The Library | Write to Sir Charles | Cast of Characters | Credits | This Week

September 28, 1998

Why does the soldier brave the terrors of the front line? Why does the Queen sit upon her throne day after day, worrying about those issues that affect her subjects? Why does the ship's swabbie clean up after salty seamen? Duty, readers. Duty. The same duty that prompts a man to stand by his wife under any circumstances. That is, unless his wife is creating yet another batch of jams for Colonel Jambley's Annual Memoirs of the Raj Chutney Parade, the seasonal event that has made our quaint village of Fishampton famous. Or is it 'infamous'? Under these particular circumstances, a gentleman of stature and importance may very well be excused for deserting the side of his lady fair and seeking solitude at a distance far, far away from his home. The harrowing ordeal began three weeks ago, when with a smile the Lady Felicia appeared in one's smoking room, bearing a spoon filled with a viscous, vile-looking substance and uttering the sweet word, "Taste." One then had to endure an entire teaspoon laden with Curried Shrimp Chocolate Prune Mince being thrust into one's mouth. One simply could not swallow. And readers, believe one, uttering the dissembling words, "It's delicious, my dear," while rolling on one's tongue bits of spicy shrimp and prunes simply is not as easy as it sounds. One came perilously close to drooling. One's little constitutionals these days, thus, last from dawn to shortly before bedtime. One's legs are worn (in a purely metaphorical sense, one assures his readers) to stumps, but at least one has managed to avoid an endless parade of new concoctions designed to thwart the Lady Felicia's arch-rival, Edna Thistle, Mrs, from winning any of the competitions in the Chutney Parade. Hedgewort and Lamb's Foot Marmalade. Orange Aloe Jelly with Pickled Calves' Tongue. Sour Lemon and Steak Tartare Preserves. Crispy Bamboo Chutney with Caramel. Venison Blood Sausage Pickles. And oh, readers, such is only the beginning. How one jumps as one passes every door, fearful that the Lady Felicia will jump out insisting one try her Escargot Puree with Kumquat Chunks. How one shudders at the pestiferous stenches issuing from the kitchens, certain that one of the dairymaid's whelps has been sacrificed for some Cannibalistic Jam. Still. Once one fights past the nausea, it is good, every year at this time, to reduce enough to be able to fit into one's jodhpurs for the Hunt . . . oh dear. One had forgotten. Another pleasure denied the aristocracy, eh, Mr Blair? And yet you allow these infernal Chutney Parades to continue? Blasted socialists. Where's a good peasant revolution when one needs one? With one's stomach a bit tetchy, one remains for yet another week, Sir Charles Grandiose? Sam writes: dear sir charles, i am really in love with a girl named Exodus who really is the prettiest girl in the world even though others think she's not just because she had some screwholes emplanted under her scalp so she could screw the spikes in. i think she's really creative this way. hair is so boojwa. bourjwah. bourge . . . you know what i mean. plus it goes really well with her lip piercings. anyway, my parents are against our true love. what should I do? i am convinced she is the wittiest cleverest prettiest smartest girl I have ever met. Sam Sir Charles replies: My boy, Meet more people. Tersely, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Sir Slippy Slaphead writes: Dear Sir Chuckles: Q: How many baronets does it take to screw in a lightbulb? A: Ten, but they sit around on their fat arses and watch the chambermaid do it while they complain about how hard it is to get good help these days. Sir Slippy Slaphead Sir Charles replies: Mr Slaphead, One is curious. Do your nearest and dearest often mistake the high-pitched whistling of the wind through the empty space between your ears for the tea kettle? There is a time and a place for fun and humour. But it is certainly not in this column. Anxious to maintain a high-minded tone, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Emma writes: As an experienced man of the world, you can no doubt advice me on a puzzling little problem that has been troubling me as of late.  Why do hotdogs come in package of eight while buns are in package of tens?  I finished eating all the hotdogs, now I have two plump and white buns left.  What should I do? Miss Anne Morin New Haven, CT Sir Charles replies: Miss Morin, One thinks you should keep the buns on the off chance that you happen upon a frankfurter or two. Yet every once in a while, give your buns a good pinching to see if they are still fresh. Better still, request the assistance of an objective friend. He will be able to ascertain whether or not the buns are nice and pliant, or whether they need a good plumping. Hungrily, one remains Sir Charles Grandiose