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August 15, 1997

The Sir Charles Association To Create A Terrific Society (SCATCATS) presents More Official Sir Charles Grandiose Manners Cards We haven't yet been sued by Sir Charles Grandiose himself! Pick 'n' print! Hand them out to those violating your favourite pet peeve! Limited editions! Swap with your chums! Collect them all! For the gentleman with, shall we say, his pants riding too low in the back: For the gentleman or lady who cannot seem to chew with a closed mouth, in a public place: For the lady or gentleman who insists upon performing the usual morning grooming rituals in the motorcar, whilst the light has changed from red to green: Samantha writes: Dear Sir Charles, When I was growing up in the carny, my dear Grandmamma (the bearded lady and substitute Siamese twin) showed me a little trick of how to crack hard-shelled nuts between my thighs. Oh, we were never hungry, after that. But now that I'm married, I'm running into a few problems. When my husband brought home his boss for dinner for the first time last week, we were all sitting in the living room afterwards, sipping cocktails. Darrin (my husband) looked a little famished--the poor dear couldn't eat, he was so nervous--so I reached out, took a couple of nuts, cracked them, and popped them into his poor little mouth. Good thing I was wearing a miniskirt! Anyway, our nuptial bliss was marred that evening afterward, when he told me that under no circumstances should I ever put his nuts between my thighs in public again! I called him a lousy cheap son of a gun and went back home to Grandmamma, who is now retired in Hoboken, but still hairy. She still works small private parties, if you ever know of anyone who needs a bearded lady. Sir Charles, did I do the right thing? Samantha of the Suburbs Sir Charles replies: Young woman, One knows not where one has gained this reputation of being an Agony Aunt to youthful brides of the world. Last week, it was the woman whose husband did not like his wife to give his balls a good wash. And this week, a girl whose husband is sensitive about his nuts. Oh, how far one has fallen. It makes one positively shudder, to think what domestic dramas might be uncovered in every next envelope. One supposes, however, that in 'carnival' circles, an evening spent cracking nuts between one's thighs is a relatively refined means of passing the time, so one will not judge. Much. If you must crack your husband's nuts, my dear, perhaps it would be best to refrain from doing so before others. Chalk it up to Dame Pride, but most men, even the best of baronets (and one refers to oneself, of course) are deucedly sensitive about that sort of thing. Dreading one's next inquiry, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Babs writes: Dear Sir Charles, I'm a newlywed with a problem! My new hubby has a cat from a previous marriage named Whiskas. Whiskas is all right, as far as cats go, but he claws my lovely purple country plaid convertible sofa with matching dust ruffles, and he positively chewed up my Mary Englebert cross-stitch! I was so mad the other night when Whiskas attacked my hand-sequined gouchos and ruined my Topsy-Tail that I pulled out a pair of old pantyhose and lashed out at him! My husband saw, and grabbed Whiskas, and said that if I ever whipped his cat again he'd leave me! Sir Charles, I'm not the sort of girl who inadvertently whips cats! I'm not the cat-whipping sort at all! Do you know of a way to restore peace to my domicile? Thanks! Babs Sir Charles replies: Let one see if one has comprehended the problem correctly: Your husband objects to your habit of pussy-whi. . . . Oh, one cannot bear it. One simply cannot bear it any longer. Either youth or marriage should be outlawed. Perhaps both. Desperately groping for aspirin, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Rodney writes: My Dear Sir Charles Grandiose: How pleasant it was, motoring through the dales and downs of delightful, but remote Mortshire; the Rover humming smoothly, dear Twila (wife of 30 years) seated by my side. Peterson's Perpetual Parlour of Periwigs and Prophyaxis on the high street in Dustcough Abbey provided a plentitude of Peterson's Perfected Personal Protective Products including the much sought-for (and sorely needed) Perspiration-Pruf Pit Pomade. Dear Twila's address to the annual convocation of the Dustcough and District Devotees of the Blessed Ethelburga was, if I may say so, a great success. A genuine titter rippled through the hall as she recalled Ethelburga's Rebuke to the Mendicant Friars. Equally moving but of more sober tone was her declamation of Ethelburga's Prayer for the Success of Swithun's Mission to Establish The Church at Stavanger. What a rich reward for a lifetime of study and devotion. And so, glowing warmly in recollection of this triumph, we rode through Mortshire, mindful of but not minding the prospect of return to the hurly-burly of jolly Weston-super-Mare. But enjoyable though I am sure you find these recollections, I am distracted from my point of enquiry. Nearing the western border of Mortshire, we paused to sup at a roadside inn. Unfortunately the speciality of the house, Grunion a l'Anglaise avec pommes frites, was ill-prepared. The grunion had not been thoroughly boned, and this became the occasion for dispute which bid fair to mar the otherwise pleasant holiday. One party to the dispute claims the only proper response is to summon one's servitor and insist politely but firmly that the offending portions be removed, to be replaced by properly prepared servings. The other school holds that one should grasp the offending bones firmly between thumb and forefinger of the right hand, extracting them from their inter-dental lodgement whilst distracting attention from this buccal excavation by graceful gestures of the left hand. It does seem quite unlikely that we (dear Twila and I) shall again dine at this particular hostelry, however the matter is likely to arise in other settings and we await your opinion, perhaps one may say, your ruling in the matter, as it has become a subject of sore dispute. Trusting that your trip to the Greeny-Grass Bonny Lass Madrigal Barbeque in company of the lovely Lady Felicia was as nice as our expedition to Dustcough Abbey, I remain, Rodney Henne-Peck The Hennery Weston-super-Mare Sir Charles replies: Sirrah: At last, a letter from a married couple that one can truly, truly respect. And a question of delicacy, requiring a delicate response. How exceptionally grateful one is to you, Mr. Henne-Peck. How very exceptionally grateful. The solutions you pose to a badly-boned plate of grunion, however, reflect your own . . . shall we say bourgeois? . . . social standing. Gently calling for a new plate, or such evasions as coughing the bones into a serviette while performing shadow puppets with one's feet, it is true, are solutions that cause little fuss and commotion. But they are weaselly, mincing methods to be shunned by people of True Breeding. One prefers an approach perfected by the Royal Family itself. That is, firmly grasping the silver platter with both hands, projecting both provender and plate at the nearest servant, and roaring at the top of one's lungs with an oath such as: "Faugh! If a man's servants cannot serve him edible food in his own house, perhaps he should skin them alive!" A ferocious waggle of the eyebrows and a brandishing of the fish knife during this declamation also assists in terrifying the help, often to the point of causing the footmen to weep and prompting fainting among the serving maids. Of course, the last member of the Royal Family so to do was King Henry VIII. But--and one must sigh here--wasn't that a glorious era in our nation's history? Nostalgically, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose