awfully sorry, chaps.  But punctual updates – or even occasional updates – rather go out of the window when one is confined to a Jamaican gaol for six months on charges of sexual harassment.  It was a complete misunderstanding, I hasten to add!  One never quite knows with these saucy mulatto waitresses* whether their protestations of chastity are sincere or merely a come-on to spank them harder!  And after weeks of joy with the latter type, I stumbled on (actually, perhaps "pawed" would be the more apposite word in this instance!) one of the former and, rather regrettably, she just happened to have a Yardie brother and it all got frightfully complicated and I confess that writing “Leroy” a cheque for £50,000 to guarantee my safe passage home to England was far from being my finest hour!  (Especially when the impudent swine then duly recanted on our little deal and arranged for the Kingston rozzers to arrest me at the airport!)  I shan’t discuss my time in clink, suffice it to say that Harrow was excellent preparation!

    But that’s quite enough of my escapades.  What the dickens has been happening in the rugger?  I’m told that England dished the Convicts on their own turf?  Good stuff!  I’m told, too, that the Micks have been cheating and loading the Heineken fixture list in their favour – no change there then! - and, more happily, that Brendan Venter is still a complete and utter lunatic. 

    (On that note, has anyone heard the rumour that the South African government set up a reservation just outside Bloemfontein in the 1960s and populated it with lions, assegai-wielding tribesmen, and the new-born sons of South African special forces soldiers; and that those babes who survived this harsh environment (by eating Zulus and killing lions with their bare hands, natch) were duly anointed with names like “Botha” and “Venter” and given Springbok jerseys to wear?  Sounds pretty plausible to me!)

    In all seriousness, chaps, the Antipodeans come to Twickers soon and I do hope we hand out a few royal beastings for Her Maj in these impoverished times.  I daresay she can take a 10% cut in her allowance but I very much doubt she’ll tolerate seeing Jonno’s chaps turned over on their own manor by mere colonials.

    But what’s this Lady Crouchback tells me about a bronzed, chipmunk-faced Welshman currently appearing on Strictly Come Dancing?  Please tell me it’s not Henson!  Good heavens, what is it with these Welsh boys?  Can we trace their problems back to the fact that they were never adequately beasted at school perhaps?  I do believe that if young Henson had been rodgered in the showers by a suitably butch sixth former on his 14^th birthday then his utterly disgraceful behaviour of late would never, ever have happened.  Food for thought for all parents considering sending their sprogs to prole school in these impoverished times, what!

It’s good to be back!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

* Incidentally, chaps, I can't recommend these mulatto fillies highly enough: they have the fantastic tits of 100% black gels but none of the arse fat! (Or the "batty laaaaad" as the chaps in Kingston would say!)  But a word of warning: when one is supping one's rum'n'coke in a Montego Bay discotheque and one of the cheeky local wenches starts gyrating her arse in front of you, this should not be treated as an invitation to take out one's walking cane and commence vigorous spanking.  All manner of abominations can ensue.

 

 

These infernal Mohammedans!

What ho, bounders!

Sometimes, chums, I feel like a foreigner in my own land.  I nipped into Boots at the weekend to buy a new batch of Viagra - the little chap needs a bit of help these days, alas! - and was made to feel distinctly awkward by the Mohammedan shop assistant.  She was one of those hook nosed types who covers their hair with a grotty piece of cloth.  When I asked for the prescription, she lowered her head as if I just had demanded a quick feel and scurried off to ask the manager to serve me instead.  I felt like some sort of deviant.  What's the matter with her then, I asked the manager.  Oh, you know, she's one of those, he said.  A damn Musselwoman, I asked?  Yes, I'm afraid so, he said.

Well, not a lot I could do really was there, chaps?  I'd have liked to have given the cheeky mare a good thwack with my walking cane, but I contented myself with a subtle thrust of the pelvis as I walked past her to the exit.  She promptly dropped her bundle and fled to the lav.  Let's hope I don't spend the next month in the clink for contravening the Race Relations Act.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

The Queen and Mr Zuma

What ho, monogamists!

By jove, this Zuma chappie is a bit of a card, what!  The cheeky blighter has only come out and blasted the British for being "condescending imperialists" just hours before he is afforded the great honour of meeting Her Majesty The Queen.  What an insolent cur!  Which of his wives is he bringing, I wonder?  Will they be parading in their loincloths for the Queen?  I am sure Prince Philip would be delighted to watch a spot of Zulu dancing.

My curiosity piqued by Buck House's link to the visit - see below left - I took a quick gander and read that "President and Mrs Zuma will visit Sainsbury’s supermarket in Greenwich, the first Green supermarket in the world".  I rather doubt that the chaps at Rorke's drift ever imagined that the leader of the Zulus would one day visit a British greengrocers, eh, chaps?  Most surreal. 

In all seriousness, though, I do hope that Mr Zuma behaves himself.  It would be most unfortunate if he roused our ire and caused us to go down there and give his tribesmen another damned good thrashing.  We all know that Natal is British and I daresay that Natalians - both black and white - would be a damn sight happier under our rule than under his. 

In the meantime, let us simply give thanks that, for all our troubles, Britain remains a civilised country with a most remarkable Queen as Head of State.  Praise the Lord that we are not a third world basket-case led by a former goat-herd with five wives and twenty children.

God Save The Queen!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

P.S. If Zuma is taken to Sandringham, I do hope that the Queen instructs her men to keep a jolly close eye on the superb Red Poll cattle.  Mr Zuma apparently "paid 10 cattle as lobola for Swazi Princess Sebentile Dlamini in 2002" and I daresay the brazen dog wouldn't be averse to carrying off a few of Liz's with him if he thought he could get away with it. 

Dickie Drax steps forth in Dorset

What ho, voters!

Are there any south Dorset constituents amongst my readership?  I jolly well hope so because you have a marvellous new Tory candidate - Richard Grosvenor Plunkett-Ernle-Erle-Drax .  No, I'm not making that one up.  Dickie lives at Charborough House, which has been his family's seat since Elizabethan times, and he can trace his aristocratic lineage back to 1439.  (I know, a bit of a nouveau, but what one can one do!)

He's a splendid chap and is perfectly capable of imagining the plight of the proletariat (as Minette Marrin so cogently put it in her Sunday Times column at the weekend).  As he says himself: "I do come from a very privileged background, but it shouldn’t make any difference at all.  It is what is in your soul that counts".

Quite so.  Readers, make sure you mark a cross next to Drax.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

P.S. Do click on the Mail link and have a peek at Dickie's magnificent wife, Zara.  I think you'll agree that she is a perfect example of horsey English boffability.  Let no one tell you that the Eyeties and Frogs have finer women than our own! 

P.P.S. I know what is in my soul - a deep-seated hatred of oiks!

Is it such a crime to want a live-in mistress?

What ho, Englishmen!

As you know, my wife is a woman of exemplary breeding.  She can trace her noble lineage back even farther than I can - to Mary, Queen of Scots, no less.  And oh, she is a handsome woman!  She has the countenance one finds only in the English upper classes - the gloriously wide mouth, the broad nose (nostrils gently flaring), the meaty, powerful gnashers, and the dogmatic chin of a shire thoroughbred.  Yes, Lady Crouchback is what some would pejoratively term "horsey", but I love her all the more for it.  Indeed, I distrust any Englishman whose wife is not horsey.

But I am a man of monstrous demands.  No woman, no ten women, could possibly satisfy my bodily needs.  I am to boffing what the Krauts are to warmongering: it is my reason for being.  I use mistresses by the dozen, by the hundred, even by the thousand.  I boff for Sussex, for England and for St George.  In Kensington alone, I keep one Russian filly, one French filly, one Italian filly, one Arab chap, and a magnificent, voluptuous Nigerian girl.

However, as the nights draw in and the climes become icy, I become less predisposed to run the gauntlet of brigands and highwaymen lurking on the M23.  Accordingly, I have a longstanding arrangement with Lady Crouchback that one mistress of my choosing can be housed in the Castle's west wing for my pleasant usage during the months of December, January and February. 

But now?  Now my good lady wife is acting up.  She has decided that such "pagan immorality" is in direct contradiction of the teachings of the Catholic church.  She claims that my blood pressure is too high for such regular dalliances.  She suggests that she, Lady Crouchback, is growing cold from neglect and deserves a deuced good boffing herself on occasion.  She even - outrageously - calls in Father Fitzpatrick to lecture me on my conjugal duties. 

I shan't deny that these provocations have tested my temper.  "Curb thy tongue, woman!" I say.  "Where else should I house my mistress?  In the pig sties?  Good God, Henrietta, do you wish me to disturb myself by travelling the icy roads to London?"

But she remains unyielding.  So I ask whether any of you chaps can offer some advice for a fellow in my situation?  I fear it will take the nuclear option - i.e. a quick call to Coutts and a salutary lesson in the power of wonga - to force her back into the realm of sanity.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

And you wonder why I disapprove of minor public schools . . .

What ho, chaps!

Well I'll be deuced!  The Telegraph is reporting that a filly, Felicity Lusk, is to be the new Head of Abingdon School.  She is the first ever female head honcho of an English public school.  Nor does it end there.  For she is not only a gel but also hails from the colonies (New Zealand) and sports a rather curious short haircut of the type I tend to associate - perhaps unfairly - with lesbians.  Now, this might sound frightfully impolitic in the 21st century, but I'm really not sure that I would wish to send my son to a school run by a colonial lesbian.  

I did some tutoring at Abingdon School as a young undergraduate and found the boys intelligent but rather lacking in personality.  My informers tell me that nothing much has changed in half a century.  Who knows, perhaps Miss Lusk is just the chapette to drum some charisma into them.  But my advice is that if you're going to send your boy to that corner of the country, then jolly well pack him off to Radley.  It's as fine a sporting school as one will find and churns out some absolutely corking chaps, the present cricket captain of England among them.   

I omitted to mention this on my previous schooling post, but I urge all parents to apply the gum tree test* when visiting a prospective public school.  This is applied as follows: when strolling around the place and speaking to a few of the school's current boys, ask yourself whether they would be the type of chaps one could feel confident in if stuck up a gum tree with crocodiles circling beneath.  It's all very well a school producing fellows who speak decent Greek or turn out well in a DJ, but one needs a few plucky, resourceful blighters as well.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

* Andrew Strauss's former sports master famously said that he always knew Strauss would do well since "at that time there was no boy at Radley with whom one would rather be stuck up a gum tree".  It was a superb method of gauging character, as I'm sure you'll agree.

Mediocre fillies in the colonies?

What ho, men of Empire!

I occasionally keep a watchful eye on events in our distant colonies.  It behoves a nobleman of the Realm to check that the rude and lowly stock who populated places like Canada, New Zealand and Australia remain loyal to Her Majesty The Queen and are not planning any unpleasant surprises.  It would not please me to take the boat down there and set my yeomen militia on the populace, but I should do so if the Queen requested it of me.   

Thankfully, colonial passions are currently turned inwards.  In particular, the menfolk and womenfolk of New Zealand are engaged in a violent, tempestuous struggle for supremacy.  The men of that sheep-infested place have got it into their heads that their fillies are sub-standard.  They rage that their own natural good looks and athletic prowess goes rewarded only with hairy, slovenly women.  This report attests to the depth of feeling.  I urge all men of humorous inclination to read the comments section - one will be chortling until next week.  Here is a taster:

That explains the high rate of bisexual men in NZ - the women are too unattractive and unkempt so the blokes stick to themselves. Argue all you want, its true. You only have to look at the local dating websites.

Could this really be true, I wonder?  Are the chaps resorting to man-love because the wenches are so hideous?  Do those taciturn, gruff exteriors hide a campy side that would make Eddie Izzard blush with shame?  Will the sequel to Brokeback Mountain be filmed somewhere outside Dunedin and feature sheep farmers rather than cowboys?  Moreover, just why are the fillies so ghastly?  One reader has a theory:

This is particularly true down in the south of New Zealand and is a result of the demographics of the goldrush days. A hundred years and more ago there were less than 5 women per 100 men. In these circumstances, the ugliest woman could pick the most attractive husband and breed. Even the most attractive man would have to take whatever he could get. Result is the male genetic material down he is in the top 5%, the female genetic material is in the bottom 5 or 10%. The opposite applies in Russia for the same reasons- 60 years ago a very high percentage of men 18-30 yrs were killed in the war, those that came back weren't necessarily the best looking, but they could pick and breed with the most attractive women. Result now is Russian women are beautiful, men are ugly.

Fascinating stuff.  But such a pity, since I plan to visit New Zealand for the rugger in 2011 and had hoped to find some suitably fragrant gels for a spot of extra-marital hanky panky.  So what am I to do now?  Go celibate for a month?  Shut my eyes and hold my nose and grab a filly anyway?  Or instead conclude that when in Rome...and find a nice Dan Carter lookalike.  I don't know.  Any thoughts on these upsetting reports, Aucklander? 

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback (Probably soon to be Viscount Bareback if the colonial fillies don't up their game in time for 2011)

The shires are rising at last!

Warmest Monday greetings, dear readers!

I have kept my counsel on the Liz Truss affair.  Having boffed a few fillies during my time, I am loathe to criticise a chap or chapette for enjoying a spot of extra-marital hanky panky.  A good looking gel like Liz is perfectly entitled to a quick rogering from time to time.  However, I cannot help but sympathise with the local Norfolk Tories - the so-called Turnip Taliban - for jolly well sticking it to David Cameron and CCHQ.  I know from my own experience that the degree of central control exerted by the party hacks in London is quite extraordinary nowadays.  It has produced the intolerable situation whereby some of the most high-born noblemen in the shires are being bossed around by ghastly little grammar school oiks who believe that their 2:1 in PPE from a horrid little Oxford plebs' college like Pembroke or Lincoln is sufficient to bestow them with some gravitas.  It is not.  They were born oiks and they shall remain oiks no matter what ridiculous figure they claim for their IQ. 

CCHQ ought to consider who it is dealing with:

The elegant Stradsett Hall sits beside a lake of gently gliding swans. But the tranquillity of this 1,000 acre Norfolk estate could not be more deceptive.

For this is the home of Sir Jeremy Bagge, the self-appointed leader of a group of Tory rebels who are proving the most intractable enemy David Cameron has yet had to do battle with. 

And:

Trouble is, the Notting Hill lot have picked a fight with the wrong part of the world. This is rural Norfolk. Actually, given that the number of local landowners can be counted on the fingers of one hand, it's feudal Norfolk. 

I say!  These are my type of people!  Oh yes!  And consider what an eminently sensible fellow Sir Jeremy seems to be!

Sir Jeremy repeatedly says he has nothing against women.

"Sorry, no, I have never said I'm anti-women. I have got absolutely nothing against women.

"Who cooks my lunch? Who cooks my dinner? How did my wonderful three children appear? Women, you can't do without them. My god, take my wife."

What does she do for a living? "What does she do? She looks after me. Looks after the children. Runs the house." 

Quite so, sir!  Quite so!  Indeed, you give me great urge to have a jolly stern word with Lady Crouchback, who for decades has been shirking her duties and foisting them upon housekeepers and cooks at very great cost to the Crouchback trust fund.  I would go so far as to say that the indolent mare requires a damned good thrashing from the heavy end of a walking stick.

Good God, could it be?  Has the day of reckoning arrived?  After a century of horrendous proletarianisation, of Lloyd-George and Attlee and Blair and the steady erosion of aristocratic privilege, could it be that the shires are finally rising at last?  By jove, I think it could be!  I think the day is at hand!  I think the noble class has finally had enough!  I think I need only stretch out my fingertips for the ancient weal of nobless oblige to curl snugly into my hand once more!  Readers, I urge you to make haste to your nearest nobleman and petition his good favour.  I shall be forming a west Sussex militia this very week and I urge all yeomen of sturdy torso and sound mind to sign up immediately.

Yours, excitedly,

Viscount Crouchback