|
 It
has come to one's attention that one of the more popular amusements
in the newspapers and the tabloids is the daily horoscope. Every
morning, countless bleary-eyed folk who could be making better
use of their time by memorizing the latest Advice from Sir
Charles Grandiose drag themselves to the breakfast table,
crease open the newsprint, and peer to see what the day has in
store for them.
Yet gentle readers, one must question this dubious forecasting.
How is it possible that one-twelfth of the population, who have
little in common in background, education, cultural appreciation,
or style--one twelfth of the world's population who have nothing
in common save for being born during a particular month--should
be given the same fortune by the stars? Is it entirely likely
that oneself, Sir Charles Grandiose, will find that "a new
relationship proves fruitful" on the same day as a skateboard
aficionado with scabs upon his knees and his trousers hanging
belong the waistband of his unwashed boxer shorts?
One thinks not.
One thinks a 'revamp' of this entire horoloogical system is
necessary. It means little. There are other influences far more
strong than the pull of stars that are light-years distant from
the earth.
Why not, for example, a system of horoscopes based upon economic
background? Statistics would, one believes, prove that the predictions
made under such classifications would be far more accurate than
the vague concoctions that most so-called 'astrologers' make.
Ponder the following examples, readers:
Filthus, the Pig (No discernable income):
You will spend today sitting on your bum watching the telly,
eating crisps, and drinking cider. Money can't buy happiness,
but it could purchase a packet of flea repellant. Think about
it.
Whiskus, the Stained White Collar (middle class
income, barely): You will leave the house feeling
sleepy, sit at your interminable job all day, praying for the
clock hands to advance closer to quitting time. At home, you
will find squalor. Smile at others today! You won't feel any
better, but it will mask the despair hiding behind your frightened
eyes.
Flatulentes, the Bull Market (upper middle class):
Your spouse is cheating on you and drowning his or her sorrows
in alcohol. The children are concealing drugs in their rooms.
Your ulcer will flare up again. Do not worry about the internet
stocks. They will correct themselves in due time. Buy yourself
another BMW--it might erase the memory of your father being a
janitor in a grammar school.
Baronetius, the Lion (upper, upper, upper crust):
A bit of sport is in order for the day. One of the servants may
be considering nicking the silver. Money can't buy happiness,
but my, it certainly is an anaesthetic against depression. Think
about it.
Born under a fortunate star, for another week, one remains
the Baronetian
Sir Charles Grandiose
 Marcus
writes:
Sir Charles,
I know you're interested in genetics. But did you know that
there are sexual 'positions' you can try to increase your chances
of having either a boy or a girl, according to your preference?
So it occurred to me, hey, maybe there's a position during the--you
know, procreative process!--that determines whether a baby is
stupid. Or whether a baby is born ugly! So if you know what the
positions are to have a stupid ugly baby, you could avoid them!
So Sir Charles, do you know what the position is to have a
stupid and ugly baby?
Just curious,
Marcus
Sir Charles replies:
My dear boy,
Why not ask your mother? One wagers she learned from experience,
if you know what one means.
With highest regards, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose
Lady Pamela writes:
Dear Sir Charles,
Come the new year, it becomes increasingly apparent that your
advice is so thoughtful and well-dispensed, and your own person
held in such high esteem, that were you to trot over to Dublin
long enough to lift a finger, all of Ireland would throw itself
down on its knees begging to go back to slavery and potato famine.
Thus I write to you; for I fear, good Sir Charles, that you have
become the victim of a nefarious and ever-widening plot.
Some time ago you published a supposedly heartfelt letter
from one Amanda Rice-Davies, begging your advice on her upcoming
nuptials to one Lord Oliver Haughton-Mosely. Rest assured
that said nuptials have not yet taken place. On the eve
of this ill-fated marriage, Lord Oliver, who happens to be my
uncle, was abruptly struck by the first case of pleurisy recorded
in England since 1916. Of course, Lord Oliver has always
had a great respect for reviving old traditions. Miss Rice-Davies
(or, as I should call her, Miss Maggots-in-the-Bread) has not
stopped calling on Haughton House daily, begging admittance,
but she will not cross this threshold if I can help it.
She claims to be five hundred and seventy-eighth in line for
the throne; if that's true, I'm five hundred and seventy-eighth
in line for tickets to the West End production of Cats.
Sir Charles, the young woman in question has, I have it on good
authority, played Knock-knock with the doorman, put on a French
maid's uniform for the butler, and taught the entire Uxbridge
Wells rugby team how to score twice over. In response to your
earlier (well-phrased and gracious, of course) response to her
(ridiculous, melodramatic, and utterly without class) letter,
let me say I doubt she knows which chocolate has made
her waist swell so.
As Lord Oliver's devoted niece, I take it upon myself to protect
him from such a disreputable connection. My uncle, despite
being four hundred and thirtieth in line for the throne, is not
always of sound judgment, and that, combined with an English
gentleman's stubbornness, leaves him deaf to my pleas.
I ask you: How should I convince him to disentangle himself?
Rest assured, Sir Charles, that I only have my uncle's best
interests in mind. I have always been his favorite and
most beloved niece. If you entertain a moment of (entirely
sensible and wise) skepticism, you need only check the last version
of his will.
Warmest regards,
Lady Pamela Mosely-Carbuncle, Haughton House
Sir Charles replies:
My dear Lady Pamela,
Indeed, one has been royally rooked. Everyone knows that no
one stands in line for tickets to Cats.
It is a wise niece indeed who disinterestedly looks after
the interests of her uncle. A fortune that goes to a fortune-hunter
of either sex is a most unfortunately misfortune. Er . . . that
jolly well sounded better when one said it aloud in a vituperative
tone, beating one's hand against the library table. But one supposes
the correspondent knows what one means.
It is a curious thing, but young Penelope Windsor-Smythe also
volunteered to work with the Uxbridge Wells rugby team in the
same sort of sports training capacity. (As eighty-fifth in line
for the throne, her daily schedules of eurhythmies and 'jumping
jacks' has rendered her most flexible and supple.) One must insist
that she resigns from the position so that she might not consort
with vile pretenderesses.
As for your question . . . oh, the usual remedies will suffice.
Croquet in the garden infested with bear traps. Giving her the
'special Wedgewood cup' with the arsenic glaze. Blackmail. A
thoughtful niece will no doubt think of a hundred other methods
of exterminating pests.
Wishing Lady Pamela well, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose
 Mrs.
Crandling writes:
Dear Sir Charles,
I am an eighty-two year old great-grandmother of six, and
still reasonably spry. Still, I read your column weekly.
Fashion is such a mystery to me these days. I don't understand
the things that young people wear these days. They seem salvaged
from the dump. When I was a girl, we wore beautiful dresses,
beautiful jewelry, and took pride in our appearance. Even women
my current age took care with their appearance when I was a girl.
But my grandchildren seem to think otherwise. They prefer
to see me dressed up like an old frump, most of the time. For
my birthday I dressed up in a beautiful blue gown and wore a
beautiful old necklace with a pendant given to me by my mother.
I walked downstairs, feeling like a queen, and my granddaughter
looked at me and said, "Grandmama, that pendant is drawing
attention to your breasts! No one wants to look at those! Why
don't you put on that thing I gave you for Christmas!" The
thing in question, Sir Charles, is a padded sweatshirt that makes
me look like a sumo wrestler.
Am I wrong not to swathe every inch of skin with clothing?
If not a pendant, what can I wear between my bosoms?
Awaiting your reply,
Mrs. Crandling
Sir Charles replies:
Dear Mrs. Crandling,
What can you wear between your bosoms? One senses that your
granddaughter's answer might be, "Your navel."
However, my dear, it might be said that the old fashions never
die. Wear what you choose, flaunt your strengths, and never repent
of your choices, if justly made. It is a motto held dear by
Your faithful correspondent,
Sir Charles Grandiose
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