Am I Chap?

Send us your photograph and we'll assess your Chappist credentials. Your picture, along with our comments, will either be posted here or published in the next edition of The Chap. The address is chap@thechap.net

(Right) Casey Ryan hails from across the Atlantic Ocean, where appetites often exceed sartorial concerns. Notwithstanding, he has made a passable stab at contorting his voluminous form into a semblance of gentlemanly raiment. Cultivating a pair of mutton-chop sideburns which entirely cover one's head is no mean feat...oh what's the point? He's an overweight, vulgar, tasteless, clueless buffoon with not the slightest ability to walk past a shop selling cheap factory-made menswear without entering it and buying the shiniest, most mismatched items he can find.

(Above) If this were a Chap, all our work over the last ten years would have been in vain. There is no place in the world for a false moustache, unless one is genuinely on the run from Sudanese terrorists or some such, or trying to escape undetected from a hospital where one has seduced several nurses and botched an operation on a pensioner (merely to achieve the former).

(Right) Jonnie Rockingham-Smith is a pilot in the RAF serving in Afghanistan at the moment. Good to see that the RAF still encourage impressive lip weasels, and good to see that these days they give their pilots more than a plate of egg and chips before a mission.

(Above) Mr. Augustus Cannon is currently embarked on an "unsupported attempt to walk the length of the country via the three peaks wearing tweed." Even his haversack, so he claims, is made from tweed. This would be all the more impressive were he actually wearing any tweed. He seems to have fashioned a pair of "shorts" simply by cutting an old pair of cotton trousers off at the knee. Rather badly, to boot.

(Right) Jack Flowers sent us this photo of himself with two of his school chums, about to take their final Latin exams. With students like these, who needs teachers? Their Latin master is undoubtedly looking forward to spending the holidays in a pair of 3/4 length "cargo pants" and a T-shirt bearing the slogan 'Veni Vidi V.D.' or some such.

(Above) "Attached is a picture of myself at the recent Officers' mess summer ball at RAF Akrotiri Cyprus," writes D. M. Jackson. "I have cropped out the picture of the good lady on my arm for fear of offending her."
Sir, you would have done better to crop out your entire outfit, for fear of offending our readers.

(Above) "Do I cut the English mustard?" writes a clearly foreign Martin Locker.
Well, you would if you swapped your cigarette for a pipe, your beard for a moustache and your lute for a banjolele. And you stopped dressing like the waiter at a Lebanese restaurant.

(Right) "This is my son, George Manson, who began displaying chappish tendencies at a young age. He has recently grown a rather fine moustache in the Charles Rennie Mackintosh/Billy Childish tradition."
We have heard all about the Manson family before, and we advise young George to escape down a drainpipe as soon as he can. He will easily find work in a What the Butler Saw booth on Brighton Pier, where his anonymity will be assured.