What Ho Proles!
There are two things we need to clarify before we move on for the day.
Firstly, there was a little misunderstanding over the nature of wine, last night. My Man maintains that I was drunk, but I’d like to describe it a quite normal reaction to the toxins that occasionally find their way into a bottle of plonk via a bad grape. Secondly, I’d like to apologise for My Man’s behaviour. You give him an inch and he legs it with the full 1,760 yards. I asked him to update the blog; not to spread his vile form of communism writ in gravy. For some people, he said too much, and, for others, too little. I hope this serves to teach him Abraham Lincoln’s famous dictum: you can please all the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time, but prolish pseudo-intellectualism will leave you a shilling short in your wages.
To make up for yesterday, I thought I’d give you an update regarding everybody’s favourite educated moustache, Professor Alice Kipling, though I can’t promise you that it will give you any more cheer than another of My Man’s tedious reports on Iran. In many ways, this is much worse since I’ll be talking about a fundamentalist historian and unlike the Iranians, they're not known for having much of a sense of humour.
For a detailed spec of the professor, I refer you to an earlier adventure of mine titled, The Hirsute Lady of the Institute, but here are the basic facts and figures: Kipling. Female. Approx. 45. Professor of History. Suspected Oxford Greek wrestling champion. Likes to wear a woollen hat but heavy tash makes it look more like a balaclava. As you might recall, I’ve suspected the Professor of sneaking around the village, researching the Murgatroid family history with the intention of uncovering some ancient skulduggery, call into question the whole Murgatroid inheritance, and make some Yorkshire ferret fancier the lord of the manor.
My Man came back from the town yesterday and said that he’d spotted the Professor playing darts in The Boar’s Tusk. He was quite full of admiration for her skill, describing how she produced a nine dart finish with only eight darts or some such nonsense. It gave me cold shivers to think the woman is adept in yet another martial art; darts being one of the most misrepresented yet deadly that emerged from the Shaolin school when bald-headed chaps with glandular conditions and a love of meat pies became all the rage after 1732. You may scoff as much as you wish, but I have it on the advice of a friend who travels that Jockie Wilson is still worshipped in parts of rural China.
Be that as it may, I have decided to go and have a word with the Professor and see if I can’t resolve this business amicably.
In the immortal words of R. F. Scott: ‘I am just going outside and may be some time...’
TTFN.
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2 comments:
Sir,
Do you expect actual responses to your vignettes, or do you wish your readers simply to admire them (and perhaps by extension you) from afar?
I should mention that I found your blog through A Very British Dude. You're quite entertaining.
Madam,
I'm so glad you enjoy my blog and, of course, I respond to comments. In fact, I positively encourage them. A bit of communication with the outside world goes down a treat. My Man tries his best to communicate but I don’t like to encourage it among the staff. As to the villagers, it’s hard to hold a conversation when a person’s got their foreheads pressed at one’s shoe leather.
So, feel free to respond. The chaps at my club think I'm fairly approachable, though they think anybody’s a hoot if they’re willing to put a pair of trousers on their head and quaff a yard of Bacardi.
The Hon. J.P.W.
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