In the civilised tongue:

Gentle readers,

Whilst one sunned in the Persian grotto on one's estate, nursing touch of cattarh, it occurred to oneself that one has not been 'marketing' one's column properly. Why, despite the fact that one has produced nearly thirteen score columns, the world has not yet transformed into the utopian paradise of God, Queen, nobles, and commoners that nature intended.

And why, one asks, is this still the case? One had rather thought that things would have changed by now, and the world would be a better place.

Then it occurred to one. Why, no one has procured the foreign rights to one's works! One's gentle opinions are being unread by the unwashed masses who teem over dirty unwashed soil. What better way to reach out to them than to provide them with one's own responses, rendered into their own tongue?

So as an experiment, one will in the column provide a translation of one's thoughts and ideas. One has assembled a committee of experts to analyze one's writings and to provide the equivalent text in that most Byzantine, difficult, arcane of all modern languages:   American. In this case, one's experts are an elite panel assembled from the local youth of the village who watch large quantities of American television programmes such as Baywatch, Star Trek, Dallas, and Friends. Therefore, without further ado, one turns the one's usual preamble over to them.

In that argot known as 'American':

Yo, boyee,

I was a-tannin' and a-hockin' down at Southfork and I wunnered if I'd a-been rustlin' up the steers with enough rope. Sometimes those beaches can be dangerous without a lifejacket, Tiffany. Because like, if you think about it hard enough, I've written more columns than Liz Taylor had husbands, but even though I'd like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony and I'd like to give the world a Coke, still looks like it ain't happening.

Then I was sittin' in my crib strokin' my Colt 45 like it was some kind of phallic symbol or something and a-thinkin'. Like, ohmygod, it would be so totally cool if like, we could, talk the same way as you know, each other! Are you talkin' to me? Are you talkin' to me? So I'm gonna like, chill with the homeys and pop me a Bud and have me a very special episode of Advice from Sir Charles Grandiose.

Live long and prosper.
Sir Charles Grandiose

Mandy writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

I am engaged to a cowboy which you probably think is a nothing occupation but there is a real need for rugged men who can round up steer and keep the cows in line and move them from place to place and he is really good at it. The problem is that lately I have also been interested in two other guys, one is a rich banker and the other is a fireman. The banker is very rich and though I know it's not love I can't help but accept his presents. The fireman works out and looks great in a t-shirt and when we make love I feel on fire.

So I guess my question is which of these guys should I be with? I hate to break off my engagement to the cowboy but it's very hard to be true to him.

Mandy

Sir Charles replies:

Dear "Mandy,"

One loathes giving the sort of advice that would have been much more appropriately asked of an Agony Aunt. However, for the sake of your poor fiance, I would suggest that the correspondent could never be a cowboy's girl, when it's perfectly obvious she can't keep her calves together.

Shaking his head, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Mrs Eveready writes:

Dear Sir Charles,

Thanks so much for answering my last letter. I have another question for you: If all the paper clips in the world were stretched out and put end to end, how many times do you think they could encircle the globe?

Affectionately,
Mrs. Betty Eveready,
formerly of Gung Ho, California

Sir Charles replies:

Mrs Eveready,

One has heard it said that if one put enough monkeys in a room with a typewriter apiece and let them pound the keys for an infinite period of time, the minute probability of one typing an intelligible series of sentences would eventually occur.

What one feels the need to ask, however, is how in the world did a monkey get one's address?

Puzzled, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose

Von Helsing  writes:

Honorable Sir Charles,

This is an emergency. My colleagues and I are trapped in a Transylvanian castle with a man we suspect to be a Vampyre. We must defeat him immediately.

How are we going to get some holy water?

Urgently,
Von Helsing

Sir Charles replies:

Sirrah,

By boiling the hell out of it, one supposes.

Immensely pleased with oneself, one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose