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

November 30, 1998

For shame, Mr Blair. It remains a mystery to the nobility of one's green and pleasant homeland exactly what sort of mucilage the Prime Minister has been using to attach his marionette strings to the joints of Her Majesty the Queen. Last week Her Majesty Herself announced that a bill would be introduced to Parliament that would abolish the right of British nobility to sit in the House of Lords. Yes, Readers. Your eyes do not deceive you. This noble body would be replaced with commoners handpicked by the Prime Minister. Would these commoners have bloodlines that could be traced back to the Crusades, readers? Would these commoners have the very pulse of Britain in their veins? Indeed not. Readers, ignore the Bosnian persecution of the Serbs. Forget racial prejudice. Forget the French. (Ah, if only we could!) Such machinations only prove that the most unjustly maligned group in the world are the British nobility. Shivering, huddling together for support and consolation, we daily face slings and arrows from a underclass that--like the Bolsheviks--has seized the reins of government. For how long must they have been plotting their revenge against the privileged classes. Orchestrating the country's financial collapse early in the century to manouvre hundreds of the landed classes from their estates. Inch by inch the Labour Party and its supporters have forced us into a corner, chipping away at the privileges to which we were entitled, taxing the Queen and her family. And now comes this latest indignity. Readers, one merely asks that you read the following credo: "First they came for Lady Chatterley's Lover, and I did not speak out, because I did not read novels. Then they came for the fox hunters, and I did not speak out, because I did not ride to hounds. Then they came for the House of Lords, and I did not speak out, because I am not an Earl. Then they came for the Queen, and I did not speak out, because I was rather dismayed with the family's treatment of Princess Diana. Then they came for me . . . and there was no one left to speak for me, save for Sir Charles Grandiose." Do those poetic words (one penned them oneself, you know) bring a tear to your eye, Readers? Then one implores you to let your voices be heard. With your computers and your pens, post the above words to Downing Street. Let the following message be heard, loud and clear: For shame, Mr Blair! For shame! Still somewhat palsied from the news, one remains for yet another week, Sir Charles Grandiose Moonbeam writes: Dear Sir Charles, Through several sessions of past life regression hypnotherapy by the emminent Feline Psychologist Dr. Ignatio Finklestien, I have become aware that my cat, Mittens, is actually the reincarnated spirit of Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. Needless to say, Her Majesty is less than amused with the antics of some of her descendants and has decided she should reclaim her throne. I was wondering if you might have any advice as to the best way for us to go about this? Her Majesty says that things have changed so much since she were Queen that she is not sure how to proceed. Thanks in advance. Moonbeam Pottingsfield P.S. Some of my other cats are actually Tsar Nicolas II, Pope Gregory the Great, Wenslasus, King of Bohemia, and Hamlet, Prince of the Danes. Once you have helped Queen Victoria, could you offer some advice to the others? Thank you again, MP Sir Charles replies: For years Queen Victoria ruled the nation with a steely resolve, transforming her kingdom into a vast empire that reached unto the very ends of the earth. Like a comet among the firmament did her reign blaze. Unto this very day is she admired for her rigid propriety and adherence to moral behaviour. And now, madam, you say she is sprawled on your orange 'shag' carpeting, mopping at her nether regions with her tongue? Oh, the indignity. Shuddering, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Lady Sarah writes: Sir Charles, I have of late found myself in a most awkward situation.  Being a member of the higher class noblesse and an eminent figure, as a child I received the best possible education.  I studied art, music, great works of literature, philosophy, Foreign tongues, the delicate art of mud-slinging, blackmailing, backstabbing, and the art of pleasing a potential husband.  All this is well and good, I assure you.  Surely no better education for a young lady could be found. However, my trouble is found at social gatherings.  Leaving aside the simple fact that men flock to me like a moth to a brilliant candle flame, my friends and associates have actually begun to see me as something of a "snob."  Well, was it not an impertinent and rude thing to say to one?  I was both shocked and appalled at such an accusation.  But they vehemently kept at it.  They believe that when I allow my lambent wit and high minded intellectualism to pour forth, I am merely "showing off" and attempting to make myself the envy of all at the soiree! Honestly!  To think of such an egregious faux pas!  I have never done anything of the sort! Sir Charles, you are such an educated and cultured man of the world.  And one has heard it rumoured that your readers of this column are so numerous, that were they all to stomp their right foot on the ground simultaneously, it would cause a measurable shift in the Earth's axis.  Can you provide one with a solution?  Shall I ignore their comments under the assumption that they are merely jealous of my superior intellect and good looks, or shall I attempt to act less "snobbish" as they say?  (Not that I am a snob by any means!) Ever thankfully, one remains Lady Sarah Sir Charles replies: My dear, dear girl, It is a sad fact of this weary world that when lesser wits are confronted with a personage of truly dignified breeding and mien, their tongues begin to wag. How quickly come the venomous words. Why, it may surprise the correspondent to learn that one has been called a 'snob' by many. Even worse words have been flung at one by those inflamed, obviously, by jealousy (and what other reason could there be?)--'inbred old coot,' 'constipated,' and 'self-absorbed' are among the milder. Yet we remain dignified, Lady Sarah. Dignity is best, is it not? Ignore the outrageous calumnies. Glide by as the forked tongues of the envious flick about you. That is the only recourse. That and the excellent tactic of having one's minions discreetly spread rumours about the social diseases and sexual preferences of the gossipers, of course. A ripping allusion to a roguish gentleman and a flock of sheep usually does the trick. Noting a sale on minions at Minions R Us just in time for the holiday season, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Wobbly Sausage writes: Dear Mr Sir Charles Me and me mates play in a little musical combo.  We calls ourselves "Wobbly Sausage".  Now before you get your knickers in a knot, don't fret cause its not what you think.  As part of the visuals, we dressup as happy little sausages of the meat variety so there's no sauciness  here.  Our mums raised us right.  So now that you got the right idea, here's what we think.  How would you like "Wobbly Sausage" to play at your next fancy schmancy Blandsdown house bash?  And don't worry cause we can play real classy stuff too.  Like do you the love ballad, "When You Know You're Not Forgotten by the Girl You Got For Notten"  You and the Missus could dance real slow to that one ay?!  And the best part is we'll do it for beer only!!  What do you say!?  We'll even make you an Honorary Sausage! The Boys of "Wobbly Sausage" Sir Charles replies: My lads, One is of course puzzled at whatever gave your little group of troubadours the impression that one belongs to that class of animal as the 'bargain hunter'. Was it the Hello! magazine pictorial layout of one discussing how one saves on bathroom tissue by shopping in bulk at the Val-U-Mart? Was it the radio programme in which one avowed a preference for saving on the pesky hot water bills by sharing one's bathwater with the Lady Felicia? Was it one's self-published treatise on how to Redo Your Ballroom On A Ninety-Nine Pound Budget? (After all, with plastics so inexpensive, who is going to examine the crystal chandeliers with a magnifying glass?) Whatever the reason, one regrets to inform your little troupe for our next fancy-schmancy 'do,' we have already employed your competition--The Throbbing Roots, one believes they are called. One was quite won over by their rendition of the love ballad, "You Know You've Had A Scare When You Drive Through Jolly Weston Super-Mare." What a pity for you. Moving on with one's life, one remains Sir Charles Grandiose