|
 One
must begin one's latest safari into the dark, untamed wilds of
Bad Behaviour and the jungles of the Untaught Illiterate with
a word or hundred of thanks to one's readers. (Incidentally,
one has it upon a rock-solid authority that one's readers
are so many in number that were each a single grain of sand,
the resulting hourglass would be so large that one could start
it and, years later, find that it was still running, much like
the mouth of a typical member of the House of Commons when pontificating
on the latest scheme to wrest away the natural-born rights of
the aristocracy.) After one's two hundredth
column, one received a myriad of congratulatory letters from
admirers both highborn and low, united in their admiration for
one so wise, so well-born so . . . well, one can scarcely summarize.
It would be sound so much as though one were simply parroting
the synonyms for 'brilliance' from the thesaurus.
One will merely reproduce these below.
"When I realized that Sir Charles Grandiose had actually
written two hundred columns, I just broke down and wept hot,
wet tears."
--Abigail Van Buren, American agony aunt
"Sir Charles Grandiose . . . isn't he the fellow
with the big thingummy?"
--Margaret Thatcher, former Prime Minister
"I rise every morning dreading to see what news will
grace the front page of the Times. Then I saw something
that made my heart stop. Was it the tragedy of so many dead after
a third world earthquake? Was it the news of another senseless
shooting? No, it was the fact that Sir Charles Grandiose had
produced his two hundredth column."
--Germaine Greer, noted feminist
"Words, is what I meant to say, of course."
--Margaret Thatcher, former Prime Minister
"Sir Charles Grandiose is to philosophy what the
Spice Girls have been to music."
--Tony Blair, Prime Minister
(Note from Sir Charles Grandiose: And let us not forget how popular
the Spice Girls are.)
"If cultural imperialism is the craft in which Sir
Charles Grandiose sails, let us hope for our sakes that it strikes
an iceberg in the middle of the Atlantic in the dead of night,
and sinks quickly, before he can produce another two hundred
columns."
--Toni Morrison, author
"I find the columns of Sir Charles Grandiose useful.
The bottom of my parakeet's cage is immensely improved by them."
--Hilary Rodham Clinton, First Lady
"Of course I'm amazed at the fact Sir Charles Grandiose
has written two hundred weekly columns. I didn't know he could
count that high."
--Miss M______, a.k.a. Miss Born-in-A-Barn, etiquette columnist
and arch-rival
Feeling rather self-satisfied now that one has brought even
one's arch-rival to her knees, one remains for yet another week,
Sir Charles Grandiose
 Miss
Rice-Davies writes:
Dear Sir Charles,
After months of perusal, I have come to the conclusion that
your reputation as a sage and noble (or at the very least deeply
aristocratic) advice-giver is well deserved, and your fans so
legion that were each to take a mere sip of champagne, the French
gross national product would instantly triple. Being five hundred
and seventy-eighth in line for the throne, I could not ask advice
from just any common street urchin selling manners advice alongside
the Page 3 Girl. Thus I come to you.
Recently I became affianced to Lord Oliver Haughton-Mosely,
who, as you know, is four hundred and thirtieth in line for the
throne. Not surprisingly, the match is generally regarded
as a good one, as he is a wealthy and titled millionaire.
Lord Oliver is a kind and attentive fiance, and as long as I
refrain from referring to his being born in 1907, we get along
splendidly. The nuptials are scheduled for December.
(It goes without saying that yourself and the entire Grandiose
family is invited, including Miss Penelope Windsor-Smythe--especially
Miss Penelope Windsor-Smythe--but it would be most understandable
if you had already made plans, being the man in demand that you
are.) Our nuptials were previously scheduled for this past
July--we were hoping Edward and Sophie would use it to make their
debut as man and wife--but in June Lord Oliver suffered his seventeenth
stroke, and has since been sequestered in Haughton House.
I try to come by every day with fruits and other tokens of my
affection, but the servants are fanatically loyal to Lord Oliver,
and reluctant to expose him to any potential germs.
The shock of Lord Oliver's recent illness left me deeply depressed
and disheartened, and in my despair I made a terrible mistake.
I spent a good deal of time in our garden, picking flowers for
my fiance, in the company of his gardener . . . I will
not trouble you with his name, but suffice to say it has neither
hyphen nor title in it. But he was young and strapping
and muscular and usually covered with dirt. The air was
thick with the intoxicating smells of tropical plants.
The sun beat down mercilessly. We came together like two
animals, with nothing to protect us but our passionate, throbbing
. . . ahem.
To be perfectly frank, Sir Charles, I fear that come my wedding
in December, the waist of my dress (custom-made at Harrod's,
of course) will have to be taken out a bit, if you catch my drift.
I am at a complete loss. Until Lord Oliver is sentient
again I cannot throw myself at his feet and beg for his forgiveness.
The gardener was recently spotted talking to the Mirror--not
surprising, common as he was and is, but still I risk dragging
my family's honorable name through the mud. Meanwhile,
bill collectors arrive every day demanding payment for the wedding
accouterments, despite the fact that we have explained to them
time and time again that we refuse to pay until the wedding in
question has actually taken place. And to top it all off,
there have arisen hideous whispers that I am actually not five
hundred and seventy-eighth in line for the throne--as if one
could ever lie about something so important!
Sir Charles, I'll do anything for you if you will only help
this poor benighted soul.
Most sincerely,
Miss Amanda Rice-Davies of Cherries-on-Top
Five hundred and seventy-eighth in line for the throne
Sir Charles replies:
Dear Miss Rice-Davies,
Yes, one knows exactly what you mean about the expanding waistline,
dearie. A bit of a go at the bon-bon box will do that to even
a British rose such as yourself.
Upon inquiry with one's ward, young Penelope Windsor-Smythe
(who, as eighty-fifth in line with the throne, knows the trials
and tribulations of others who might suddenly have to rule our
green and pleasant isle, should the previous eighty-four be suddenly
'bumped off' by aeroplane or omnibus accident, or poisoned fish
finger incident), one gleaned some interesting advice. "There's
just one thing better than an old millionaire, and that's a young
millionairess, and with a bit of creative thinking and a holograph
last will and testament written in your favour, you're nearly
there."
Just the sort of thing one would have said oneself, had one
been seven hundred and thirty-sixth in line for the throne, or
thereabouts.
Wishing you a pleasant widowhood, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose
Mrs Stoole writes:
Dear Sir Charles,
Love your column! You give such staunch advice . . . perfect
for those of declining morals in America.
I was awfully sorry to read that you had gout, however. As
it happens, I have a wonderful recipe for wild mushroom douche
which might help out. It is a favorite concoction of one of my
maiden aunts, and will cure anything.
Just let me know, and I'll send it along by mail.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Luce Stoole
Sir Charles replies:
Mrs Stoole,
One instantly took the opportunity to buy IBM at three. One
leapt at the chance to invest in a small company known as 'Microsoft'
in the early years. One gratefully accepted an offer to invest
in the musical Cats back in the days when Andrew Lloyd
Webber was still a scruffy little git. When there was one final
opening in the investor's group for the product known as Nutrasweet,
one begged for it. And when one learned that one can produced
'Furbys' at Taiwanese factories for infinitely less than in a
civilised country, one gave the nine-year-old workers there a
bonus of tuppence apiece.
When it comes to your offer, however kindly meant, one feels
strongly that one must do the right thing and (so to speak) pass
it.
Having the feeling of a narrow escape, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose
Miss Born-in-a-Barn writes:
 Sir
Charles,
I am Miss Born-in-a-Barn. That's me. I do the weekly editorial
for Country Living Magazine, where I cover dusty rose
slipcovers, duck an' rabbit kitchen motifs, cannin' an' picklin',
windmill yard ornaments, square dancin', how to milk a cow, how
to keep your Daisy Dukes from frayin' too much, black velvet
paintin's of Elvis, an' Precious Moments figurines.
I think you better think twice before usin' my name in your
column again, as I write for the most read publication in the
south part of the United States of America. Our country-bred,
corn-fed lawyers, who, were they more numerous, would own enough
cars up on blocks to outsize Nashville . . . or is it Texas?
I fergit . . . will have your hide.
Anyway, there is a Miss Born-in-a-Barn, and I'm it,
bubba. But ya know? When you argue with a fool, what're you doin'?
The same thang.
Yours in Christ,
Miss Born-in-a-Barn
Sir Charles replies:
Dear Miss Born,
When one refers to 'Miss Born-in-a-Barn,' one refers to the
columnist that one has been warned by one's solicitors to refer
to only as 'Miss M______.' Apparently to use her real name or
to mention that she is the author of books with self-serving
titles such as Miss M______ Saves Civilisation would
bring another of her defamation suits upon one. And one scarcely
needs the bother.
However, now that one knows that there is an actual Miss Born-in-a-Barn
who spends her days dispensing advice to the churn and Hee
Haw set, one will of course act appropriately.
Of course, one means merely that one will try to erase the
horrid knowledge from one's mind.
Wondering what on earth Daisy Dukes could be and how they
would fray, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose
|
