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March 23, 2009 | by  | in Opinion | [ssba]

War On the Lower Class

A discourse from His Dukeness Arthurly Albertson Smythe Wuthering Farty Tossle Franciburn Barnard Sir Willoughby Archlord Junior III Of Honey-InPorridge Manor, during tea time after a rather most splendid game of lawn bowls that was quite a dashingly spot of neckandneck for a minute there.

The Discourse Reads Thus:

Ladies and gentlemen: I am simply a normal man, in a normal life, just like you. I am not special or privileged. Nor am I deprived of the knowledge and experience of “the real world”, and by that I mean doing things for myself. As I stand here with my gardener, my butler, my clothes washing maid, my clothes folding maid, my clothes putting away maid, our apples and oranges chef, our vegetable chef, our exotic vegetable chef, our pastry chef, our marmalade chef, our South Park chef, our family of ethnically different servants, my fox hunting dogs, mother, grandmother, and Prince William Featherybollocks Poncebucket of Bouncy Castle, I address you, the common man or woman, as you have your butler read this to you, no doubt over truffles, caviar, goosefeet marmalade, and most delightful lashings of Humphrington’s Tea, obviously only to be had with fresh cream whipped at a real live whipping post with real organically modified whips.

As I have declared, I am no different to any of you. I have a poolside sixteenacre mansion with eighty bedrooms, five dining tables, and a drawing room complete with snooker tables and cricket ground, all of which I will own when father passes on, a European antique Alfa Romeo car collection, tennis courts, squash courts, high and supreme courts, a botanical hideaway deep within my coin collection, and a seat in the pews at parliament. I also have solid gold urinals in all ninehundred and two bathroom ensuites. As Phil Ken Sebben would say, “There’s nothing like gold on gold!”

When pater took me to university this afternoon for cricket club and an etiquette lecture, we had the usual tussles with traffic finding a place to park our helicopter, and a strange creature with matted ropey hairlets impolitely accosted me for tobacco, using the uncivil incongruence “bro”. So you see, I suffer muchly. Yesterday, while playing Brahms’ Minuet Sonata in G# Minor on the pianoforte, I almost sneezed! Mother said it was dreadfully vulgar.

One day we had to take the Mercedes to Queen Victoria University! Well, we were all awfully embarrassed about taking one of our cheaper cars in, but there you go. It was a shocking blow to the family name, all the chaps at dressage that week ending were having a jolly old rum go at us—no rotting, I dare say!

This philistinism brings me to the topic at hand: Simply do your Godly duty to queen and country, pay your taxes like good honest citizens, and stop these pandering protests. And get a job while you’re at it! Don’t go accepting these government handouts! There’s lots of jobs going! I need someone to tidy my bedroom at the moment, you see? You’re all trying to do everything yourself. Why, let the upper classes think for you.

Now recently I was at this Cuba Carnival, rattling my jewellery and gadding about, having a bally old show of a hoot, when I saw rather a lot of people of unfortunate racial allocations dancing about like a bunch of monkeys, with not much clothing on at all! Spoils the mood a tad, methinks. Let me tell you something about dancing: The man puts one arm above the woman’s corseted hips, after a gracious introduction, she curtsies to him quaintly, and once they’ve sloshed back some Merlot ‘73, met their respective parents, and if it’s deduced they have similar amounts in the bank, they must be just right for each other, especially if they’re cousins.

Send the sods off on a honeymoon, say I, and let them figure it out for themselves! We certainly want none of this ‘sex education’ pornography in the classroom, of all places! Putting balloons on bananas, and all that tosh. What’s that got to do with anything!

Now I went on one date with a young lady, and I thought I heard a gassy turbulence emitting from her behind—filthy! And then she laughed! I say! I would have turned my nostrils upward at her, but I was worried my breathing might be compromised. So I quickly slapped her face, called her a bounder and a cad, with narry a look back. Certainly a daughter of common gentry, no doubt.

Well, that’s about all from me, I’m sure you’ve learned a thing or two about the harsh plight of man, dare say I. I’m off to have a Gerald Lord Sandwich—it’s a fantastic idea—just marginals of bread cleft in twain—I heard one of the servants call them “slices”—with some thing or other betwixt. I’m having a delicious albatrossbeak puree, swine foie gras, lollipops pickle and a milfspelunker fricassee coatings upon the inner side of mine.

Signing off,

With sun shining from between my cheeks,

Lord Arthurly, etc., et. Al., ad infinitum, ad nauseum, *, 8,1


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