A Viscount Speaks

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

More royal wedding shenanigans

What ho, chaps!

This utter sham of a royal wedding gets worse and worse.  As if it wasn't bad enough that young Prince William had chosen to invite every two-bob rugger player in the colonies to attend the event, it now emerges that one of those invitees, Richie McCaw, has brazenly snubbed the Prince's invitation.  One can only imagine the paroxysms of embarrassment that the poor courtiers at Clarence House are experiencing at this time.  I am told that William simply refuses to listen to advice and these risible shenanigans rather seem to prove it. 

It seems to me that two grave faux pas have been committed here:

• First, on the part of the Prince, to invite an ill-bred colonial to the wedding in the first place.  If William was desirous of a rugby guest for some chappy banter, then there was only ever one acceptable course of action: that is, to invite the England captain, flaxen-haired Mr Moody (Oakham), to attend.  

• Second, on the part of McCaw, to reject the Prince's invitation.  Now, I know that McCaw is a colonial and thus can hardly be expected to act like a gentleman: but snubbing the future King of England?  Really?  It is pretty shoddy behaviour to say the least.  I imagine that even the rough-and-ready sheep farmers of New Zealand can sense the stench of lesé majesté. 

It is a most regrettable affair all round.  I can well understand that the young Prince might be anxious to reach out to the surly burghers of the colonies, but in my experience it is a profound folly to mix breeds.  The pleb and the gentleman - or the colonial and the Englishman - can rub along perfecly well when they merely watch each other from afar with a curious eye; but the moment these separate classes are thrown together in experimental fashion, one finds that, ineluctably, mere contact with the proletarian undermines the dignity of the gentleman in irredeemable fashion.

This, alas, is the lesson being administered to Prince William at this time.  One rather fears that his unfortunate choice of bride - the bony oikess, Middleton - will ram the message home still farther over the months and years ahead. 

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

 

 

 

 

What to do with a problem like Seamus?

What ho, Englishmen! (and Scotchmen and Welshmen and Ulstermen!)

Interesting news, gentlemen.  Things appear to be stirring in the wilds of Erin.  The Micks have woken from their poteen-sozzled stupour and are taking a long, hard look in the mirror – and not before time.  A reader, Horace Woolington, refers me to this splendid article in the Irish Sunday Independent.  The author of the article, Mr McEntee, issues an impassioned cri de couer in which he begs for re-admittance to the United Kingdom:

"WHEN Queen Elizabeth arrives on her historic first visit to this country, could someone take her gently aside and whisper in her ear: "Take us back, ma'am. Please take us back.

Ludicrous, I know, but there are a substantial number of beleaguered residents of this shambolic State who not only harbour regrets that we ever left the economic embrace of Britain, but would gladly return.

I'm sure I'm not the only still-proud Irishman at home or abroad thinking the previously unthinkable: why did we leave the British Empire?"

Why indeed.  Seamus’s brazen knock at the front door does not surprise me.  I have been predicting as much for some time now.  For the hairy-knuckled sons of Erin have always been inordinately fond of their Mammy: and now that the poteen has run dry and the gambling debts have to be paid off, it was only a matter of time before they begged to suckle at the teat of Mammy Britannia.

The question is: how should Mr Cameron respond to these overtures?  It is tempting to send Seamus straight back to the bogs with a flea in his ear.  Such a response would certainly be justified given the Micks’ abject lack of gratitude for Britain’s civilising influence over all these years.  Furthermore, the necessity to keep the wild men of the hedgerows in good order is surely enough to bring the Home Secretary out in a cold sweat.  There are several million Paddies currently out of work and it surely won’t be long before a fair number of them decide to open the family box of Semtex out of sheer boredom.  As the old saying goes: “A bored Frenchman boffs; a bored German daydreams; a bored Englishman plans an expedition; and a bored Irishman breaks out the poteen and goes ballistic”.

So there are clearly drawbacks to taking in Seamus again.  And yet... wouldn’t it be splendid for our population to exceed France’s?  Add on the Micks and we’d have about 68m in the UK.  We’d also add sizeably to our land mass.  And at the rate the blighters breed, we’d probably soon be pushing over 70m and be in position to challenge the Germans for supremacy in Europe.  Such nationalistic considerations are considered uncouth nowadays, but I don’t mind admitting that I retain a healthy desire to see Britannia’s flame burnish brightly in the world once more.

Moreover, is there not also a moral duty to take in these poor creatures?  One must ask: what would the Victorians do?  Is it not incumbent upon us to channel the spirit of Livingstone and Wilberforce and finally complete the long, arduous process of civilising the Mick?  Think of those hidden gems languishing at present under the stifling blanket of Fenianism.  Remember how the Irish under British rule produced such remarkable individuals as Yeats, Joyce, Burke, Wilde.  Must we condemn the fine young men of Clongowes to lasting penury?  In earnest, chaps, these people are capable of great deeds when they have a hearty Saxon hand to guide them along the path of righteousness!

Seamus can count himself fortunate that if anyone is likely to turn the other cheek and forgive, it is John Bull.  Our sturdy phlegmatic Englishman has long reconciled himself with the central truth of his existence: that God has placed upon his shoulders the unique burden of civilising the world.  With many ups and many downs, the Englishman has largely succeeded in this sacred task.  Great swathes of the globe, from America to Australia, from India to South Africa, are now bright beacons of hope and prosperity – and all thanks to John Bull's selfless efforts.  Only in the Englishman’s own back yard does the spirit of barbarism and fecklessness remain unextinguished.

So let us on sleep on it.  Perhaps there is a way back for Seamus.  Perhaps, if Seamus is sufficiently penitent, sufficiently humble, sufficiently sober, sufficiently ashamed and apologetic and bashful ... perhaps then a cot can be found for him once more under the Union Jack.

Perhaps.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

A Royal gypsy wedding?

What ho, monarchists!

Can this be true?  O'Driscoll?  The pasty spud-muncher who captains the hopeless Irish rugby team and who last made an outside break in 2004?  I refuse to believe it. 

If it is true, then it serves as defining proof that the young Prince is very much his father's son.  I have long thought that there is something ill-definably wet about William - his time in the army was suspiciously short; and his future prole wife is a tad frumpy for a red-blooded young thruster in this day and age - and this ghastly news clinches it. 

No doubt the silly people at Clarence House have convinced the poor child that he needs to "reach out" to various unfortunates in life.  Expect all manner of oiks and degenerates to feature heavily at the wedding.  It's a wonder they have even permitted Harry to act as Best Man and not some gay Somalian asylum seeker who would have better added to the "modern" vibe.

Frankly, I think the whole thing is shaping up to be a bit of a sham.  But for the grievous insult it would be to the Queen, I would happily reject my invitation without a second thought.  As it is, I shall go along ...  but if the Palace expects me to converse with plebs all day long, then they should be aware that my Amazon Kindle - a most wonderful invention! - will be in my pocket and I shan't be shy of dipping my snout into some Livy if they position me next to an oik.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

The Footer World Cup

What ho, gentlemen!

I’ve kept my counsel thus far on the FIFA world cup shenanigans.   I understand that tears were shed on council estates across the land as England's proletarian class came to terms with the awful realisation that the footer world cup wouldn’t be gracing our shores.   It didn't bother me so much.  I think footer is rotten from top to bottom, so if some Swiss gnome wants to send the tournament to Russia then that’s fine by me.

However, I did not relish the sight of our future King crawling on his hands and knees to the bumptious little toerags who make up the FIFA Executive Committee.  Nor did I enjoy the sight of our Prime Minister, Mr Cameron, dropping everything at Westminster to do likewise.  I expect my Prime Minister to concern himself with matters of state, not with where some oikball tournament happens to be played every four years.  It was - how can I put this? - somewhat infra dig. 

It seems to me that there is a very obvious problem with football.  Quite simply, too many foreigners play the game.  And not just any old foreigners either but the very worst type of foreigners: greasy, dusky, devious breeds from the darkest corners of the globe.  Sinister peasants who shake you by the hand and remove your watch in one smooth, cunning movement. 

It is no surprise that our robust colonial cousins in the other English-speaking countries treat the game with scorn.  They are quite right to do so.  But I do hope that the disgraceful events in Zurich give the RFU pause for thought the next time they are tempted to "spread the rugby gospel".  For if spreading the gospel means sharing power with assorted Georgians and Russians and Portuguese, then I think rugger is better off remaining a sect than a religion. 

Rugby is perfect as it is: the Englishman rules the roost in benign and benevolent fashion, the colonials and Celts do as they are told, and the greaseballs are grateful merely to be included.  It is just as the world ought to be.  We tamper at our peril. 

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

Three cheers for Prince Andrew!

What ho, oiks!

Honestly, what a lot of rot is being written about HRH Prince Andrew over this Wikileaks nonsense.  Is HRH supposed to be ashamed for taking a pop at the Frogs and the do-gooding busybodies who nearly killed our trade relationship with the Saudis?  The man comes out of it as a bloody hero in my eyes.  Consider this:

He railed at British anticorruption investigators, who had had the 'idiocy' of almost scuttling the al-Yamama deal with Saudi Arabia... His mother's subjects seated around the table roared their approval. He then went on to 'these (expletive) journalists, especially from the National [sic] Guardian, who poke their noses everywhere' and (presumably) make it harder for British businessmen to do business. The crowd practically clapped."

Prince Andrew is spot on.  I can well imagine the uptight American bitch wrinkling her nose in disapproval at encountering such unabashed British patriotism, but really, chaps, that's her bloody problem. 

And then this:

"He reacted with almost neuralgic patriotism whenever any comparison between the US and UK came up. For example, one British businessman noted that despite the 'overwhelming might of the American economy compared to ours' the amount of American and British investment in Kyrgyzstan was similar. Snapped the duke: 'No surprise there. The Americans don't understand geography. Never have. In the UK, we have the best geography teachers in the world!'"

Damn right!  The finest geography teachers in the world, and don't you forget it, you sour Yankee shrew!

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback

The Boer is coming. . .

Saxons!

A dark force gathers in the north.  A band of brutes has washed up on our shores and prepares to march south to confront the Queen's men.  These savage, dangerous men come from a dark, backward land and speak in a guttural tongue.  They are strong of limb and sallow of complexion.  They worship Yahweh by day and crack heads by night.  No more odious breed of barbarians has ever fouled Anglia's shores!

Englishmen!  Lock up your wives and daughters!  Sharpen your axe!  Come out and prepare to meet this manic foe!  Their leader, King Victor, promises to descend on the borough of Twi-ck-en-am.  We shall meet this marauding savage and acquaint him with the true face of the Saxon.

Men, gird your loins and hunker down in the valleys of Wessex. Await the call of your noble liege Lord. It will not be long in coming.

By The Noble Liege Crouchback on behalf of Her Majesty

HRH Prince William of Wales and Miss Catherine Middleton

On behalf of the Crouchback family, I wish to offer my hearty congratulations to His Royal Highness Prince William of Wales and Miss Catherine Middleton on their engagement.  It is absolutely corking news.  Prince William deserves the utmost credit for snaring such a cracking young filly, especially when one considers that (whisper it!) the young fellow has rather lost his looks.  Oh for the days when the teenage Prince could have been mistaken for Achilles himself!  Nonetheless, it is splendid news and I look forward to their wedding with keen anticipation.

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.

 

 

Look who's come crawling back...

What ho, Britons!

Well, old chums, with their economy sinking faster than Robert Maxwell's corpse, it was only a matter of time before the Irish came crawling back and begged to be readmitted to the Empire.  Doubtless this move is a mere prelude to an official request to return to the warm bosom of the United Kingdom proper.  Britannia's breast looks awfully cosy when one is about to be slung out of the Euro for being a feckless cur.

But should we take the ungrateful blighters back?  Not, I think, until they bow the knee and issue a full and frank apology to Her Majesty for their disgraceful conduct during the past ninety years.  Our poor Queen has been banned from Eire as if she were some sort of terrorist (ironic given that terrorism is one of Eire's few remaining successful exports, what!)  whilst the ghastly "President" McAleese has been given free rein to traipse around the UK giving it the old Irish blarney. 

Now, we Britons are generous souls.  We have done our damnedest to civilise our poor, backward neighbour over the past eight hundred years  - for precious little thanks, it must be said -  and I am quite certain that none of us would wish to turn poor old Paddy away, even if his difficulties are mostly self-inflicted, a result of self-delusion and fecklessness and all those other most unfortunate traditional Irish character traits. 

No, one should never give up on one's fellow man.  We'll jolly well set Paddy on the straight and narrow and put a bit of good old British common sense into the fellow.  But first, Paddy knows what he must do.  It's a very simple word and it begins with "s" and it's not really all that hard to say.

Yours, etc

Viscount Crouchback