August 16, 1999 |
One's
readers know (and one has it upon a sterling authority that one's
readers are so many in number that were each a single rung on
a ladder, at the ultimate peak one could ascertain with intimacy
whether the moon was made of bleu cheese or Roquefort) that each
year at this time one takes a visit to London in order to replace
one's old wardrobe of suits and waistcoats with an entirely new
wardrobe of identical suits and waistcoats.
Naturally, one stays at one's club, Boodle's. A fine place,
Boodle's. An historic place, Boodle's. Why, did you know that
the last time a woman the threshold past the lobby of Boodle's,
Queen Victoria was but a sprightly young lass fond of Turkish
Delight and an afternoon with her stick pony?
Despite that admirable record, however, one's club seems to
have allowed its more progressive younger members to dictate
its future direction. One does not use the word 'progressive'
as praise. One never does, with these unfinished, unthinking
youth. Apparently these young whippersnappers, the oldest of
whom is a mere fifty-three, have seen to it that Boodle's inestimable
menu has been irreparably altered, and for the worse.
Gone were the juicy roasts of beef. Gone were the succulent
plain legs of lamb. Gone the mint jelly, gone the Welsh rarebit,
gone the sausages and kippers and groats. And what was served
in their place? Fajitas, readers. Fajitas.
Yes, the fajita, a lowly mess of highly indigestible meats
and those most horrid of comestibles, vegetables that have not
been creamed to a mush. Apparently one is supposed to dish them
out for oneself into a sort of handkerchief known as a tortilla,
fold, and ingest. As one coldly informed the waiter wearing the
festive somnanbulero, if God himself had intended one to pick
up one's food in one's fingertips, he would have clad one's digits
in a fine old silver with the family crest emblazoned upon the
nails.
Nor was that the only indignity one suffered that week, readers.
For 'Japanese night' one was forced to sit on the floor of the
Boodle's dining room, shoeless, only to be given a plate of circular
objects known, apparently, as 'Sue Shee.' Shee, one infers, must
be the name of the chef. One was indeed tempted to have one's
solicitors bring suit against the infernal rascal, after taking
a mouthful of raw fish.
Why is it, gentle readers, that foreign food must be so bloody
foreign? If the Japanese must have a dish called Sue
Shee, why can it not be a roast of beef, unseasoned and placed
in the oven or boiled in a vat until it is pink and tasteless?
Furthermore, why must we good, stolid English citizens be forced
to dine in the accustomed style of other, lesser cultures? Why
this mania for chopsticks when we have perfectly good cutlery?
Is it necessary, in order for a Englishman to appreciate a
kous-kous, for him to crouch half-naked in the streets begging
for baksheesh while shoveling it into his mouth between
peddling hashish to visitors foreign to Morocco? Will the new
mania in Russian Tea Houses require its patrons to scrape for
quarters on the floor in order to purchase food at highly inflated
prices, only to hear of the sudden forced resignation of the
chef? In order to truly appreciate American fare, will English
men and women be given, at the door to the restaurant, handguns
to fire at each other as they eat paper-wrapped 'hamburgers'
in the bodies of mass-produced automobiles?
If this is authenticity, readers, give one bread and water.
Hungrily, for another week one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose
Charlie
writes:
sir charles:
so i want this girl, man, and my homeboy told me that if i
want her i should get her a rock on her finger and he says the
bigger the rock the better she'll like it. so what do you think.
i figured you'd know about it being rich and having the same
name as me. what kind of rock should i get for the girl?
charlie watson
Sir Charles replies:
Dear lad,
Sedimentary, my dear Watson.
Tersely, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose
Lady Alexia writes:
My dear Sir Charles,
I am writing to you now of a matter which I know you will
understand and with which you might, unfortunately for us all,
empathize. I have recently been conversationally offended by
a commoner. What to do?
The snippish manner in which my perhaps too-friendly-and/or-gracious-for-the-likes-of-her
comments were answered took me entirely by surprise; this occurrence
has become such a source of mental and emotional anguish to me
that I can no longer think of anything else. The persistent echoings
of her foul, vile, abrupt and certainly less-than-polite retort,
ringing in my ears! It is horrible, Sir Charles. I have not been
able to receive callers, nor have I had the heart to deal with
the servants for the last few fortnights . . . something is amiss!
Frightfully amiss!
Therefore, in order to avoid these wretched feelings of devouring
ennui and murderous rage at the impertinent tart, I have decided
to become better prepared for the future, should such outrageous
lacks of breeding and miscreantelles of behaviour dare to raise
their snappish, scabby little entities at me when I am out among
the common folk! I must be able to put them in their places with
a word or two! Or else I shall never be able to leave the castle
grounds again! And this simply will not do, for one must shop.
Here is where I call upon your worthy advice; for indeed,
I have it upon exceedingly priggish and fertile authority that
the members of your readership are so numerous that, were they
all gay, "Wig Islands" everywhere would now be entirely
out of stock . . . you do give very good advice indeed! What
I should wish from you at this point, Sir Charles, is a number
of responses and replies, perhaps epithets and aphorisms, that
I might use in dealing with these huzzies, and others who know
not how to respect their betters properly. I am afraid that I
do not possess your astounding wit, nor your keenness in turning
a phrase . . . do, oh do send me a few lively "tooshays"
which will silence these marauders of polite conversation, and
I shall henceforth practice them when alone in my chambers at
home, that I may have them at my disposal, and on the tip of
my aristocratic tongue, forevermore.
With heartfelt thanks, and a dinner invitation to the castle
as soon as I have quite recovered from this upsetting "thing,"
Lady Alexia von Schpilterkenhassen-Dorf-an-Weemsburgerhaus-am-Rhein.
Sir Charles replies:
My dear, gentle lady,
Tempting as it may be to resort to a nasty 'put-down', one
abjures you to refrain. Think of what distinguishes the aristocracy
from the common herds. Our exquisite breeding. Our expensive
education. Our exclusive refinement. Can such qualities manifest
themselves in a snippy retort?
Indeed not, madam.
One suggests that you cultivate your free time thinking up
a number of retorts that reflect all the good graces to which
you have been raised. When at the hairdressers, coin a bon
mot and commit it to memory. When in the Rolls on the way
to London, think of a witty apercu for future use. And
when closing your eyes and thinking of England . . . well, one
is certain you get the idea.
Let your repertoire of genteel putdowns combine cultural allusions,
wit, and a modicum of shock value. Craft them carefully, and
then dispense then in that very special tone of condescension
we reserve for putting the commoners in their grotty little places.
For starters, one suggests something along the following line:
"My dear girl, your unfortunate presence is as welcome to
be as would be Camilla Parker-Bowles, accompanied upon the bagpipes
by the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, dancing an exultant jig choreographed
by Michael Flatley upon the grave of the late Princess Diana
in front of her two sons."
Then, while the wench is still chewing on that one in bemused
silence, sharply rap her upon the head with the lead cane of
your umbrella.
Helpfully, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose
hopeful
writes:
sir,
Iam a 30 year old man single, iam working in gulf country,
and iam an indian, my problem is iam working in a office here
in gulf , and iam fall in love with one girl who is our secretary
and this is her country, and i feel there is another guy who
is also trying to get her love , and they are good friend friends
but iam not , she is talking to me , but not like that guy, she
is talking with him always, and going for the cafe also, and
this guy is not a good guy , because he is looking something
different from her (sex that is what i feel) and she does't know
that she is thinking he is good but he is not iam sure that,
sir shall i tell her that he not good, what i do sir iam really
love her, i canno't think with out her, please help me sir?
hopeful
Sir Charles replies:
How, pilgrim.
One-um is sure that the squaw for whom you have heap big feelings
might-um wish to decide for herself-um. Why not give her a copy
of this letter as wampum and let her be big chief judge of who
is good and who is not good? Based on grammar alone, one-um suspects
you of being an also-ran.
Always sensitive of the cultural differences between oneself
and the lesser people, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose
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