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Parents! Wardens! Is your dear boy or girl home from Eton for the summer hols with nothing to do? Are they playing croquet in your garden with total disregard for your greengages? Is your husband crying "God knows I pay the school enough, why can't they keep the little blighters year 'round?"

Then consider

The Sir Charles Grandiose
Summer Camp for Unbelievably Mighty Male Youth

Our goal at the Sir Charles Grandiose Summer Camp for Unbelievably Mighty Male Youth (or, as it is known informally, Camp SCUMMY) is to challenge the overprivilged young man and to bring out the myriad talents lurking within. Sometimes, quite deep within. So deeply within, in some cases, that brain surgery seems quite easy to perform in comparison.

And here's how we do it.

* Sports: While other, lesser camps might allow your little Rupert or your little Fauntleroy to slack off and indulge in milquetoast activities such as needlepoint, leather embossing, and poetry writing, Camp SCUMMY insists its lads play cricket and nothing but cricket for seven hours out of the day. Is your young Rodney or Llewellyn a bit of a girly-boy? A few whacks in the arse with a cricket paddle by the other jolly lads will show him that it's a rough world out there, and that he'd better toughen his hide or risk losing his parliamentary privileges.

* Accommodations: Forget expensive hotel-like rooms for your youngster. Camp SCUMMY's suites will have your youngsters coping with the many dilemmas the modern lord of the manor must face. We guarantee at least twelve telephone calls a night from Japanese investors, nouveau riche Americans, ignorant Germans, rubbishy Frenchman, and film producers interested in making the latest Jane Austen movie, begging your son to lease or outright purchase their homestead. (Of course, all answers of 'yes' will be reported to the child's parents, so they can give the boy a drubbing upon his return home.)

* The Social Graces: Naturally, when it comes to dealing with the lower grades of society, as we all inevitably must, the boys at Camp SCUMMY will learn how to emulate the examples of the older boys. Our own Lord Frost of Locksley-Charmes (he's tragically pernicious) will conduct the class, "Using Villagers For Target Practice" (fowling rifles extra).

* Self Reliance: Unlike other summer camps in which the child is spoon-fed and allowed to behave in a manner that one and all would find inappropriate, Camp SCUMMY's philosophy has always been 'the lad who fights for the fruits of his labour is the man who grows up to fight the Labour Party fruits.' Our insistence upon training youths to become self-reliant is famous world wide. Accordingly, the boys of Camp SCUMMY are allowed to bring from home only one valet, one dining room server, and a maid-of-all work.

Will your young lad turn into one of the pillars of society that will return Great Britain to its status as preeminent empire of the world? Or will he only be one of those lazy ne'er-do-wells who marries badly, melts his brain using hallucinogenic drugs and then disappears into the wilds of Canada to chase beaver? Only Camp SCUMMY knows for sure.

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Poxed writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

I contact you on a matter of extreme urgency, a matter I feel only an intellect of your great stature can satisfactorily resolve.

Recently, a young lady of my acquaintance has taken to trying to win my affections.   As she is what is these days called "a babe" by our 'friends' across the Atlantic I was delighted.  However, she then went and contracted the dreaded 'chickenpox'.  She is still covered in the hideous scars and blotches that this foul ailment leaves behind after it has departed, and I can barely stand to look at her, let alone talk to her or touch her.  I feel I that can barely contain my revulsion any longer. 

Please Sir Charles, what should I do?

Yours,
Poxed by a Fox

Sir Charles replies:

My dear lad,

One well sympathizes. When the Lady Felicia was recently in hospital for an ailment relating to her delicate nose, one could scarcely bear the sight of her. Her eyes were blackened, her face wrapped in bandages . . . she looked rather like a 'raccoon' who met with an unfortunate incident involving a slippery ice patch and a gauze-carrying lorry.

Such is the time, my boy, when it may be necessary to travel to London on business. And if the business is the business that you give a bewitching little shopgirl on the Strand, when she hands you your parcel of Gentleman's Silk Foundation Garments with the Patented Chafe-Pruf Waistband, when her hand touches yours and she meets your eyes with a meaningful, come-hither smile, well then. The image of that pox-covered creature waiting for you at home will be driven straight out of your mind.

What better could she wish for you?

Looking at the train schedules even as one speaks, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Sugar Dad-day writes:

Dear Sir Charles

Me and my family hails the great State of Louisiana.  We's practically considered "American Royalty"  (Southern royalty that is, suh)! 

Let me get straight to the point.  I am writing to ask, in the true southern family tradition, for your Miss Penelope's hand in marriage.  I think she's prettier than a June bug on a cow's ear in a prairie dust storm!  You may have concerns that I'm unable to support her in a lifestyle befitting her stature but don't worry, money's no object.  Do the words "pork bellies" mean anything to you? 

Set this up and I'll see you never go another day without pig meat. 

Give my treasure a big wet one from her trembl'in' Sugar Dad-day! 

Haw!!

Sir Charles replies:

Mr Day,

Generous as your offer may be (for one is, after all, inordinately fond of a rasher or two of bacon in the mornings), one fears one must refuse. Upon their deathbeds after that unfortunate incident involving a gypsy caravan and a runaway Tandoori takeaway cart, one promised her dear parents that one would raise the girl, see to her education, and see that one day she was married a man who could love, cherish, and adore her as the way someone who is eighty-fifth in line for the throne ought to be loved, cherished, and adored.

However, just as he gasped his last breath, he turned to one and murmured the words, "Just do not let the girl marry a . . . marry a . . . marry a. . . ."

One is reasonably certain that he meant to say "Just do not let the girl marry a pork baron of inbred origin whose finest hours have been spent in the hog troughs stroking the undersides of his porcine friends while urging them to eat more for the reason 'Daddy needs a new pair of snakeskin boots.' At least, that is what he would have said if the sesame noodle had not choked him.

With honest regrets, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Dr. Alexo  writes:

To the family of Sir Charles Grandiose:

I would like to use this opportunity to offer my most heartfelt condolences. Sir Charles was, and will be remembered, as a truly great man. His generosity with his time and money will not be matched or surpassed for many years to come. My thoughts and prayers are with him on  this, his final journey.

Best wishes,
Dr. Janos Arpod Alexo

Lady Felicia replies:

Dear Dr Alexo,

As one's mother once told one when she discovered me (as a mere girl) with a copy of True Romance, "If only it were all true, dear. But in the end, they're all the same--little else but trails of discarded socks and stained Y-fronts."

One apologises for the sentiment, but Bluntness was In, that year.

Serenely, one remains,
Lady Felicia