Sir,
I have recently returned from a protracted trip to the Antipodes or, to be
more precise, Australia. I was most impressed with their progress. They
now enjoy electricity, proper plumbing, not to mention petrol driven motor-cars
(they are sensible enough to drive on the LEFT of the road, incidentally),
and even radio! I was amused by their constant referring to me as a 'Pom',
and decided to do some research as to the origin of this charming native
slang. I was given various explanations, including a couple which I will
not deign to honour with inclusion, but tend to come down on the side
of the suggestion that it comes from the final syllable of that little
phrase of lyric that any English chap worth his salt can effortlessly
and efficiently apply to any good tune. That is...'Tiddly Om Pom Pom'.
I haven't got to the bottom of the other words that they used to refer
to me, such as 'Dag' and 'Complete Galah', but I'm sure that, sooner or
later, the explanation will be forthcoming. All in all, therefore, despite
one or two other crude habits which one would expect in a Colonial in
terms of drinking habits and use of local dialect, I was most impressed
with this far flung part of the Empire. I thoroughly approve of the encouragement
that we give them by occasionally letting them win at cricket and wholeheartedly
support the view (even if it seems a trifle revolutionary one) that they
could well
be able to govern themselves within a few decades. So impressed, indeed,
was I, that I have now decided to visit South Africa. Now that the war
there is long settled and the Boers thoroughly routed, I leave today and
hope to experience similar progress in Cape Town.
Earl Okin of Portobello
Sir,
I feel moved to write to you in light of a curious encounter I had last
Thursday week at five and twenty to four in the afternoon. I had just
taken an afternoon stroll to my tobacconist and was in the process of
taking myself off to tea when I chanced upon a very unlikely sight. As
I waited to cross a busy thoroughfare, I chanced to look out into the
traffic, where I aspied a Hackney carriage which was waiting to turn onto
the main road. The taxicab's rear windows were wound down with some species
of plastic mesh preventing any passage through the opening and there,
sitting upon the back seat, was a solitary beagle. The hound in question
was sitting politely, facing the front of the taxi with an air of the
utmost canine civility and, for a moment, I was gripped by an enormous
sense of pride to live in a country that treats man's best friend so well.
But, I am sad to say, my sense of pride quickly turned to rage when I
realised the ramifications of this spectacle. Gentlemen: what business
has a beagle to be in a taxi? What chance does a hare have against such
an unfairly motorised adversary? With such flagrantly unsporting behaviour
is it any wonder that field sports are under threat?
Yours etc.
Major The Right Hon. Bentley Collingwood-Hilliam (Disgraced)
Sir,
I recently sprained a thigh, and thus paid a visit to an establishment
on the High Street named "Spangles Massage & Sauna". I explained
my considerable discomfort, and was led to a private room and asked to
disrobe. Presently, the door opened to reveal the person who was to administer
to my ailment. It was a lady! I jumped up, apologising profusely while
I fumbled for my tweeds. Roxanne, as she was named, seemed amused by my
bashfulness and assured me she was a professional masseuse. Once she had
begun her treatment, I began to relax, and soon the pain began to abate.
It occurred to me that the ideal accompaniment to the treatment would
be the comforting feel of my trusty briar. "Roxanne," I said,
"is it permitted to smoke my pipe?" "Oooh," she replied,
reaching for my towel, "You are a dark horse!" Twenty minutes
later I stumbled out of Spangles in a state of shock. I consider myself
to be a broad-minded sort of fellow, but really!
Brigadier Gordon Volante, Pudsey
Sir,
I have recently taken to boarding my regular 09:01 train to work with
the wind-shield I used to use on Margate Beach. But please note, I have
no issue with inner-carriage turbulent air-currents.
Now that The Times has been demoted to the vulgar size of the petty tabloid,
how else is one to screen out the sight of so many commuters in off-the-peg
high street suits? Sir, you will understand, of course, that it would
be quite impossible for me ever to lift a copy of that organ of wrongness,
The Guardian.
Yours ever,
Imperial Trevor
Sir,
Following a freak windmill accident on the Suffolk borders, I have recently
had cause to be amputated from the eyebrows down. Naturally, I am fitted
with the latest design in torso prosthetics. However, I find myself somewhat
limited with regards to my choice of gentlemen's frippery and attire.
Walter suggests various ideas involving velour flannels and 'velcro' or
some such fad, but he is an overblown oaf. As befits my situation, I do
find myself focusing upon the 'Decorative Arts of the Eyebrow' and I was
curious as to whether I might rely on you fellows of fine taste to recommend
a suitable eyebrow powderer in the South London area?
Yours in brow-furrowing anticipation,
Ethelred Hedgerow-Hedgerow
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Sir,
I must commend our capital for paying homage to the casualties of the
July 7th terrorist attacks. I found the statue of a limbless white ‘angel’
in Trafalgar Square both meaningful and deeply poignant. It is a relief
to see that our publicly financed art has finally broken away from that
patronizing, politically correct twaddle of the 1980s. Well done, Sir
Ken Livingstone!
Arthur Milord, Virginia Water, Surrey
Sir,
I was flabergasted to read Colin Crabbe-Walker's letter in issue 26, for
on his right in the 'photo was my own dear Ahmed.
Ahmed turned up at our tradesman's entrance in 1999, asking (as I thought)
for 'alms'. Having fond memories of the Arab boys from my Army days, I
offered him two shillings and a cucumber sandwich, but after some shouting
and gesticulating it transpired that he wanted a Kalashnikov. Hearing
that I was a Major, he believed me to be a sort of warlord of the Newton
Abbot area.
I invited Ahmed to stay, and we had a jolly summer before he felt the
need to return to the Yemen, taking my 1914 Webley and the wife's shawl,
which I am pleased to see he still wears.
If Mr Crabbe-Walker desires release from his chain and radiator, simply
remind Ahmed of the stuffed badger and wet spaghetti episode, and he will
be free in a trice.
Your obediant Servant,
Major Bulmer Bag-Puisse, Devonshire
Sir,
You may recall from my dispatch bemoaning my ill-fortune at having been
caught up with, nay duped into, a ghastly scheme, the architect of which
was a certain Mr. Anthony Blair. No sooner had I repaired to our own sceptred
isle then I found myself in yet another unseemly scrape. Due to a salacious
indiscretion with the God-daughter of a Major General (who will remain
nameless) at our homecoming ball, it transpired that I precipitated my
own untimely return to a decidedly un-green and un-pleasant corner of
a foreign field, namely Southern Mesopotamia.
I was about to give up this whole military lark as a rum deal and "go
for a Burton", when I stumbled upon the coquettish crumpet featured
in the enclosed photograph. Miss Joanna Guest, an actress staging through
the area, is not only easy on the eye but is also a devotee of The Chap.
At last I had found my true Chapette! Although her sartorial arrangements
would benefit, no doubt, from consultation with Mr David Saxby she is,
in all other aspects, a ruby. I am now in clover and am making arrangements
to have my scent, gloves and subscription to your august publication delivered
direct to our connubial snuggery above the bazaar at 101, Hookah Street,
Shaibah.
Capt Rosco ‘Biscuits Fruit’ van Noote
Mesopotamia (again)
Sir,
The name is WJB, and I am a cad here in the States. Specifically, I am
a senior in high school, an establishment operated by the local government.
My situation is this: I have taken to wearing a tweed driving cap to school.
This is, however, distinctly against the rules of my scholarly establishment.
Today, I was ordered by the constable on the premises to remove my cap,
which I had only just doffed in the direction of an attractive (in a relative
sense) California maiden. While I did as bid, I was frothing at the kneecaps,
and was searching for an apt reply to the constable whose eyes, I must
add, are too close together. My question is this: what would you at The
Chap have said in my situation?
Eagerly awaiting your reply,
WJB, cad, California
Sir,
My ladylove and I recently entered the "Pizza Express" on London's
Victoria Street. Smiling inwardly at the company's innocent misspelling
of the name, I requested two first class sleeper tickets to visit the
celebrated Leaning Tower. My beau and I were so enchanted by the prospect
of a romantic break on the continent "en train".
Imagine our dismay when all we were offered was a peculiar species of
Welsh rarebit with four cheeses. None of which were Stilton, I might add.
Sir, am I to take it that nowadays one is to expect no more than a Godawful
"Chinese takeaway" from the Orient Express?
Yours ever,
Imperial Trevor
Sir,
Re: All this computer nonsense.
All too often on this Johnny interweb, one can only find Chappist items
for sale in the United States, which is patently ridiculous when the pith
helmet you require is actually made in good old Blighty!
So much for Mr. Blair and his "joined-up thinking"!
Yours faithfully,
Hathersedge
Twemlow, Liverpool
Sir,
I feel I should bring to your attention the horrendous level of service
I received at a new lunching house in my village, which appears to be
owned by one R McDonald Esq. Upon entering, no-one took my hat or cane,
I was instructed to extinguish my Carey, and there was no table service.
Instead, they held with a disgusting practice of ordering one's own food
from an open kitchen at the rear of the premises! As it was breakfast
time, I ordered a brace of kippers, four devilled kidneys, a dish of kedgeree
and a pot of Darjeeling. When the pimpled knave behind the counter began
to titter, I demanded to see Mr McDonald immediately. To my horror, a
deranged simpleton was produced, whom they had made up to resemble a clown.
I have since learned that Mr McDonald is to open another such establishment
in the neighbouring village of Westgrove Belmont. Alas! And so the darkness
spreads!
Brigadier Gordon Volante, Pudsey
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Sir,
Following a recent late night, rather ill-advised and (so it would
Transpire), ill-fated croquet wager, I found myself dispossessed of my
snuffbox in a shrubbery. I was assured that though the hour was late,
there was a local retailer that would serve as an ad hoc tobacconist –
Messrs Londis & Co. Once there, I discovered the establishment to
be a garishly lit "super-market" and I expected that my friends
were most amused at having directed me there. Nevertheless, my face had
begun to twitch in a most distressing fashion and I was obliged by necessity
to enter.
Having waited my turn in a queue (composed of manual labourers and drunkards
who repeated the same peculiar words: “Ten Elbee") I asked
the girl behind the counter (dressed in a manner more appropriate to a
scullery-maid than the proprietress of a mercantile) if I could see the
selection of dry fine medicated snuffs. I sensed some level of antagonism
had entered the woman's demeanour, and as the hour was late decided to
simply ask for Gawith Hoggarth & Co. Camphor and Menthol Fine Kendal
Brown. At this, the woman began to shout aggressive colloquialisms. Dumbfounded,
I could think of nothing to defuse the
situation save to repeat what I had heard from the soused lackeys previous
to me: "Ten Elbee?". I was presented with a plastic wrapped
silver package marked Lambert & Butler, which I later discovered contained
poor quality cigarettes.
I shall not be so ready to use a service revolver in lieu of a mallet
again, let me assure you.
Yours,
Major-General J.B. Felton-Norton DSC
Sir,
The comments in 'Alumnus Elegantis' (issue 16) regarding the necessary
avoidance of the sciences were spot on. During my own brief and ill-advised
association with natural philosophy I was horrified to discover that,
far from uncovering celestial verities in the company of intricate brass
microscopes and dusty orreries gleaming darkly in the light of an oil
lamp, my place of study was to be a soulless warren of phosphor-lit cubicles.
The denizens of this prefabricated compound, who, judging by their etiolated
complexion and grimy patina spent most of their time underground, were
so confused by the novelty of conventional English gentleman's attire
that they would sometimes refer to me as 'Dr Hoo'. Quite why they chose
this outlandish moniker was never made clear as I possess neither a Ph.D.
nor oriental features.
Edwin Orme-Herrick, Catford
Sir,
As you know, our Egyptian brothers, before embalming the body, extracted
the brain of the dead person through the cavity of the skull through the
nostrils by means of a simple hook. I have instructed my man to contact
various trades people with a view to purchasing such an essential tool.
With this task in mind, he visited B&Q, Do-It-All, Homebase et al.
He tells me that all he gets is a moronic look from the lackeys and servants
employed by these emporia when he endeavours to purchase an ordinary Brain
Hook. God knows what response we will get from my other request to purchase
a sharp Ethipic stone, with which to remove the intestines from the abdominal
cavity.
David Le Noblet, Aylesbury
Sir,
At the tender age of 15, I am still a student attending secondary school,
but I feel this should not curb my hereditary Chappist tendencies. The
school uniform consists of a black blazer, black trousers, black shoes,
white shirt and school tie, which is very hard to transform into something
both elegant and sublime, but I have tried my best. My modifications are
as follows: double-cuff shirt with cutaway collar or wingtip, dependant
on my mood; a Windsor knot; gold cufflinks; black or grey wool waistcoat;
paisley braces with gold clips; sharply crease trousers with turn ups;
black silk socks with sock suspenders, parade-polished black leather Sterling
and Hunt brogues; Dents leather gloves; Tootal paisley-type pattern scarf
and, when the occasion demands it, a leather-bound swagger stick.
Topcliffe Kinipple, Worcester
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