Thursday, March 22, 2007

A Problem With Tories

What Ho Proles!

Spring will soon be upon us, so it’s already that time of year when the poor start arriving at the Hall, asking if they can help till the fields. It’s a most pernicious nuisance, seeing the woe begotten types come trudging up the driveway. I don’t know how they manage to get over the electrified fence and keep the guard dogs at bay, and My Man’s time is completely taken up with chasing them away. What I spend on shotgun shells during March and April has been known to fund small revolutions in certain Middle African states.

However, with Spring comes the renewed optimism that I might soon be called upon to stand for election in this great country of ours. It’s about time that we had a change in government. The current state of things reminds me of the great bard’s words in his Lear.

When usurers tell their gold i’ the field;
And bawds and whores do churches build:
Then shall the realm of Albion
Come to great confusion.

You might say that I’m an old fashioned Tory in that I’m not one to have bawds and whores building churches. In fact, if I had my way, not a penny of lottery month would go towards such schemes. Which is quite unlike the police of the current administration. If there’s anything that the lottery now funds which isn’t built by bawds and whores, then I really think we should be told. I’m pretty damn sure that neither bawds nor whores understand the first thing about civil engineering.

Which brings me neatly around to Tories.

I’ve been looking around at the types of people who have become Tories in recent years and I’m rather disappointed by the sort of chap we’ve been attracting. Oh, they’re Toryish in their principals of low taxation and pro-business, but where’s all the charisma of the old guard? Where are well rounded characters of Churchill and Wellington? Tories need not be men (or indeed women) whose definition of happiness begins and ends with a discussion on interest rates. They should be people who are living proof that being a Tory brings happiness because we are in touch with the life spirit.

What precipitated this outburst was a few minutes of Tory TV I happened to watch last night, and a bloody good sleep was had by all. One might make excuses because it was the night after the budget but can one really discuss the nature of a two pence cut in income tax for so long without losing the will to live? It is of my confirmed opinion that most of this new breed of Tories are a terribly dull lot and I’ll be trying my best to involve myself with them as little as possible.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

The Truth About The Sea Nymph

What Ho Proles!

This prolonged silence of mine is getting too much. There have even been rumours circulating in the press that I’ve taken up with a Polynesian sea nymph and was recently seen loitering around a bar in the West End known to be frequented by showgirls. They’re all lies, I tell you.

The reason I’ve not put up any more chapters of my Memoirs is that I’ve been made aware of certain legal requirements should I ever want my life story published. So, although I’m still writing and breeched 70,000 words in magnificent style the other day, I’m now wary of doing myself a great disservice. Did Harry Potter appear for free online before the world discovered the magic of a boy and his pet owl? And should the world be given advance warning about a Tory and his duck? Well, precisely… The question of rights is an important one and I wouldn’t like to dissuade a publisher from taking an interest in me because I’ve already put out my meat’s juice for the world to taste in draft form. I’m taking a leaf from Lord Jeffrey’s book. Even God didn’t get a sneak peak of his latest and he co-authored the damn thing.

Of course My Man has insisted that I persist in giving you the beef for free but you might know that I’d stand up to his socialist nonsense. He’d have me turn the Hall into a drop-in centre for local tramps or start picking up hitchhikers in the Bentley instead of driving into them at high speed. What is a man to do?

I think the way around this is to occasionally write one of these updates and see how things go from there. My Memoirs have come between us and I’d like to begin again. As I told the people who come looking for work at the Hall yesterday: mistakes have been made, shots have been fired, but I’m sure we can begin again and resolve these problems in a less bloody manner.

Now then. As you were.

Pip pip.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Much Tofu About Nothing

Damn these liberals. First they invent tofu and now they want to take away our nuclear deterrent. It’s ruddy double faced, if you ask me.

Don’t they know that our Trident missiles are a reason why people still listen to the British? It sometimes beggars belief that people listen to the liberal types who’d have us left unarmed against the hoards. Do you really think these other countries care a jot about what we think? They don’t love us for Celebrity Come Dancing or Jonathan Ross. They love us because they fear us. They appreciate us because they know we could destroy the world, not once, but many times over.

I was born in the middle of the Cold War – in fact some people might say I contributed towards it – so I understand the politics of it rather well. Nuclear missiles are terrible terrible things and that’s why we should have them. The same is true of tofu though, admittedly, I don’t fear the day when a hostile nation launches soya products our way. But we must face reality. Now tofu’s invented, there’s not much we can do to uninvent it. The best we can do is keep it in deeply fortified bunkers, hoping the day will never come when the roast potatoes and veg run out and we have to use it.

So, there you go. Keep the bomb and let’s keep tofu too.

Monday, March 12, 2007

Fun With Lib Dems

What Ho Proles!

Well, I knew that title had to catch your eye, simply because it's not something you see every day! Fun with Lib Dems is one of those oxymorons, like Compassionate Conservative, which even as a Tory, I can see makes no sense.

I’m just checking in to this blog to make sure that you’re all doing well and that nobody’s been stealing the china. Not that I’m accusing you of anything, you understand, but I’m pretty sure there are people out there who have visited this site who have prolish blood running through their veins. That’s another problem with improving literacy among the working classes: they always put it to some wrong use.

Anyway, in this age of government accountability, I suppose I should give an account of my activities for the last week or so. Well, I’ve been roped into local Tory party activities which have kept me away from my blog for too long. There have been local mutterings about voting Lib Dem so the local Tory group thought we should organise a leafleting campaign with random hectoring of locals. Old Campbell seems to be winning people around but I think it’s people responding out of pity. That or they like the smell of mint humbugs and heat rub.

I was off in Chidminster, yesterday, where I hectored a local about green taxes for nearly an hour. By the time I was finished, I think he’d have preferred to gnaw off his own leg rather than vote for anything but the blue rosette. I’m pretty sure old Dilly Cameron would be rather proud to see another browbeat soul into joining the winning camp. Can’t say I’m a huge fan of these green taxes, though anything to stop proles from migrating across the country should be welcomed. Tax has few good uses but their ability to prevent the poor from aspiring above their means has to be one of the best reasons for increasing the tax burden, year on year.

Okay, I have to dash. My Man has just brought the Bentley around to the front. We’re off this afternoon to raid a meeting of Lib Dems. They’re a harmless enough bunch but we can always be sure to turn one or two of them to the Tory cause by playing Land of Hope and Glory at them very loudly.

Toodle pip.

Friday, March 02, 2007

Lady Anne Small-Burrows

What Ho Proles!

I know you didn’t expect to hear from me today but in addition to being wealthy, debonair, charming, and possessing great wit and intelligence, I’m also a man who likes to spring many surprises. I like to disappear for a while but only so I can make a dramatic entrance at a later point. In a way, I’m a bit like bird flu. You just don’t know when I’m going to crop up next. I’ve often been described as one of the world’s last believers in the Romantic spirit but laced with a strong mix of Puritanism and it’s a judgement I tend to agree with.

Yet though there are few us puritanical romantics around these days, one did arrive at the Hall last night and stayed for the night. She’s the reason I’m posting this today. You must simply be introduced to Lady Anne Small-Burrows, or Lady Anne, as she’s known in this household.

Lady Anne is my cousin and one of the few people in the country to suffer the extraordinary condition in which she is completely immune to the influence of alcohol. Medically it’s a miracle but socially it’s a nuisance. It accounts for her rather dry stolid appearance and character, but also the moments when unleashes her repressed energy in ungovernable frenzies of what I can only describe as elan.

I remember one morning when she was half-way through completing The Times crossword when she suddenly took it upon herself to visit the Cathedral at Reims. Within ten minutes of her tackling the clue at 10 Across (‘Rigorously ecumenical interrogators missed something’) she was out the door and on her way to catch the first train for Dover. From what I hear, she caused all kind of chaos when she got there and turned a few of the younger chaps of the Roman Catholic clergy into devote atheists.

That’s all some years ago now and she’s settled down just a bit. My Man announced her arrival at the Hall by coming into the drawing room, coughing, and indicated towards the large rosy cheeked girl that had climbed up his back and was draped over his shoulders. She screamed her delight and jumped down before rushing over to peck me on my cheek.

‘You’ve put weight on, Jacob,’ she said, poking me in my ribs. ‘Not getting enough exercise or is it glandular?’

I looked down at myself. ‘I’m exactly the same weight as when I last saw you,’ I replied.

She spluttered a wet slimy laugh. ‘Then you should have your scales looked at! You’re looking positively plump. We’ll have to start calling you old fatty Murgatroid of the glandular condition.’

It’s better to ignore her provocations when she’s in this kind of mood.

‘And what suddenly whim has brought you here?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t think we were due another full moon for another week.’

‘Whim? I don’t do whims,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m here on my way to Cornwall.’


‘I’m going to buy myself a cottage there and write a novel.’

‘Ah,’ I said, patting the pile of papers I’d been working through. It was the draft of the Memoirs you keep hearing so much about. The manuscript was looking quite plump, certainly bigger than the last time you all saw it, having expanded to a length to exceed that of War of the Worlds or even Lord of the Flies. ‘So I take it that you’re suddenly taken with the literary bug?’

She threw herself down in a chair. ‘Oh, just about everybody is getting a book published so I thought why not have a go myself? I’ve got oodles of tales to tell.’

‘Well so long as you don’t ask for my help,’ I said. ‘I’m working on a volume of my own.’

‘You are, Jacob?’ she screamed with pleasure. ‘Then you really must allow me to look at it. I might be able to pick up a few tips before I get cracking.’

‘Get cracking?’ I tutted. ‘That’s hardly the right spirit.’

‘Pish,’ she replied. ‘Can’t be that difficult.’

I hesitated before I replied. ‘Well, perhaps a look at my manuscript will teach you to think differently. There’s nothing better than a good example to lower a person’s expectations. Only you must realise that it’s still an early draft. I intend to go through and spruce it all up with a few indiscreet anecdotes about Oliver Letwin and his gerbil fixation.’

She picked up my manuscript and retired to a corner of the room where she remained until I retired for the night.

I came down to breakfast and found my manuscript waiting for me with a small note attached.

‘Read your novel. It’s not exactly the next Jeffrey Archer is it? Love, ASB’.

What can I say but this cheered me up enormously. It was just the sort of response a man likes to hear when he’s looking to become published.

I rushed off a copy of this review and had My Man take it to London with him as he continues to search out an agent. I even told him that he could leave the chloroform at home. If Lady Anna Small-Burrows’ words can’t land me an agent, I don’t know what can.

Thursday, March 01, 2007

The Man With The Prosthetic Buttock

What Ho Proles!

Alas, you can see that I’m one of those men that makes resolutions he has no intention of keeping. But that’s the thing with we men of the aristorcacy. We’re not bound by the same rules of you people of the pork pie and Daily Mirror. We’re not bound by the same moods, either. It’s the weather, you see? These dark winter days bring with them a life that is dull and devoid of all excitement. No amount of good news can shake me out of my lethargy. I picked up a nice profit in that market dip the other day and I heard that my bank account is positively bulging because of a few other investments I’ve made. Yet nothing cheers me up.

I’m not the sort of man you’d want to be around when I’m suffering my winter blues. I bagged myself a local the other day, just for the spite of it. Cost me nearly five pounds to hush it up and then the misery of having pay out cash put me in an even deeper mood so I bagged the blighter again. That cost me an additional twenty pounds and may cost me even more when it comes time to have his bandages removed. I didn’t take all that much flesh out of him, though there is talk of my having to pay for the blighter to have a prosthetic buttock installed. Still, there was no real harm done and it will teach the locals to keep off the high street during the daylight hours.

My main cause of misery is the Memoir. It now stands at 63,000 words and counting and I’ve still not had a sniff of interest from a publisher. Today I despatched My Man to London with the instructions to hang around places where literary types gather. I understand this tends to be close to natural sources of alcohol, which I can tell you, seemed to please him enormously. I’ve yet to hear back from him but I’ve equipped him with a fine bottle of chloroform to subdue an agent should he find one. This Memoir has to be on the shelves in time for the next election. It contains so much valuable information for prospective Tory candidates that it would be a crime should we not get it into their hands.

And with that, my update is complete. I’ll be in touch tomorrow. I have another long excerpt of adventure to relate to you.

In the meantime, keep faith with Murgatroid. Remember: form is temporary but class is forever.

Pip pip,