Out, Out, Damn Scot!

In honor of Burns Night...

"It is just a question of time now before the SNP, the Scottish National Party, the Urdd Ffascist Alban, wins first a majority of the seats and then an absolute majority in the Scottish Parliament. There will follow a referendum on Scottish independence and the Scots will choose by a huge majority to secede completely. Scotland will break away from Britain exactly as Norway did from Sweden, Iceland from Denmark, Slovakia from Czechoslovakia, the Ukraine from Russia and Macedonia from Serbia. We will soon also see an independent Faroes, Flanders, Catalunya and Corsica. Multi-national, multi-ethnic countries and federations are failing everywhere and being replaced by homogeneous nation states based on primordial loyalties and solidarity. The twenty-first century will be the century of the nation-state and Scotland will be the first.

We in England should welcome this. For the last forty years Scotland has been an economic liability to us and a political nuisance, much as the Republic of Ireland was before 1922. Now we can recreate a new and exclusive English nationalism in continuity with that of the reigns of Edward III, Henry V and Elizabeth I. If there were also to be a referendum in England on the ignominious expulsion of Scotland from the Union, it would be agreed unanimously. It is a divorce by consent. The Scots are, and remain to this day, an utterly foreign people, much as the Irish are. A visit to Scotland is always a great pleasure but only in the sense as a visit to Germany with Baedeker and phrase book. Aberdeen is about as British as Bremen, Edinburgh as Reykyavik, Glasgow as Napoli. Nice people but utterly foreign..."

Read on....

That Sweet Enemy...

"The English hate the French. Who reciprocate … A pureé of prejudice on a bed of inherited loathing." Such was the no-nonsense verdict of a reputable French magazine a few years ago. Whether intelligent or stupid, people have indeed been prone for centuries to assume the worst of everyone on the other side of the Channel, that stretch of water which is far too narrow to allow for good neighbors. Certainly, each nation has formed its identity in some measure through competition with the other.

For the British, France was the country from whose northern ports might originate invasion and conquest. This fear necessitated a standing defense policy, and a diplomacy to ensure that the Low Countries and the German states were neutral, or better still, allies. Conversely, the French had to try to dominate the Low Countries, and encourage the Irish and the Scots to rebel and help break up the United Kingdom. French rulers from Louis XIV to Napoleon kept on repeating this strategy, attempting but botching no less than six invasions in that whole period. During this second Hundred Years War, the English monarchs were actually Hanoverian, that is, of German extraction...."

Read on...

Charles VII

January 24, 1742, Charles VII was crowned Holy Roman Emperor during the War of the Austrian Succession.

The Last Lion...

January 24, 1965, Sir Winston Churchill died in London at age 90.

Vote with your feet...

Mrs. P explains to Mr. Kimball why she, uh...got on the Path to Rome...You will never think of feet in a Biblical sense in the same way again...Speaking of stunned...My Dear Mrs. P, "wedding tackle"? Who have you been hanging about with?...In Mayfair you may say "genitalia" in mixed company, as long as you say it with a straight face...Easier said than done, I do say...

"...The female priest was a newly-minted one as well as a 60's era graduate of Katharine Hepburn's alma mater, Connecticut College. We were studying The Book of Ruth. Ruth, as you may recall, is both listening and following Naomi's advice to have a kinsman Boaz help them in their impoverished state. Naomi tells Ruth to go to the threshing floor and sleep at Boaz's feet. This is where the priestess popped out with "In seminary, I learned that when feet is mentioned in the bible it means [I'm sorry I do not know you well enough to type or say this word in your presence so please use your enormous brain to figure it out] g-------a." Or in nicer language, wedding tackle.

I was stunned. But since I had learned well at the feet of The New Criterion (pun intended), I asked if she was serious. She said "Yes." I said "So you are telling me that Naomi instructed Ruth to go and lay at the wedding tackle of Boaz?" She said "Yes." I recall saying something along the lines of "You mean God wants women to use sex to get what we need?" She said "Well, this falls under the catagory of doing what you need to." Again, more astonishment on my part. Now, being a woman there were tears welling up in my eyes by this point, as I thought this such an violation. I asked her what she thought St. Paul meant when when he said in the New Testament, "How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the Good News."

She ended class.

We became Catholics..."

Off

From Peter Hitchens

"...It's the plain duty of civilised people to turn off the TV most of the time. And it ought to be a criminal offence to let small children watch it unsupervised, ever.

You'd be doing far less harm if you put a dollop of gin in their cocoa. Not that I'm actually recommending the gin, you understand.

In George Orwell's prophecy, 1984, which everyone talks about knowingly but hardly anyone actually seems to have read, it was a privilege reserved for the inner elite to be allowed to turn off their TVs.

In Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, firemen, with robot sniffers able to detect paper and ink, patrol the country burning any remaining books.

Television screens, meanwhile, have become so large that they take up entire walls, on which drivel is shown all the time.

Not far off the truth, though instead of official book-burners we have State schools that refuse to teach children to read, which has the same result.

This malign invention, television, has, in the space of 50 years, plundered, copied, chewed up, spat out and eventually spat on the treasures of 20 centuries of culture.

It has turned whole nations into passive conformists who wear the same things, adopt the same slang, laugh at the same jokes and imagine that their brainwashed opinions are their own.

So, in a way, the liquid manure of Channel 4' s Big Brother has earned its grandiose name - even though most of those who watch it have no idea who or what Orwell's original Big Brother was, or would care if they did.

Switch it off while you still can and while you still have the willpower to do so and the knowledge that what is being placed before you is unfit for human consumption..."

---

Eric Arthur Blair

Eric Blair (aka George Orwell) June 25, 1903 - January 21, 1950

The Orwell Reader

Procession to eternity...

January 21, 1793

On January 20, 1793, the National Convention condemned Louis XVI to death, his execution scheduled for the next day. Louis spent that evening saying goodbye to his wife and children. The following day dawned cold and wet. Louis arose at five. At eight o'clock a guard of 1,200 horsemen arrived to escort the former king on a two-hour carriage ride to his place of execution. Accompanying Louis, at his invitation, was a priest, Henry Essex Edgeworth, an Englishman living in France. Edgeworth recorded the event and we join his narrative as he and the fated King enter the carriage to begin their journey: The Execution of Louis XVI, 1793

Sticks and Stones

Thank you M. Leader...

To celebrate, or not....

Happy Birthday General Lee, that brown eyed handsome man...The Llamas spit at each other on this anniversary, Steve-O spitting with a distinctly Yankee accent, I might add... From a stricly British point of view, we liked any guy who was beating the hell out of the States...But here is some place you might like to visit:

Boyhood Home of Robert E. Lee

Boyhood Home of Robert E. Lee
607 Oronoco Street
Alexandria, Virginia 22314

For the serious historian or the casual visitor, the Boyhood Home of Robert E. Lee is a must to see in the Washington, D.C. area. Situated in the Old and Historic Alexandria District, this elegant mansion was the home of Confederate General Robert E. Lee for most of his boyhood years. Tastefully and artistically furnished with authentic period pieces, this stately Federal town house was the site of frequent visits by George Washington. Here also the Marquis de Lafayette paid a formal call on Ann Hill Carter Lee, the mother of General Robert E. Lee and widow of General Henry "Light Horse Harry" Lee of Revolutionary War fame. In the drawing room of this historic dwelling Mary Lee Fitzhugh married George Washington Parke Custis, grandson of Martha Washington, and builder of Arlington. Twenty-seven years later, their daughter, Mary Ann Randolph Custis became the wife of Robert E. Lee.

The site is listed in the National Register of Historic Places and Virginia Historic Landmark Commission

Location: 15 minutes south of Washington, D.C. in the historic City of Alexandria, one block east of Washington Street (George Washington Memorial Parkway).

Open to Visitors: Daily 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., Sunday 1:00 to 4:00 p.m.—admission charge—groups by appointment —special uses upon request. Limitations for handicapped visitors; persons requiring special assistance are asked to call in advance for specific information. Phone: 703-548-8454.

Closed: Easter, Thanksgiving, and for some special occasions; December 15 through January 31 open by appointment only.

Special events: Robert E. Lee's Birthday Celebration (January); marriage of Mary Lee Fitzhugh and George Washington Parke Custis (July); formal visit of the Marquis de Lafayette (October); Alexandria Candlelight Tours (December).

The Boyhood Home of Robert E. Lee is the property of the Lee-Jackson Foundation which was founded by the late J.W. Johns. The Foundation is a non-stock, non-profit corporation and, in addition to its modest endowment, is dependent on gifts of concerned individuals, corporations and foundations. Such gifts are tax deductible.

There is no mystery concerning Basil Seal...Despite appearances, he's a nice enough chap...

Mrs. P tells all she knows and more about her trip to meet Sir Basil...

Mr. Cusack, who knows Basil Seal, and other members of his family, takes note...

Want to be a hero? Get yourself and your men killed...What could be easier?

On Jan. 18, 1912, English explorer Robert F. Scott and his expedition reached the South Pole, only to discover that Roald Amundsen had beaten them to it. (Scott and his party perished during the return trip.)

Capt. Robert Falcon Scott, like George Custer before him, became a world wide hero for botching an operation and getting himself and those men he was responsible for killed. (Of course he also had a very cool name.) The man who beat him to the South Pole, Roald Amundsen, a Norwegian explorer, mounted and led a picture perfect expedition, beating Scott by a month, reaching and returning from the Pole without the loss of a man, dog or, snowshoe. He probably picked up all of his litter and stopped global warming as well. But old Roald was just too good at what he did. Where is the romance in doing things well and preserving the lives of your men? No, better to wing it and die painfully. Better yet, get others killed as well... Now that's romantic and heroic...Now old Roald disappeared and died on a rescue mission at the North Pole years later, giving his popularity a needed boost. Amundsen was a hero, Sir Ernest Shackleton, who was marooned in Antarctica for a year, and after crossing hundreds of miles of dangerous ocean in a small boat, Shackleton returned and saved all of his men. Shackleton was a hero. Men who plan poorly and get the men they are responsible for killed are not heroes, adventurous and brave yes, heroes no.

Sorry Roald, the public won't stand for perfection, you should have pushed some of your men off a cliff or something. Luckily you didn't hurt any of the dogs, the public will cheer you for losing men, but woe is he who gets a dog killed...

They met Basil in St. Louis...

This, my friends, is how it happened...I waited, with baited breath as it were, in the Terminal for the arrival of Mrs. P and The Card's Wife. I knew what they looked like from photos I had seen at the post office, but was concerned that they would not recognize me, never having seen me before. But, to my surprise they traipsed out of the security cordon and walked right up to me. Well, Mayfair kisses all around and we dropped into the VIP Lounge in order that the ladies might fix their faces or some such thing. While sitting in the lounge and discussing our day, I asked them how they had recognized me. Well, they said, in America, if you see a man wearing a Chesterfield, fawn kid gloves and holding a rolled umbrella, he is either an actor in a British costume drama or Basil Seal. "Humph" was my only reply to that. They were both fascinated by the idea of arriving flights in St. Louis, they told me that in Detroit, where they live, there are only departing flights, never arriving. I told them that yes, there are some places that people actually want to get to. They were both looking quite well, with Card's Wife wearing a blouse, pants and jacket in black and white from Ralph Lauren Black Label, shoes by Jimmy Choo and bag by Prada. Mrs. P, in order to prove her Yankee bonafides, was wearing a skirt and raspberry jumper ensemble from Talbots, shoes by Ferragamo and Chanel bag. Very nice. Of course I wasted no time in informing Mrs. P that the largest and highest volume Talbots store was in St. Louis. She was aghast, telling me that she assumed that the women in St. Louis shopped at Farm and Fleet, except for the Countess, of course. "Humph" was my only reply to that.

We then went out to the car, and after moving the ladies around to the other side, we climbed in. On the way to our first stop the ladies and I chatted about this and that. Mrs. P wanted to know why the steering wheel was on the wrong side, Card's wife said that I wasn't really that ugly for a bald man, Mrs. P thought I was to tall to be English and why was I so thin, was it cancer?, Card's Wife said that she had never before heard an Anglo-Midwestern accent before, Mrs. P wanted to know why the Countess would have ever married me in the first place, Card's Wife wanted to know why my car was so old and Mrs. P wanted to talk about my unhealthy regard for Louise Brooks. Luckily we arrived at our first stop.

We alighted at the Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis, or colloquially, the New Cathedral. I had arranged a tour for the ladies with an old school chum of mine, now a Roman Catholic priest, (let's just call him Father Chip) and he met us outside. I had brought two mantillas that I borrowed from the Countess for the ladies, but to my delight they had brought their own. Father Chip explained that the Arch Bishop had been suddenly called away to handle an exorcism, but did send his regrets. Father Chip led us on a tour of this beautiful Cathedral, which is actually the largest collection of mosaics in North America, and aside from lingering a bit near the poor box, the ladies were on their best behaviour. Of course I put this down to the presence of God, and do thank him heartily.

Waving goodbye to Father Chip and moving the ladies around to the other side, we climbed aboard the motor car and headed for our next stop, The Basilica of St. Louis, King of France. On the way Mrs. P told me that she thought Father Chip a very nice man, Card's Wife thought that my head was very shiny and that she could see herself, Mrs. P noticed that there was an absence of gunfire in St. Louis as opposed to back home, Card's Wife wanted to know if I was really married or just making that up, Mrs. P noted that most of the cars in St. Louis were not on fire as opposed to back home. On the way I pointed out to the ladies the New Busch Stadium, where last year the World Champion St. Louis Cardinals had beaten, like the proverbial red headed step-child, the Detroit Tigers. "Humph" was all they had to say about that. Mrs. P said that she still could not figure out this Louise Brooks thing. Thankfully we arrived at our second stop.

Located on the historic riverfront of St. Louis, the Basilica of St. Louis, King of France or, colloquially, the Old Cathedral, was consecrated in 1834. It was the first Cathedral built west of the Mississippi River. The church is especially noted for its neo-classical marble alters, a painting given by Louis XVIII of France of a vision of Saint Louis, and an accurate copy of the painting of the Crucifixion by the artist Diego Velazquez. Mantillas in place, the ladies enjoyed the tour of the church and the museum. Outside they were intrigued by a large stainless steel arch down by the river. Asking me what it was, I told them that of course, it was the headquarters of the American Croquet Association. They both thought the buildings design very clever. Time to go.

Moving the ladies to the other side of the car, we drove off waving to the American Croquet Association headquarters. We were now pressed for time, so headed straight for the club and our luncheon. Upon arrival, we moved to the bar and I treated the ladies to a Black Velvet each. They must have been thirsty, for these disappeared faster than blank paper at Stephen King's house. With that we moved to the dining room where I had reserved a corner table, one at which I could sit with my back to the room. As I noted before, I had requested a special menu for the ladies, and as we proceeded from dish to dish we popped the bubbly in celebration and talked of many things. We talked of Waugh and Saki, of Austen, Wodehouse and Beerbohm, of friends in New York, The New Criterion and hotels in Chicago. Mrs. P admired my Society of the Colonial Wars cuff links and we talked of family and shared photographs. Such nice ladies. After our second bottle, I noticed a slight flush upon the cheek of the Card's Wife, and when she waved and snapped her fingers at the wait-staff shouting "hey Garrson" at the top of her lungs, my suspicions were confirmed. Mrs. P excused herself and when she did not return to our table I went in search of her. I finally tracked her down in the card room engaged in what seemed to be a high stakes game of Bridge with some of the members. The cigar in her mouth was not lit, but you may be sure, I was shocked none the less. After she had collected her winnings, I was able to escort Mrs. P from the room. I had to then convince her that my club did not in fact have a karaoke bar, and she finally believed me. We arrived back at our table, woke the Card's Wife and continued our happy meal. They say all good things must come to an end, and it was time to go.

Now back in the car, after of course moving the ladies, etc., we were obliged to head back to the aerodrome and catch the ladies flight for home. On the way Mrs. P said that she liked the car, the club and she had enjoyed her trip, ditto the Card's Wife. The Card's Wife wanted to know why my teeth were straight if I had been born in England, and Mrs. P began hatching plans for future excursions to New York City and any other point on the globe she could think of, the Card's Wife said that she really didn't mind my bald head, she thought I was nice anyway, Mrs. P wanted to know why I carried an umbrella when it wasn't raining. Look here we are at the aerodrome.

I escorted the ladies to their terminal and Mayfair kisses all around, promises to do it again soon, etc. As they were leaving Mrs. P suddenly stopped and came back, she said that I really hadn't told her anything about Louise Brooks. I thought for a moment and finally said that it was actually all a joke, we just talked about Louise Brooks because we knew we could get a rise out of you and the Card's Wife. She asked me who had come up with this idea, and I said well, that it had been Mr. P and The Card, they thought that it would be funny. They did, did they (Mrs. P said) then she and The Card's Wife ran off down the terminal for their flight out. I walked back out to the car thinking what delightful ladies they both were and what fun it was to have them visit me here in St. Louis. I smiled then, and thought that I wouldn't want to be Mr. P and The Card right about now...One does not read Psmith for nothing...

The preperations of Basil...

Today I am busy at work on the details pertaining to the upcoming visit of Mrs. P and The Card's Wife...Though I enjoy teasing them, I look forward (no really) to their visit, and am so happy that they accepted my invitation to luncheon.

Well, first off I have washed my motor car and cleaned it's interior to perfection...In which I will motor to the aerodrome and fetch the ladies as they disembark...

The motor car

The Aerodrome (Lambert International)

Next I have set up a few flying stops that I think will be of interest to the ladies. You will notice that St. Louis is a very Catholic city:

The Cathedral Basilica of St. Louis (New Cathedral)

The Basilica of St. Louis, King of France (Old Cathedral)


The Lourdes Grotto, The National Shrine of Our Lady of the Snows

I have reservations at my club in the visitors dining room and have requested a menu I believe the ladies will enjoy. Although there has been talk of oysters, one must realize that a city far removed from an ocean, is not the place to order an oyster. Somehow I think that the Mississippi River variety just won't do...

The Club

Menu:

Potages.
Palestin
Au Gibier
Queue de Boeuf

Poissons.
Eperlans frits
Turbot
Filets de Solves a la Genoesse

Releves.
Chapon a la Toulouge
Selle de Mouton
Casserole a la Polonaise
Jambon aux epinards

Entrees.
Ris de Veau pique a la Duchesse
Perdrix aux choux aux truffes
Filets de Volaille supreme aux champignons
Cotelettes de Mouton a la soubise
Petits pates aux huitres

Rotis.
Beccasses
Faisans

Entremets.
Truffes au vin de Madere
Artichaux a la l'Italienne
Gelee de Maraschino
Meringue a la Royale
Boudin de Nesselrode
Les Champignons croutade
Creme d'Ananas
Charlotte Russe
Boudin de Cabinet

Glaces.
Ananas
Framboise
Citron

This is to be accompanied by as many bottles of Veuve Clicquot that the ladies wish to drink...I think they will be pleased, and or, tight.

If time and or motor skills permit, we might stop at Plaza Frontenac to allow the ladies a little shopping pleasure...

Plaza Frontenac, home to Neiman, Saks, Talbots, etc.

Then back to the aerodrome to wave them off into the sunset, and back to Mr. P and The Card, hopefully still moving under their own power...

Until tomorrow then...

M. F. K. Fisher

M. F. K. Fisher (1908-1992)

Considered one of America's greatest writers, her writings revere the art of eating simply but well, of taking pleasure where it is found and of loving life with all of its challenges.

M. F. K. Fisher

What fresh hell is this?

I have discovered (much to my horror) that what I took to be a somewhat sick joke is in fact my new reality...Having received, via facsimile, an itinerary and photocopies of airline tickets, I now realize that on Tuesday I will be playing host to Mapp & Lucia. Yes, Mrs. P and The Card's Wife will be flying in to luncheon on Tuesday...Good Lord! With these two, I can imagine myself face down in the car park of a ghastly low rent shopping mall Tuesday afternoon, muttering like Kurtz, "the horror...the horror"...

I lay this firmly at the doorsteps of Mr. P and The Card...To unleash this duo on an unsuspecting city is bad enough, but to unleash it on me is even worse. And here, all this time, I thought these chaps liked me! Really, what have I done to deserve this? I ask you...At one point they had the mistaken impression that I would be pleased to escort them about town dressed in beastly rags from Wal-Mart...Please...I informed them that they better drape those middle-aged (but still desirable) Catholic house wife forms in St. Johns or, at least Talbots if they want to ride with me...The nerve of some people...

Of course the Countess has made herself scarce on Tuesday, and I think that after a phone call from Father M. the Arch Bishop is having second thoughts as well. Can't say that I blame the man...It seems I will have to face the music alone...

Well, there seems to be little I can do to avoid this fresh hell...As a gentleman of the old school, I must see it though...Of course these cunning little minx knew this all along. I must be off to set up the schedule and try and minimize all the damage that will occur to my social standing...Why me? I will give you a full report on Wednesday, if still living, wish me luck...

My Dear Chaps...

Mrs. P, whom one might call 'obsessive', has given a spectacular analysis, a la Sigmund, on why a male of the species might find Louise Brooks somewhat, shall we say, alluring...Well my dear chaps, Mrs. P puts it down to plain old 'slumming' on my part. You know, sneak out of Mayfair, across Piccadilly for the stage door, that sort of thing, don't you know...I leave it to you fellows, look at the picture above, have any of you seen that look before?...Now why would one like a night out with Louise Brooks? You tell me...I'm sure it's for the conversation...

Update: Irish Elk has some Manoeuvres in the Dark with Louise Brooks...

Say it ain't so, Robbo...

Today my monkey was shocked...One of my heroes, one of my favourite quadrupeds admitted that he has, at times, worn 'business casual' to his office. A very large office, I am sure, at the center of our national government. I, for one, am shocked...How could this happen? Well, though the mighty have fallen and Jupiter is no longer aligned with Mars, good Lord, will I ever be able to sing along with the 5th Dimension again? But, I have found an explanation...

"...For in all societies, modes of dress are set by the great; and if they mock taste and celebrate its opposite, taste will not be held in esteem by the people, who by nature prefer kitsch.

When democracy gave way to egalitarianism, some began to complain not just that the old modes propped up unjust class distinctions, but that any standard of dress imposes conformity, stifles creativity, and suppresses individuality. Thus did they abandon any attempt to dress presentably and colored their slovenliness with the pious demand that they be judged not by how they dress but for "who they are."

Our yearning for comfort was discussed at length above. For two centuries, this natural and ordinary desire was the engine of innovation in men's dress. So long as it was constrained by considerations of taste, the results were welcome. But as taste declined, comfort asserted itself as the supreme measure of a garment's worthiness. Many men no longer consented to put up with any discomfort from their clothes but found even the smallest inconvenience intolerable. This explains the practice of wearing tracksuits in public, and also the rise of "business casual."..."

-from The Suit: A Machiavellian Approach to Men's Style by Nicholas Antongiavanni

Save us mi'Lord!!!!

Royal Navy to cut its fleet by half...Senior officers have said the plans will turn Britain's once-proud Navy into nothing more than a coastal defence force. Lord Nelson, please come down from your column and kick someone's arse....Please mi'Lord....

Very smart you Labour toffs...Of course we all know who will get the call when the Frogs (which now has the larger navy) and Huns sweep across the Channel, don't we...

via Irish Elk

Goodbye...

Due to my courtesy, my sympathy and my taste, I had given you all a few more years...But Mr. Derbyshire (pronounced DARB-a-sheer) does not agree and explains why...

Will the United States Survive Until 2022?

"...Why did we do those foolish things? From overconfidence, I think. It has been said that a nation can survive anything but success. Success is the one true lethal disaster. The USA is a sensationally successful nation. We are also, it is not trivial to note, a very remote nation, far from anywhere else. An actual military invasion and occupation of the USA would be a very bold undertaking indeed, and I don’t think it is something we need to worry about. Our success, and our remoteness, have together made us very complacent. We can try any kind of social experiment! Nobody can harm us!

Not so. As Sanuel Huntington says in the aforementioned book: “A nation is a fragile thing.” And as he further says:

The [American philosophical-Constitutional] Creed is unlikely to retain its salience if Americans abandon the Anglo-Protestant culture in which it has been rooted. A multicultural America will, in time, become a multicreedal America, with groups with different cultures espousing distinctive political values and principles rooted in their particular cultures.

In time. In how much time? I do not think that fifteen years is an overly pessimistic estimate.

A nation that does not have the tribal bonding you get with a common culture—a nation that has actually, officially discarded the idea of a common culture as “exclusionary”—is more fragile than most. What happened to the USSR could happen to us, perhaps is happening already by slow degrees. We conservatives, who stand in dissident opposition to the reigning dogmas of liberalism and multiculturalism, as much braver souls like Andrei Amalrik stood in dissident opposition to the Marxist-Leninist dogmas of the USSR—we need to keep speaking these simple truths out loud..."

Praise be...

I thought they would never leave...Thank you Lord!

Sir Basil Seal investigates...

There has been an unseemly surge in traffic about Mayfair (says Holmes)...This has something to do with Mrs. P banning herself from her own website. We need not comment further on that here...Now far be it from me to frown upon traffic, not at all, at all...I can now look at the site meter and pretend I have more than 5 readers, quite invigorating really...But one must ask: Why Mayfair? As you can see from my picture and by reading my posts, that I am not what one would describe as a 'nice guy'. Mrs. P refuses to send me biscuits, Mrs. C fears me, I do not know why, and Christine would like me to leave the country, Well, really!...I do realize that I am someone whom you would like to take luncheon with...I don't know, could it be the empty comment boxes where just too tempting? Hummmmmm....

Basil Seal answers his mail...

As always happens when one makes intelligent and perceptive observations about the place one lives, the peanut gallery begins chanting 'America, Love It Or Leave It'...But I believe I have been misunderstood in this case...I do not loath the United States, far from it, I just happen to loath the majority of people who live there. As to why I continue to live in the United States, I live where I am told to live, like every other husband in the world (outside of the Muslim nations, of course) plus where would one go? Britain? Please, Britain no longer exists, (outside of Savile Row), it was mortally wounded during World War II and the left-liberal forces of democracy (mob rule) and egalitarianism moved in swiftly to finish her off. She is gone, may she rest in peace, and what really bothers me is the fact that the United States is soon to be next, but all seem oblivious to that fact.

Americans harp continually on the 'culture war', this, in itself, is laughable...'War' implies that there are at least two combatants engaged in conflict, each with the ability to harm the other...There is no war...The left won it many years ago and are now moving swiftly to mop up those few small pockets of resistance that remain. Face it, the left controls the government, (at all levels) the educational system, (both public and private) the media (in all forms that matter) and with the control of the media comes control of the mob. Oh yes my dear American friends, the mob rules, and it does the bidding of those in control...Sadder still is the fact that their victory was won over very little true resistance, not really much of a fight at all...As the lovable Darth Vader once said: "You are beaten, it is useless to resist"...

So please, do not take umbrage at criticism of your once great country. England has already gone down in defeat, I really don't want to watch the death of the United States as well, but fear that I will. Plus, if you would just learn to dress properly and turn off your damn television sets, I would spend all my time with my wardrobe and my books and leave you alone...

Sir Basil Seal

Happy Birthday General Longstreet

The best Corps Commander, on either side, during the American Civil War...He was a brilliant counter-puncher and was unfairly vilified after the war by his fellow Confederates for being dedicated to the restoration of the Union. Also unfairly blamed for Lee's defeat at Gettysburg...

Longstreet Society

Llamas...Robbo finds the General a better fighter than writer...

Jan. 8, 1815, we took a little trip...

He got lucky...

Happy Birthday King...

Like a certain military man, I have returned...

Gentle Readers, I have returned from my stay in Bermuda...One of the last tiny pink bits on the globe, a globe which at one time was very, very pink...Well, the Empire is now gone, replaced by the American one which softens victims up by the insidious use of movies and television and then, before the natives realize whats hit them, their doom is sealed when the new Disney World opens next door. They even took Britain, which is now just a small 'blue state' off the east coast with a socialist state government, a great tourism industry and a tennis tournament ...Hell, they rarely even have to use soldiers...But seeing that they haven't the stomach to beat Iraq, I suppose that's a good thing...

Anyway, I am back in the home of the vulgar, and land of the louche...It is a new year and I have new and wonderful things to pick on and destroy in these pages...I know you just can't wait...So, don't go away, I will be right back...I have to clean out some comment sections...Some of you know who I'm talking to...