Q. What's black and white and red all over?
A. A full length dyed baby seal coat after one of those
pesky activists has thrown a bucket of blood over it
outside Covent Garden at the premiere of Aida. Thank
goodness for insurance!!!!!! Hah! Hah! Hah!

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Trade Union.
Trade Union who?

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Trade Union.
Trade Union who?

Knock knock.
Who's there!
Orange.
Orange who?
Orange you glad that third world labour is
cheap and readily available enough
that one didn't have to resort to the Trade Union?

Q. Where does Camilla Parker-Bowles sleep?
A. Wherever in blazes she wants.

Q. A riddle: I walk dusty roads in the morning,
sleep in the haystacks by night, and though
without name am I, well you know me.
What am I?
A. A bloody lay-about on the dole, that's what. Now
get out of the way of the Rolls!

Q. What do you call a cow with no legs?
A. Ground beef.
Q. What do you call a cross between a dog and a cow?
A. Hound beef.
Q. No, really now.
A. One's mother in law.

Q. What rises and rises and never goes down?
A. The Lady Felicia's age!

Q. Why did Sir Chicken cross the road?
A. To get to the whiskey and soda. Hah! Hah! HAH!

Clueless writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

After a life of classical study and quiet contemplation, one has reached an age (forty-three) when one thinks one is ready to take a wife. But one is unsure where to meet a suitable young lady. And how does one impress the lady when one does meet her? And, most importantly, how does one determine that said lady is, er, pure?

Tell me, Sir Charles, where should I find a suitable bride? How did you impress the Lady Felicia? And how did you determine . . . well, you know?

Contemplative but Clueless in Cheshire

Sir Charles replies:

My lad,

Three words for you: Amor Vincet Omnia. Yes. Love conquers all, even Vincent, whoever he may be.

When one first spied the gracious and lovely form of Felicia Windover-Midden at the Under the Olde Chestnut Tree Aristocratic Pique-Nique, one knew, simply knew, that she was the woman for oneself. Her lovely silhouette entranced one. The patrician tilt of her nose drove one to a frenzy. Her icy demeanour caused one's heart to go pitter-pat. And when she ordered one's chauffeur pistol-whipped for whistling a low note of appreciation when she passed, one knew, simply knew, that one had to woo and win her.

But my boy, you must relinquish any questions about the purity of your intended. It will not do to worry night after night, for does not Love triumph in the end? It must. So set aside all base suspicion.

And the easiest way to set your suspicion aside, by the way, is to hire a crack team of detectives on duty twenty-four hours a day to follow the girl for no less than six months, who provide background dossiers for every friend, family member, and shop clerk with whom your sweet loved one speaks, as well as complete transcripts of all her conversations and telephone calls. The tracking devices these days are much, much less obtrusive than the days in which one had to disguise them as the chunky belt buckle on the Lady Felicia's Carnaby Street leather catsuit.

With warm regards, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Hugh writes:

well,my name is hugh and i am sick and tired of my friend at school. you see i am not good at any sports and thats all the boys do at recess and the only people left to play with are the girls and my friends at school make fun of me and call me a girl and i am sick of it! i tried to do sports but i always mess up and then the kids hate me! What should i do?

hugh

Sir Charles replies:

Dear Hugh,

A bit of spine, boy. A bit of spine! Is it worth getting upset about what these rough bullies on the schoolyard grounds say about you? Do you really care if they call you a girl?

Well, you ought.

Yes, Hugh, these bully-boys will one day be your employers, your co-workers, and the fellow to whom you will have to grovel for an extension on your mortgage. They will be your Inland Revenue collectors, your neighbours, your grocer, and most likely, the constable who will eventually arrest you for opening your grimy trenchcoat and flashing your underdeveloped and scrawny sissy-boy body to a gaggle of Catholic schoolgirls on holiday from Ghent.

One's nephew and heir, Chauncey, once showed signs of becoming a whining little girly-man such as you, Hugh. What did one do? Shipped him off to an all-boy's school, of course, where he was shown daily what it was to be a man. He fast grew out of it, and what is he today? Only a discreetly famous and highly successful former female impersonator and current editor of Milady's Boudoir, that's what.

Glad to have snapped the boy out of it, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

A Lady writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

A question that you would surely appreciate. My servants keep coming out of the kitchen and complaining of their wages. What in the world have I done wrong?

A Lady of Quality

Sir Charles replies:

My dear Lady,

What have you done wrong? Why, you've made the chains too long, of course.

Understandingly, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose