Picture: From the Sir Charles Grandiose Archives

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9 June, 1995

Often one's readers write one ungrammatical inquiries that read: 'What are you Lord of?' One's American readers tend to have a fixation upon the matter, but then, one's American readers also tend to wonder if one knows 'Fergie.' (One does not, nor does one care to.)

If one had even a basic knowledge of titles, one would be able to discern that one is not a Lord. One is not a Duke or Earl. One is a baronet, the most dignified of all titles, for it bespeaks of a nobility of character that is undisputed. Yet it requires none of the boot blacking, social climbing, or the ingratiating oneself with the royal family that the so-called 'greater' titles do.

One remains, most dignifiedly,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Motorphobic writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

Please give us your educated and erudite position on the new models Rolls Royce is coming out with. They are intended to afford one the 'luxury' of (horrors) driving oneself places. Is there no standard of decorum left? First Bentley puts out a sports sedan, and now this!

Motorphobic in Mansleydale

Sir Charles replies:

Dear Sirrah or Madame:

This new 'democratic' approach to motoring so popular in recently years shall never find a home in the garages of Blandsdown, one assures one. One has no intention of driving oneself anywhere. One employs a chauffeur for that express purpose.

One ascribes the laxity of morals and breeding so common these days entirely to the two-seated automobile. One believes that such things as 'spooning' takes place in these conveyances, often outside 'roadhouses' wherein rough spirits such as 'applejack' are served. Were it not for the fleece-lined foot-warmers in my latest Rolls (a standard option in the better models, one is pleased to note), one should severely censure the manufacturers.

One remains
Sir Charles Grandiose

Anonymous writes:

Your Grace:

Being a gentleman's gentleman, I believe I have a good grasp of which dilemmae can be solved by the common mind, and which can only be solved with the gentle assistance of the aristocratic. Please assist us, if you see fit.

My master's wife has taken a slow yet steady plunge into irreversible insanity, yet we find that it is our duty, as staff, to shield the family from prying eyes and rampant rumours. Until this point in time, we have used all the stock answers that one uses in these circumstances to close the house to visitors--death in the family, illness, a contagion in the horses (bound to keep even the most tenacious of the neighbours at bay), plague, etc. We are fortunate, at this estate, to be well removed from the nearest neighbours, yet find that it is becoming increasingly difficult to shield the family. The lady's latest episode had her riding her roan mare wearing nothing but a moth-eaten old school sweater (much too small, at that) shouting at the top of her voice "Pasty pasty rich boy" as she mowed down the delphiniums.

We are at our wits end, and I feel such pity for Master. What shall we do?


Sir Charles replies:


So, it would appear that Benedict St. Hughes married Millicent Simpley after all. Well, one can't say that he wasn't warned.

Tut tutting,
Sir Charles.

Needing a Referee writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

A question of etiquette. . . .

Recently at a cricket match the home team hit a stunner which surely would have won the match. Unfortunately, a neighbourhood urchin had inadvertently wandered onto the green, was beaned by the drive, and dropped like a stone.

Our dilemma: A number of the old boys had sums riding on the outcome, and a debate has ensued over whether the child, being common, should count as a mere part of the field, or whether it should be not considered, and the play should be taken as the long-hit winning shot that it most certainly would have been?

Needing a Referee at Rothingham

Sir Charles replies:


The problem of gaping commoners wandering upon sporting fields is an unfortunately common one. When one takes to the hunt, one is constantly having to shoo off farmers and housewives when one chases the quarry through their fields and clothing lines. Often they send one bills for damage to the crops and roof thatching, which one ignores. After all, if one cannot enjoy a bit of sport, what, one asks, is the point of one's wealth and title?

One advises one's correspondent to consider the child a part of the natural landscape, much like a hummock, or a mud pond. No more, no less. One hopes the glancing blow did not do damage to the cricket ball. They are blasted hard to season.

What ho!
Sir Charles Grandiose

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