No, readers, when one needs a bit of a giggle these days, one studies the newspapers for the latest information on that impeachment nonsense across the Atlantic. "What?" one can hear one's readers asking (and one has it upon strict authority that one's readers are so many in number that were each a single snowflake in the city of Paris, the entire Eiffel Tower would be obscured by a slightly largish snow drift--and good riddance). "Sir Charles, have you deigned to dabble in politics? And on so low a scale?" One must, however, reassure one's readers. One merely follows the trial because one has always appreciated the broad comedy afforded by a three-ringed circus.

For those who have not had the leisure to delve into the Byzantine workings of the Clinton impeachment, let one sum it up in a few brief words: It has nothing to do with actual peaches. That was the tricky point for one to understand at first, but once one grasped the inconsistency, the rest followed.

Let us investigate the players in this little drama, shall we? Of course first is the American President, Mr Clinton. A nice enough chap who would have us believe that he is a modern King Lear, wailing his innocence in the wilds as his villains plot against him and he is beset by storms. Unfortunately, the rest of us tend to perceive him as a bawdy Falstaff, chatting up the kitchen wenches.

Then there's Mr Starr, the sort of fellow who takes great pains to make himself completely unnoticeable. You know the sort. The type of fellow who's assigned a minor part in a play, a tavern keeper or such, but whenever he's onstage polishes his ale glasses with such vigour and with such determined unscripted grunts that he completely upstages whoever is speaking at the moment.

Then there's the Monica girl. 'Personable,' the legislative body investigating this entire kafuffle calls her. So 'personable,' in fact, that they wish to call her before the Senate and have her testify, despite her own lawyer's assertion that they would learn nothing new from her. Gracious. One doesn't ask a woman to testify because she's 'personable.' One would think they were auditioning cheerleaders, mascots, or cocktail waitresses, with language like that. Goodness, if being 'personable' is a requirement for appearing in the witness box, countless felons would go free for lack of evidence against them from their scurvy friends.

Of course, one would not be quite so amused without the contributions of the American Press; without it, this entire business would be a bloodless affair. Toss them a rumour, and they print it without attribution. Feed them a firm 'sound bite,' and they regurgitate it for weeks and months. Tell them that the word 'gullible' happens not to be in the Oxford English Dictionary, and they'll assemble a ten-member crew to fly to the British Museum to film a stern expose ascertaining that indeed, it happens to be among the many words included.

Anticipating the next chapter of this sordid saga, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Francis writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

After the second week of working 'on the boards' (as we theatre people call the stage) in your county on our touring production of The Mousetrap, I sat down in my dressing room and picked up a copy of the ------shire Weekly and saw that you were quoted as saying that 'The Candlestick Players' production of The Mousetrap was the most horrible thing I've ever experienced in my life.'

Naturally, our box office dropped to a minimum and we were forced to move on to Leicester, of all the godforsaken places.

I hold you personally responsible for this debacle. It is Dame Agatha after all. Surely the evening wasn't that horrible.

Francis James Eliot

Sir Charles replies:

Sirrah,

If one were to sneak into the Library of the British Museum in the dead of night and erase every single word from the books and replace every one with the word 'horrible,' and then to employ horrible Carol Channing to screech the entire horrible resulting contents of all the horrible books to the horrible tune of 'Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend' whilst simultaneously having the Spice Girls jab sharp toothpicks into the quick beneath one's fingernails, the entire experience would pale in comparison with the sheer horribleness that once was forced to endure as you minced around the stage with a terrible French accent intoning, "Bah! Make the calm! Is only the six murd-aires!"

And for the record, one told the reporter that The Mousetrap was 'the most horrible evening of horribly unutterable horror I've ever seen in my life.' One was horribly misquoted.

Still recoiling, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Schoolboy writes:

Sir Charles,

As an American studying in London, I have found that the only possible way to maintain contact with my family is through this vulgar medium of email. As such, I receive important news from my parents in a garbled and odd manner. I have been grossly offended by the most recent piece of news,and would appreciate your advice regarding how best to instruct my parents in the proper use of email. The offending letter is as follows:

DEAR SON,
YOUR SISTER JUST FINISHED HER SCHOOL PLAY, A MUSICAL VERSION OF SOME LIKE IT HOT. SHE PLAYED A GUN-TOTING MOLL AND HAD A DEATH SCENE. ISN'T THAT WONDERFUL??????? MOTHER AND I WOULD LOVE TO MEET YOU IN AMSTERDAM IN A FEW MONTHS FOR A FAMILY TRIP TO THE COFFEESHOPS!!!!!!!! BY THE WAY, LADY [note: Lady is the name of our dog, who has a pedigree, of course] CROAKED LAST SATURDAY. SHE WAS PUKING FOR THREE DAYS AND THEN MOTHER DECIDED TO TAKE HER TO THE VET, BUT SHE WAS DOA. :(
LOVE,
DADDY

Am I right in thinking that there is a more delicate manner with which to express these sentiments?

Yours,
An American Schoolboy in London

Sir Charles replies:

My dear young lad,

One believes that the traditional American method of softening bad news is to provide a cushion of sad smileys. As in, 'I'm sorry that you're burdened with parents who, were they to face certain death unless they could think themselves out of a wet paper bag, would be in the morgue in fifteen minutes flat. :( :( :( :( :( :( :( :( :( '

There. Wasn't the landing much softer?

Always glad to be of help, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Herbert writes:

Dear Sir Charles

I am, just like dear Pater was, a student at that finest of educational institutions, the University of Cambridge.  However, unlike in dear Pater's day, admission standards are, how shall I put it, not quite as rigorous as they were.  It is thus that the following situation occurred.  We students were all present at our matriculation dinner and having a jolly good time talking about hunting and shooting and the like when the Master of the College stood and intimated that he was about to propose a toast to our dear venerable monarch, the Queen.  Imagine our disgust when certain foreign students were somewhat tardy in rising! And imagine, if you will, how that disgust turned to rage which made our British blood boil when they proceeded to titter during the Sacred Toast!!  I do not know from which country these uncivilised savages hale; all I can tell you is that, like most foreigners they're somewhat dirty and constantly reek of garlic (and besides, a foreigner by any other name would smell as rank).

My problem, Sir Charles, is that certain members of the university have been going on about such tish-tosh as "tolerance" and "cultural diversity", and one suspects that explaining the dousing with petrol and lighting of the worst of these miscreants as a student prank would be frowned upon.  What can we do to impress upon the Heathen Savages the Awesome Might and Glory of the British and their Inspirational Monarch?

Begging your advice,
Your faithful servant
Herbert Launcelot Montmorency Clarence Edgar Braneless

PS Pater says he was at school with you . . . and that he still gets twinges in cold weather.

Sir Charles replies:

Mr Braneless,

Terribly shocking, how lax visitors to our great nation become in this day and age. And as you note, this blasted 'tolerance' business has simply made it all the more difficult to administer a pistol-whipping to the blighters on the spot.

As your father could attest, however (having been on the receiving end of a bit of such fun himself), no one can tell who's divesting them of clothing and throwing them from a second story window into a fountain on a below-freezing night, when the miscreants are dressed in hoods and robes and wearing pret a porter sneakers, eh? Word to the wise.

Always tolerant, himself, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose