In honour of the bicentepistolary anniversary of Advice from Sir Charles Grandiose, our own Mr. V. Briceland has been kind enough to present us with his thrilling account of The British Crown Affair. Mr. Briceland also offers, for those readers previously deprived, his essay commemorating the first one hundred columns of Sir Charles Grandiose, entitled Genesis of a Snob.

Sir Charles Grandiose presents

Everything I Need to Know about Life I Learned from the
First Two Hundred Columns of Advice from Sir Charles Grandiose

1. Oneself is rubber. Others are glue. Calling one 'Pasty, Pasty Rich Boy' bounces off one and eventually one will get even you.

2. With a bit of application and some elbow grease, you too can rid your estate of ash holes.

3. At dinner, avoid the flaming haggis jubilee.

4. Your spinster aunt may be a secret Lebanese.

5. Her surname might imply she has Manners, but one's readers know the infamous Miss M______ better as 'Miss Born In A Barn.'

6. An apostrophe is not to be used to imply: Danger! Danger! S approaching!

7. Modern theatre has been vulgarised to an extent that it can no longer recognize truly promising works.

8. If you must learn the art of feng shui, do not learn it from a bloody Siamese cats.

9. If you are going to hide your sister-in-law's bloody Siamese cats, find a better place than your wardrobe.

10. When Our Lord uttered the words, "Love thy neighbour as thyself," he did not mean that the apostles were to run out once a year and purchase a mylar balloon blazoned with a fuzzy 'teddy bear' dressed in dungarees averring, "I wuv oo."

11. Non! Non! Pas la recherche de bande!

12. Always own up when you have snacks with a woman who is not your wife.

13. A lady would do well to remember the Laws of the Iceberg.

14. Never pay good money to see a film with the title The Irish Patient.

15. If it's a disaster the first time, it's sure to be a disaster the second.

16. When troubled, ask yourself, What Would Liza Do?

17. Everyone has one unique talent. It's just a pity that for so many people, it happens to be expectorating.

18. If you must accept advertisements, do make them subtle.

19. When you call a natural disaster down to smite the heathens, make certain it hits them before it hits you.

20. Before boring others with stories of your painful infirmities,  try squeezing your parts between your legs for hours at a time just so you can look divine onstage.

Blushing Bride writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

I fear for my marriage.

My husband and I were married last spring. My husband and I are deeply religious and truly believe in the sanctity of marriage and therefore on the first night of our honeymoon I presented myself to him as a virgin. I was in a very sexy nightgown and expected to consummate our true vow. But then he just turned off the light and started to snore!

I woke him up and demanded to know why he wasn't making love to me, and he said, "Because it's Lent."

I've asked him repeatedly since then and it's always some excuse. Oh Sir Charles, what should I do?

Desperately,
Blushing Bride

Sir Charles replies:

Dear Mrs. Bride,

For heaven's sakes, girl. Find out to whom he lent it and for how long!

Tersely yours,
Sir Charles Grandiose

bdd writes:

SIR CHARLES,

I WOULD LIKE TO KNOW HOW TO GIVE MY GIRLFRIEND SOME ENERGY FOR MAKING LOVE? SHES ALWAYS GOES TO SLEEP IN THE MIDDLE.

bdd3042@aol.com

Sir Charles replies:

Mister bdd,

One's mother, before we took her to the asylum, always had a saying: "Don't blame the bucket when the spigot doesn't spurt."

One is not quite certain of the meaning, yet one has a deeply-felt instinct that it might be appropriate in this particular instance.

Tersely yet again, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Sister Mary-Fred  writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

I write to you as hurriedly as possible, as Sister Marion-Bert has taken away my computer and locked it in her "special room." Please, Sir Charles . . . uhh, that is, SAINT Charles! (for I've already sent your name on the list to the Pope, along with other fair and noble representatives! Yes! It's been done!) I entreat you to help me! I must have that computer back . . . Sister Marion-Bert doesn't know the terrible magnitude of what she's done.

You see, I am a special emissary to our Lord above through that computer! He "speaks" to me, saying all manner of salient and interesting things, and makes doves fly up on the monitor! I know this cannot be a hoax. It is pure and divine inspiration. You, being a saint yourself, will certainly recognize it! However, it seems that I am the only one around here who can see these messages, up until now . . . until your imminent (and eminent) arrival, that is! This insistence of hers on keeping my computer from me is surely a frightful abomination in the eyes of the Lord, and Sister Marion-Bert must be made to understand the gravity of this situation! After all, those Precious Moments figurines were a direct inspiration from none other than yourself! I was only trying to spice up nunly life a bit . . . oh it's useless trying to talk any sense into her. If you were here, you could perhaps reason with the woman. I am missing my daily horoscopes as well, and this is most upsetting.

Dearest Saint Charles, we must devise a plan. You must come here at midnight one night when everyone is asleep and rescue that computer for me! Yes . . . YOU will be the one to see that these holy and divine messages can no longer be ignored! All the more reason why you should be a saint in our time!

Why, just the other day, the Lord told me that a certain dance-hall girl named Anita Manceau-Baddeley is to be a significant figure in extinguishing the fires at Armageddon! And she will be the one to appear, all in fringes and beads, and bring the Bad Men DOWN!

We can't have any more of this ridiculous shooting stuff, you know. I am fed up; we nuns are up to our wimples in prayer activities for the violence in modern-day America (and everywhere else!) to stop. If I can't receive my messages, then there's nothing I can do to help.

I'm sure you will understand, and contact me at your earliest possible convenience. There is much to be done! Hurry, Saint Charles! Hurry!

Yours in holy haste,
Sister Mary-Fred Mermanethel,
Hot-Cross-Bunthorne Abbey,
South Westshropchestershireford.   

P.S. Sister Marion-Bert does too have a daily diary; I've seen her horrifying and blatant accounts of certain events on those pages, especially involving the young blonde nun, Sister Marie . . . that diary has been locked up somewhere too, and Sister M-B refuses to speak about it.

Sir Charles replies:

Holy Moley,

After the events of the last month, in which one has been nominated for saint and cruelly demoted, one's readers (who are so many in number, one has it upon a rigid authority, that were each to pluck and eyelash and make the same wish, the combined supernatural force might be great enough to make the questions of Prince Harry's paternity go away forever) may not be surprised by the following edict, put into effect henceforth:

Nuns are hereby forbidden to write to Sir Charles Grandiose. Especially if they happen to be of the order of Hot-Cross-Bunthorne Abbey.

Convinced that good old Henry VIII knew what he was doing, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose