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

October 12, 1998

One has led so many forays into the Jungles of Bad Breeding that one could offer, at this point, Guided Psyche Safaris at a substantial discount. Intrepid explorers could aim their rifles at the chaps who are in love with the girls who love another who may have contracted a disgusting disorder from a wanton mistress who is puzzled over whether or not she should ought to learn French grammar or the Argentinean Tango. Then we would leave the blood-splattered Veldts of Vileness carrying our trophies with us for eventual stuffing and mounting on our smoking room walls. What jolly fun. But, as one's readers well know (and one has it upon an unshakable authority that one's readers are so numerous a community that were each a grain of sand in the hourglass of one's mortality, one could fully expect to bankroll the Royal Post with the birthday greetings one will receive from one's great great great great great great great great great great grandnephews and grandnieces alone, once one's nephew Chauncey settles down with a nice girl), some problems are too delicate and too private to address in this forum without the shroud of delicate confidentiality. In one's country of origin, the press has long respected this dilemma by publishing 'personals' to correspondents. American readers should not confuse the word to mean the advertisements the genetically challenged place in order to lure a potential mate into their dreary little lives. These sorts of personals are entirely different. In fact, these terse, sparing responses will probably be so vague and incomprehensible save to those who wrote the original letters, that other readers may wish to skip over them entirely. Personal to Worried: Your obsession indicates an extreme disorder indeed. Barnyard animals? Though repelled, one nonetheless suggests a psychiatrist. In answer to your other question, you may indeed trust that one's reply is thoroughly confidential. One must be mindful that serious consequences might arise if word were to get out that Mr William Knoxworth Bauer at 3425 Whitfield Street, St. Cleves, New York was 'fond,' as it were, of bovine companionship. Personal to Miss Eyre: One's secretaries have done extensive research on the matter and discovered that there is not, and never has been, a charitable school known as 'Lowood'. Apparently your entire story is a fabrication. And what sort of name is 'Eyre,' anyway? Obviously it is fictional. One insists that you publicly retract your wild fantasies about seducing your employer, you mere commoner. Personal to Emma, Victoria, Mel, and the other Mel who voids in hotel potted plants: It is kind of you to ask, but one believes that young Penelope Windsor-Smythe, being eighty-fifth in line for the throne, has better things to do than appropriate the name 'Spanky Spice.' So sorry. Personal to Really Famous Movie Star: One is not entirely certain over what the correspondent implies by the phrase 'in the closet.' One occasionally enjoys a brief admiration of the neatly-pressed shirts that lie within one's own dressing room, but one would never imagine living in so tiny a chamber as a closet. Is the door locked? Is that why the correspondent cannot come out? How do you get your meals, my fellow? At any rate, one cares not how much 'box office' you rake in. If you weren't in Miss Jackie Collins' The Bitch, one has never heard of you. Personal to Bill: Yes, yes, I'm sure she'll come around. Sadly, infidelity isn't as terrible a thing as it was in one's own day, when a man's adultery not only resulted in public condemnation, but generally the loss of his library privileges at the Club. However, one is afraid that due to certain importation restrictions, one is unable to provide you with a good box of Cuban cigars, no matter how deeply one sympathizes. Secretly, one remains for yet another week, Sir Charles Grandiose Pierre writes: Dear Sir Charles, I count myself among the swarming hordes of your devoted admirers (who are, according to reputable sources, so numerous that were each one to buy but one rouble Russia would find its currency staging a strong recovery) and it thus grieves me sorely to have to deliver the scandalous, shameful news that I have had forced upon me.  I was taking a short break from the attractions of the Revuee Hot! Hot! Hot!, which is, as you know, heavily financed by your nephew Chauncey, by repairing to the, ahem, gentlemen's room.  As I was doing my "business" your strapping nephew sidled up to me and made a lewd suggestion that I blush to even think of.  In short, Sir Charles, and I realise that this is a grievous burden for an uncle to bear, your nephew is, unquestionably, a homosexual.  Perhaps he and Penelope (who, I understand, is eighty-fifth in line for the throne) can compare notes on attracting handsome males. I do hope, Sir Charles, that you will not bear any ill-will towards one who was, after all, only the bearer of bad news. Yours sincerely Pierre Verte d'Lecher Sir Charles replies: Dear Frog, Although in your licentious country the men and women may be accustomed to plying with wine and pufferies anything that moves in the hope that he, she, or it will run, trot, or waddle to your chambers, I hasten to assure you that one's nephew, Chauncey Grandiose, is not--and let us not indulge in slang words and euphemisms in this grievous matter--a poofter. He is a man's man. He is as much a bully boy as they come, sirrah. Always are such aspersions cast upon truly masculine men who seem to 'have it all' and yet remain unmarried. Such is the jealousy of the world that it seeks to find something wrong with such a gay bachelor. Tongues whisper of his unmarried state, and of his alleged homosapienality. And yet, these evil gossips are wrong. Just wrong, wrong, wrong. Ask those who have been ill-served by such malignant tittle-tattle. Ask Liberace! Ask Mr Rock Hudson! Why, ask Chauncey's theatrical sponsor and long-time friend, Percival P. Pringle, known to his friends as 'Lilian.' Away with your reprehensible aspersions, Sirrah. Just . . . go away. Disgustedly, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Sir Reginald writes: Sir Reginald, I noticed in a recent opening missive that once again the poorly educated government civil servants of Britain are protesting at your involvement in blood sports.  As a man of similar persuasions to yourself with respect to laying waste a few animals, may I heartily forward your name to the Sporting Shooters Association of Australia. Rural Australia is absolutely overrun with all sorts of porcine monsters, the result of over 200 years of escaped pigs breeding in the bush. These mongrel animals resemble those strange clay carvings found in France, and certainly respect no human.  I, myself, love nothing more than to lean out of the side of an army surplus helicopter, piloted by an army surplus Vietnam veteran, and simply shoot two, three, or perhaps four hundred of the unwanted grunters with a self loading rifle.  Wounded survivors I gleefully pursue until dusk in four wheel drives, with savage dogs set upon the smaller pigs to restrain them, until faithful offsiders with nicknames such as "Toecutter", "Slob Guts", "Growler" and "Sheila Slapper" finish them off with a large knife.  Such hunting is actively encouraged, and there are even competitions in magazines to see who can load the most pigs into the family sedan. Sir Charles, you are a man of the world.  Perhaps your keen eye and incisive decision making style would be of assistance at the annual Thargomindah Pig Shoot and Charity Ball this year ?? Yours in the pursuit of happiness, Sir Reginald Knobhead Sir Charles replies: Sir Reginald, One regrets that when the nursery is inspected in the morning, the baby taken by a dingo will not be one's own. In other words, when standing in your sandy back garden, one's shrimp will not be among those tossed upon your 'barbie.' To paraphrase, when your greeting of 'G'day, mate' rings out loud and shrill, like the cries of famished vultures denied carrion for weeks, the words may fall upon the ears of your wife, or of your mistress, or of a passing opera singer. But they will not fall upon one's own. To put it shortly: Perhaps not. Firmly believing that 'down under' should remain a euphemism for things better left private, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Mr Grundy writes: Dear Sir Charles, Earlier this week, upon hearing a loud thump, I rushed into the morning room to find my dear wife of thirty two years fainted dead away.  As this is a regular occurrence, I was not at first alarmed; but when the usual restoratives (loosening her corsets and administering a strong draught of Lady Pinkham's Tonic) failed, I grew worried and rang for an ambulance.  To make a long story short, my dear wife is still in hospital and the doctors are mystified.  The only possible clue to her condition is that she was clutching a copy of your column of October 5th in her delicate, bejewelled hand when she was found.  (It took four emergency room attendants to pry it out.)  Hoping you can shed some light on this mystery, I remain Yours, Mr Grundy Sir Charles replies: Mr Grundy, One suspects a pathologist may discover your wife's current comatose state is a direct result of a malady of those limbs which some commonly call 'legs.' One's mother-in-law once suffered from a similar condition. The only cure, we found, was to sit quietly by her bedside, whispering into her ears the words, 'legs, legs, legs' over and over. By the word 'cure,' of course, one means that our family felt greatly recovered by her absence. Kept the old biddy out for nearly two months. Wishing the correspondent similar luck, one remains Sir Charles Grandiose