Man About Mayfair

Retirement for Man About Mayfair

2007-08-29T22:31:00.001+01:00

Sir Basil Seal, 14th Baronet of Beauchamp-Cholmondeley of St. Jennifer
(Pronounced Beechum - Chumley)

Man About Mayfair R.I.P.

Well, over my holiday I gave some thought to blogs and blogging in an effort to decide if I wanted to continue, or fade gracefully into retirement. A part of me enjoys the blog and has wonderful fun messing about with it, but another part, hovering in the back of my mind, finds it all so silly and childish...Of course, then I remember that I am silly and childish, so there you go...I also have been writing the blog, in fits and starts, for four or five years now, and if the truth be told, I'm running out of things to talk about, so I need to spread them out a bit more.

I have been working diligently to weed out the readers here, in order to get down to that very discriminating and elite few. I think that I have been somewhat successful, if those blog stats things mean anything. So, I wanted to let the elite know that although Man About Mayfair is being retired, Sir Basil will still be working full time for Mr. and Mrs. P over at PP. I just realized that that's a lot of Ps...Anyway you must all go there faithfully each day with high hopes of hearing from me, Sir Basil Seal. Mrs. P does such a wonderful job of running a blog, and because it bores me to tears to do so, I think it best to let her handle that end of it, and I will just try to come up with as much asinine drivel as I can, and be a complete and utter snob there, instead of here.

So this is really not goodbye, just a see you later somewhere else...Thanks to everyone who has stopped by and left rude comments. I am sure they were deserved. And don't forget to visit me at my new home, Patum Peperium...Visit daily, hourly, just make it your homepage. I will see you there. And address all rude comments to Mrs. P, she's used to it. Thank you.

Sir Basil Seal

Sharp claws, warm heart...

2007-08-24T00:29:00.000+01:00

Elizabeth Taylor (1912-1975)
English Novelist

While Mrs. P was going on about excellent women and things of that nature, it brought to my mind Elizabeth Taylor. No, no, the other one, the novelist. Never heard of her? Well, that's not surprising, Benjamin Schwarz writes that "she is best known for not being better known". Part of the group of mid-20th-century women fiction writers like Rose Macaulay, Ivy Compton-Burnett, Sylvia Townsend Warner, Rosamond Lehmann and Barbara Pym, to name a few, who dealt with the domestic lives of middle and upper-middle-class women. She is considered to be one of the hidden treasures of the English novel. Her shrewd but affectionate portrayals of middle-class English life won her a discriminating audience but she never quite got the recognition she deserved during her lifetime. Noted for her precise use of language and scrupulously understated style, her enthusiasts have been as tireless as they have been unsuccessful in securing for her what Kingsley Amis called "her due as one of the best English novelists born in this century".

Like Austen, to whom she is most often compared, Taylor led a very tame and parochial life. She eschewed publicity and the London literary scene and, of course, her name obviously didn't help. She was the epitome of the upper-middle-class-housewife novelist. Of course, what she wrote about became terribly out of fashion during the time she wrote it, not exactly the stuff of the Angry Young Men. Elizabeth Jane Howard hailed her as one of the 20th century's most unfairly underread and underappreciated authors. But no one seems to have been able to influence whoever or whatever it is that decides who gets canonized and who doesn't.

But, as luck would have it, some of her books are still in print, courtesy of the UK publishing house Virago. If excellent women are your thing, there are none more excellent than she. As Mr. Schwarz notes: "...with her cool style, flexible and sharp-edged, she shunned sentimentality; her assessments were disconcertingly no-nonsense..." She had, as Angus Wilson said, "sharp claws" but a "warm heart". Look into it, when you find the time.

Happy Birthday Mr. Cuppy

2007-08-23T21:11:00.000+01:00

Will Cuppy (August 23,1884-September 19,1949)
American Humorist

The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody, one of the funniest books ever written, was penned by Will Cuppy. The fact that he is virtually unknown today goes to show how messed up today is. From Indiana and a graduate of the University of Chicago, Cuppy was a staple of the New Yorker during the 30s and 40s, and wrote his weekly column "Light Reading" for the New York Herald Tribune for 23 years. A wonderfully funny writer, he should be more well known, and of course more often read. Thankfully most of his books are still in print and available. Get some today. Happy Birthday Will Cuppy...

Books
- (1951) How to Get from January to December, New York: Holt. Edited by Fred Feldkamp. Illustrations by John Ruge.
- (1950) The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody, New York: Holt. Edited by Fred Feldkamp. Illustrations by William Steig.
- (1949) How to Attract the Wombat, New York: Rinehart.
- (1944) The Great Bustard and Other People (containing How to Tell Your Friends from the Apes and How to Become Extinct), New York : Murray Hill Books.
- (1941) How to Become Extinct, New York: Farrar and Rinehart. Illustrations by William Steig.
- (1931) How to Tell Your Friends from the Apes, New York: Horace Liveright, Inc. Introduction by P. G. Wodehouse. Illustrations by "Jacks."
- (1929) How to Be a Hermit, New York: Horace Liveright.
- (1910) Maroon Tales, Chicago: Forbes & Co..
Books, edited
- (1946) Murder Without Tears: An Anthology of Crime, New York: Sheridan House.
- (1943) World's Great Detective Stories: American and English Masterpieces, New York, Cleveland: World.
- (1943) World's Great Mystery Stories: American and English Masterpieces, New York, Cleveland: World.

As someone famous once said: I'm back...

2007-08-23T00:45:00.001+01:00

Yes, I am back, and though not necessarily with bells on, back none the less. I had a delightful summer holiday in Blighty and on the continent, and I am in the process of unpacking books and generally getting settled back into life in these, less than united states...I have much scribbled in my trusty Moleskine, which I am waiting, wanting and willing to tell you...So, if you are the patient sort, meaning at least over sixty, I will be with you in a moment. For the rest, you'll have to continue playing with your bean pod, or whatever it is...I will have some things for you all presently, and I will send some of the more highly polished (meaning naughty) ones over to Mrs. P...Oh, the fun we'll have now that I'm here...Until then...

Sir Basil Seal

Speaking with Sir Basil Seal

2007-06-15T12:25:00.000+01:00

Of late I have been in Dublin doing a series of interviews with the delightful Miss Nolagirl. Am having an enjoyable time, although sitting comfortably now seems to be a problem. Anyway, you can read the transcripts here...

Miss Nolagirl, I will be back in Dublin later in the summer. I will be staying at the Merrion and will meet you in St. Stephen's Green by the Wolf Tone statue. You'll know me, I'll be the one with the hat. Maybe we can catch Mass at the Pro-Cathedral? Until then...

Moving, sort of...

2007-05-21T19:00:00.001+01:00

I have been invited by the editor of a famous web zine to write a column on pretty much anything I want. Don't ask me why, I have no idea...Pity, I suppose. Nice work if you can get it. Therefore, since I am now a famous person, I have no time for the likes of you...I invite my 2.5 readers to follow me to Patum Peperium to read me and a highly select group of other columnists as well...So, please catch Sir Basil Seal over at his new home and please do not loiter about here while I'm away.

Waiting upon the Queen...

2007-05-04T08:51:00.000+01:00

I have been called upon to wait upon my Queen while she and the Prince Consort visit this ghastly country. As you may be aware, they are in the Commonwealth of Virginia, where it seems gunfire may be directed in her direction at anytime, if the habits of the locals are any indication. Seeing that there would be little chance of any locals actually helping or fighting back, other than possibly sending Her Majesty an email, she felt it prudent to call upon her Knights of the Realm and other assorted noblemen to provide support and be prepared to return fire. The Queen will be visiting Jamestown where she will be shown the myriad ways that her subjects oppressed, and otherwise hurt the feelings of, the naked savages they found loitering about the place and the African slaves they brought along with them. We, of course, could not give a rip, seeing that oppression has always been a real Englishman's business. Lucky for you that there are only about five of us left. But I'll bet we could still oppress you if we could find a good tailor in this Godforsaken place...If one must oppress, then one should always do so in style...Anyway, that is why I have been away, and am still away...After seeing Her Majesty safely back to Albion, I will return to whatever it was I was talking about before. Thank you.

Sir Basil Seal

Visit Sir Basil Seal...

2007-04-20T05:03:00.000+01:00

As you are well aware, last weekend there was a flying party going on at the House of Seal...Along with Mr. and Mrs. P we were graced with the presence of The Fiendish One of NYC and the good Padre came in for the fun. The Countess was our hostess for the weekend and the Baron played Uncle Fred to Maggie and Thomas...Mr. and Mrs. P are now searching desperately for a good child therapist to correct some new behaviours picked up from the Baron...We had many adventures over the weekend; we had a dinner and dance at the Club, a Garden Party, shooting, golf and actually got some flying in...We dealt with the Midwestern Catholic Women's Padre M. Admiration Society (Co-chaired by the Countess and Mrs. P) all weekend, helped The Fiendish One with Concrete Withdrawal, toured the closet of Sir Basil Seal, tripped the light fantastic with the young women of St. Euphemia of the Five Wounds, dealt with the case of the "dirty books", conducted hit-and-run raids against the kraut eating relatives of the Countess and someone (no names, yet) left vomitus maximus in my aircraft during an Immelmann...And much, much more...Stay tuned, if you will...

Hello Nick...

2007-04-19T22:50:00.000+01:00

Did you ever see The Thin Man series? In it, Nick Charles marries a very wealthy woman and spends his time thereafter looking after her business interests...Well, I am in that exact situation, minus the sleuthing parts of course...As of late, there has been a flurry of buying and selling which has required me to actually go to the office. I am not happy...Anyway, I have not forgotten my series on our Flying Party...It is in the works and will be out soon in serial form...So, keep checking in...

Things at knee level...

2007-04-17T22:47:00.000+01:00

I am recovering from my weekend revel, and am busy preparing my manuscript which details the goings-on at Castle Seal and environs...While you wait, and it won't be too long, read about Sir Basil and Mr. P...Quite diaphanous reading...

By the way, a while back I attended the 3rd Birthday Bash for the Hatemonger's Quarterly...(Yes, I was invited) While there, I noticed that there was not a Birkenstock in sight...I have great hopes for the Crack Young Staff...Chip was even sporting double cuffs, although he does have an indifferent tailor or a small trust fund...Needless to say I was proud to be such a good influence on the young folk...Happy Birthday.

Speaking of birthdays, Man About Mayfair turned 1 year old on March 31st and I forgot all about it...Has it been a year already? Time flies, etc. Happy Birthday to me...

Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends...

2007-04-13T01:59:00.000+01:00

It is time...The guests will begin to arrive soon clamoring for attention, and in Mr. P's case, Black Velvet...The guest rooms are in readiness and I must remember to remove the Flashman books from the shelves in the good Padre's room and replace them with Thomas a'Kempis...La Grande Dame is on ice, the oysters are on the half shell, the kegs of Guinness are tapped and the Tiger Moth is prepped and ready...And the Countess has consented to be our hostess for the weekend, against her better judgment I am sure...So, let the festivities commence...I promise to tell you all about it...

Please forgive me...

2007-04-12T01:51:00.000+01:00

My Dear reader(s)....Terribly sorry for my absence of late...The Countess has cornered me into actually doing some work the past week or so...Well, I can't hide from her all the time...I am also busy preparing for the flying party I am giving this weekend...Mr. and Mrs. P, The Fiendish One and the good Padre are all scheduled to attend, and I am hoping that the weather will clear a bit...It will, of course, be loads of fun and the oysters are being flown in from the coast (the East one)...I will be publishing full details of all the goings-on next week...So, please stay with me during this busy time, and you will receive your reward...

By the way, I seem to have pulled the proverbial wool over the eyes of Robbo...He need'nt worry though, I did the same thing to the Countess...And remember, it is pronounced "Evilin Waar"...

From the Archives: English Women I've Known...

2007-03-30T02:53:00.000+01:00

Inscription reads: "My Dearest Basil, please don't be a stranger...Forever yours, Joan"

Good people have become a defeated class in Blair's Britain

2007-03-30T01:11:00.000+01:00

"...Such a development could not have taken place overnight. My wife, who is French, was attracted to the culture of this country because, as late as 1979 or 1980, the people, including administrators in hospitals, were obviously upright, whatever else their failings might have been. A quarter of a century later, all that has changed; deviousness, ruthlessness, an eye fixed on the main chance, sanctimony in the midst of obvious wrongdoing, toadying and bullying have become the ruling characteristics of the British people, or at least those of them who are in charge of something. The old virtues - stoicism, honesty, fortitude, irony, good humour and so forth - can still be found, but only in people who are of no importance, at least in the public administration. If I may put it very strongly, good people are like a defeated class in this country.

How has this all happened? I think that the spread of tertiary education has had quite a lot to do with it. First, it created a very large class of people who had to be found white collar jobs, since there is nothing more dangerous for a society's stability than a large number of unemployed people who consider themselves to be intellectuals. The obvious way to absorb such people was the expansion of the public service.

Second, the expansion of tertiary education resulted in the over-intellectualisation of society. Unfortunately, the average or median level of intellectual activity was very poor, but it meant that the concept of virtue in society changed. Henceforth, virtue was not the exercise of discipline, self-control or benevolence for the sake of others, but the expression of the right opinions of the moment. This could not have been better illustrated than in the case of the Conservative front-bencher, a former colonel who was very much liked and respected by his black soldiers, several of whom he promoted, and who defended him vigorously, who said something marginally unacceptable (its truth or untruth was not important), and had to be sacked as a consequence. Sticks and stones may not break my bones, but words will always hurt me.

When words become the test of virtue, they also become the masks of vice. That is why sanctimony and ruthless self-interest are such powerful allies."

Mr. P talks to Sir Basil Seal...And proves he is the chap...

2007-03-28T19:43:00.000+01:00

Mr. and Mrs. P

"Once again it takes an Englishman to say the things publicly that I have said privately for years--and never out loud for fear of being dragged into a hollow square of middle-aged men dressed in black t-shirts and jeans with shaved heads and wire-rimmed granny glasses who proceed to deprive me of my button-down shirt.

"Be an individual; join our group" is a slogan that covers more than just clothing in this country. It sums up the whole range of life, from the politics we follow to the books we read (or buy and keep on the coffee table to give the impression that we have read them). It is a land where anything formal and beautiful is immediately smeared with the label "conservative", where "creativity" in art is a code word for a kind of free-form chaos that mirrors and ratifies the moral abyss in the lives of those who create the it as well as those who patronize it.

You have merely scratched the surface, my dear Basil...but what a surface to scratch. You had better make sure all your shots are up to date."

Britain in the Ashtray

2007-03-28T14:40:00.000+01:00

"...Let it simply be said that Notes on a Scandal shows a kind of genius. That genius lies in the completeness with which it reveals a society as free from all ethical moorings - as free even from the vaguest recollection of ethical moorings - as Weimar Republican Berlin. Apart from two minor characters (Stephen’s bewildered father, and a briefly glimpsed veterinary surgeon who attends to Barbara’s cat), the only figure capable of behaving like an adult is Barbara. And she herself soon comes to take an unhealthy interest, possibly erotic, in Sheba. The difference is that she realizes the interest’s unhealthiness, and labors to abide by a moral code that she did not simply filch from last month’s number of Marie-Claire. Such labors make her as undesirable a freak, to her colleagues, as if she were Jane Austen. Therefore she must be punished with the full rigor of BoBo justice, where the Nanny State’s law counts for everything and the wider natural law counts for nothing; where friendships are ended not by grown-up discussion, but by the issuance of restraining orders; where being a narcissistic little girl trapped in a fortyish art teacher’s body is considered, not a disgrace to adulthood, but a valid lifestyle choice.

There is no reason to suppose that this near-perfect depiction of nihilism exaggerates, in any way, the quotidian horror of Britain under Blair. There is every reason to suppose that, if anything, it understates such horror. The British dispatches from Theodore Dalrymple, Peter Hitchens, and Geoffrey Wheatcroft regularly convey to us a land as unrecognizable from its 1970s self (some of us remember that self from our youth) as today’s Spain is from Franco’s. Note that to perceive Britain’s current thoroughgoing civilizational corruption, we need not even behold Blairism’s most specific miseries: the exorbitant crime rates that have ineluctably resulted from gun control; the inundation of every British metropolis under Islam’s tide; the home-grown terrorists; or the same-sex “civil union” bill that a putatively Christian Queen Elizabeth II signed into law. Notes on a Scandal leaves these unmentioned. They would be irrelevant. Sheba Hart’s environment is, heaven help us, the comparatively amiable face of modern Britain. Orwell’s words remain apposite:

“Emancipation is complete. Freud and Machiavelli have reached the outer suburbs ... one is driven to feel that snobbishness, like hypocrisy, is a check upon behavior whose value from a social point of view has been underrated.”..."

See this film...

2007-03-27T17:15:00.000+01:00

I accidentally saw this film and found it to be a delightfully biting satire. It is a film by Mike Judge (Office Space) and he skewers the entire breakfast buffet from the land of the vulgarians in a pleasantly savage manner. Be careful not to mistake this film for what it is satirizing...This would be easy to do and some of the material is extremely vulgar and painful to watch. But it has to be done this way in order to be effective, so bear with it, and you will be rewarded. There are some very funny and hilariously satirical bits in this film...I have been ranting against pop culture for years, and Mr. Judge has come along and skewered it on film for me. Thank you, sir...

"...A perfectly cast Luke Wilson stars as a quintessential everyman who hibernates for centuries and wakes up in a society so degraded by insipid popular culture, crass consumerism, and rampant anti-intellectualism that he qualifies as the smartest man in the world. Corporations cater even more unashamedly to the primal needs of the lowest common denominator—Starbucks now traffics in handjobs as well as lattes—and the English language has devolved into a hilarious patois of hillbilly, Ebonics, and slang.

Idiocracy's dumb-ass dystopia suggests a world designed by Britney Spears and Kevin Federline, a world where the entire populace skirts the fine line separating mildly retarded from really fucking stupid, and where anyone displaying any sign of intelligence is derided as a fag. Working on a sprawling canvas, Judge fills the screen with visual jokes, throwaway gags, and incisive commentary on the ubiquity of advertising—for instance, with the presidential-cabinet member who works paid plugs for Carl's Jr. into everyday conversations. Like so much superior science fiction, Idiocracy uses a fantastical future to comment on a present in which Paris Hilton is infinitely more famous than Nobel laureates. There's a good chance that Judge's smartly lowbrow Idiocracy will be mistaken for what it's satirizing, but good satire always runs the risk—to borrow a phrase from a poster-boy for the reverse meritocracy—of being misunderestimated..."

Interview with Sir Basil Seal

2007-03-26T01:59:00.000+01:00

The Belleview Tattle
Monday, March 26, 2007
by Brian Howard

Catching up with Sir Basil Seal

With the advent of Spring and Easter right around the corner, men everywhere, we are sure, are brushing off the white bucks and ensuring that the moths have not gotten to their linen suits or their seersucker. With this in mind, we caught up with Sir Basil Seal, to get this famously well-dressed and menacingly well-groomed mans advice on what we should be wearing this season. Mr. Seal, an Englishman, has lived among us for many years, sharing a home with his wife, the Countess von Knebel-Ezell, out on the Tanglebrook Estate in Hunter's Way. In his home country of England, Mr. Seal himself is a Baronet, the 14th Baronet of Beauchamp-Cholmondeley of St. Jennifer, to be exact, which he informs us is pronounced "Beechum-Chumley". Who would have thought it. He still has the ancestral home in Gloucestershire, which he says he visits regularly. In England, Mr. Seal was educated at The Oratory School, Oxfordshire and at St. Benet's Hall, Oxford. In the United States, Mr. Seal did graduate work at The University of Dallas. We caught up with Mr. Seal at his home, and sat down in his library, which seems to be quite a bit larger than the local public variety, to chat. As befitting his reputation, Mr. Seal was wearing a perfectly cut navy serge suit with white Sea Island cotton double-cuffed shirt and a yellow with sky blue dots seven-fold neck tie, and linen pocket square:

BT: Well, Mr. Seal, I'm...

BS: I'm going to smoke.

BT: Er, yes...What?

BS: I have a cigarette, I have lighted it, I am smoking.

BT: Well, yes, Okay...Well, I'm...

BS: Would you like a cigarette?

BT: What? Smoke? Oh, no, no don't smoke...Uh, but go ahead...

BS: Thank you.

BT: This is quite a room...Kind of almost like a Barnes and Noble...

BS: Yes, except mine actually has books in it...

BT: Well, yes, yes it does...

BS: Are you the young man who rang up to talk about how to dress? I take from your appearance and the absence of a proper crease on any article of your clothing that you are seeking some personal guidance?

BT: Well no, I mean yes, I'm here from the Tattler to interview you about fashion advice...

BS: Did you say fashion?

BT: Uh, yes...

BS: You obviously have me confused with someone else. I know nothing about fashion.

BT: Er, yes, but...I mean, I wanted to talk about what to wear, and that sort of thing, you know...

BS: That sort of thing? You mean you want me to dispense some sage advice on how the American male should dress this season? Something along the lines of fabric choices, cut, drape, shoes, hose...That sort of thing?

BT: Yes, yes, that's it exactly...I'd like to ask...

BS: Why?

BT: Ask you...What?...Why?...I don't...

BS: Why would you want me to dispense such advice to your readers when only four of them will understand the half of it and two of those will ignore it anyway.

BT: Well, Mr. Seal, I'm sure there are many men interested in what you...

BS: Will you take tea?

BT: What? Tea? Iced tea, now? I...

BS: My dear boy, I am having tea, you notice the tray here between us? It, of course is not iced by any means...I will pour you a cup, you look as if you could use it...A little demerara, a little cream...There you go, relax, take your time...Better? You were saying?

BT: Damn!

BS: I beg your pardon?

BT: I mean dang, sorry, it's hot...

BS: You amaze me...

BT: Well, dang...I was saying, that I'm sure our readers would love to hear what you have to say...I mean some men are still interested in how to dress in the proper way...

BS: Yes, yes, I'm sure that's why the nearest tailor is in London...

BT: London?

BS: Never mind...Let me give you the best possible advice for a gentleman who is serious about dressing properly and well in America...And to then be appreciated as a well dressed gentleman...

BT: Okay...What is it?

BS: Move.

BT: Move? You mean move your body? Shake a leg? Move?

BS: Move. Away.

BT: Meaning what exactly? Leave and move?

BS: Both. To a land without baseball caps, t-shirts or trousers worn about the knees. Move to a land without fashion designers or logos or gym shoes as the primary mode of footwear. Move to a land where young men are not given "Mr. T Starter Kits" on their birthday. Move to a land where "comfort" is not used as an excuse to be lazy and slovenly, where "to express oneself" is not used as an excuse to abandon self respect and respect for others. Move from a land where people tout "individualism" but are the biggest sheep on the planet, following every fad or whim that someone else tells them is "the thing". Where proper modes of male dress are not dictated by illiterate half-wits working for women's magazines. The rot is too deep my friend...The only thing left for it, is to move. Find a good tailor, it won't be in this country, outside of New York City anyway, and move close by.

BT: Uh...Well...

BS: More tea?

BT: No, no thanks, I think I've got it now, I'll be running along...

BS: You're not staying to dinner? You are quite welcome...

BT: No, no thanks, gotta go...Thanks for your time Mr. Seal...Very interesting...

BS: I am always happy to help out in any way I can...Let me show you out...

Read and learn with Sir Basil...

2007-03-25T16:34:00.000+01:00

Of course, we would be better of today, had we listened to Saki yesterday...

HERMANN THE IRASCIBLE - A STORY OF THE GREAT WEEP

by Saki (H. H. Munro)

It was in the second decade of the twentieth century, after the Great Plague had devastated England, that Hermann the Irascible, nicknamed also the Wise, sat on the British throne. The Mortal Sickness had swept away the entire Royal Family, unto the third and fourth generations, and thus it came to pass that Hermann the Fourteenth of Saxe-Drachsen-Wachtelstein, who had stood thirtieth in the order of succession, found himself one day ruler of the British dominions within and beyond the seas. He was one of the unexpected things that happen in politics, and he happened with great thoroughness. In many ways he was the most progressive monarch who had sat on an important throne; before people knew where they were, they were somewhere else. Even his Ministers, progressive though they were by tradition, found it difficult to keep pace with his legislative suggestions.

"As a matter of fact," admitted the Prime Minister, "we are hampered by these votes-for-women creatures; they disturb our meetings throughout the country, and they try to turn Downing Street into a sort of political picnic-ground."

"They must be dealt with," said Hermann.

"Dealt with," said the Prime Minister; "exactly, just so; but how?"

"I will draft you a Bill," said the King, sitting down at his typewriting machine, "enacting that women shall vote at all future elections. Shall vote, you observe; or, to put it plainer, must. Voting will remain optional, as before, for male electors; but every woman between the ages of twenty-one and seventy will be obliged to vote, not only at elections for Parliament, county councils, district boards, parish councils, and municipalities, but for coroners, school inspectors, churchwardens, curators of museums, sanitary authorities, police-court interpreters, swimming-bath instructors, contractors, choir-masters, market superintendents, art-school teachers, cathedral vergers, and other local functionaries whose names I will add as they occur to me. All these offices will become elective, and failure to vote at any election falling within her area of residence will involve the female elector in a penalty of £10. Absence, unsupported by an adequate medical certificate, will not be accepted as an excuse. Pass this Bill through the two Houses of Parliament and bring it to me for signature the day after to-morrow."

From the very outset the Compulsory Female Franchise produced little or no elation even in circles which had been loudest in demanding the vote. The bulk of the women of the country had been indifferent or hostile to the franchise agitation, and the most fanatical Suffragettes began to wonder what they had found so attractive in the prospect of putting ballot-papers into a box. In the country districts the task of carrying out the provisions of the new Act was irksome enough; in the towns and cities it became an incubus. There seemed no end to the elections. Laundresses and seamstresses had to hurry away from their work to vote, often for a candidate whose name they hadn't heard before, and whom they selected at haphazard; female clerks and waitresses got up extra early to get their voting done before starting off to their places of business. Society women found their arrangements impeded and upset by the continual necessity for attending the polling stations, and week-end parties and summer holidays became gradually a masculine luxury. As for Cairo and the Riviera, they were possible only for genuine invalids or people of enormous wealth, for the accumulation of o10 fines during a prolonged absence was a contingency that even ordinarily wealthy folk could hardly afford to risk.

It was not wonderful that the female disfranchisement agitation became a formidable movement. The No-Votes-for-Women League numbered its feminine adherents by the million; its colours, citron and old Dutch-madder, were flaunted everywhere, and its battle hymn, "We don't want to Vote," became a popular refrain. As the Government showed no signs of being impressed by peaceful persuasion, more violent methods came into vogue. Meetings were disturbed, Ministers were mobbed, policemen were bitten, and ordinary prison fare rejected, and on the eve of the anniversary of Trafalgar women bound themselves in tiers up the entire length of the Nelson column so that its customary floral decoration had to be abandoned. Still the Government obstinately adhered to its conviction that women ought to have the vote.

Then, as a last resort, some woman wit hit upon an expedient which it was strange that no one had thought of before. The Great Weep was organized. Relays of women, ten thousand at a time, wept continuously in the public places of the Metropolis. They wept in railway stations, in tubes and omnibuses, in the National Gallery, at the Army and Navy Stores, in St. James's Park, at ballad concerts, at Prince's and in the Burlington Arcade. The hitherto unbroken success of the brilliant farcical comedy "Henry's Rabbit" was imperilled by the presence of drearily weeping women in stalls and circle and gallery, and one of the brightest divorce cases that had been tried for many years was robbed of much of its sparkle by the lachrymose behaviour of a section of the audience.

"What are we to do?" asked the Prime Minister, whose cook had wept into all the breakfast dishes and whose nursemaid had gone out, crying quietly and miserably, to take the children for a walk in the Park.

"There is a time for everything," said the King; "there is a time to yield. Pass a measure through the two Houses depriving women of the right to vote, and bring it to me for the Royal assent the day after to-morrow."

As the Minister withdrew, Hermann the Irascible, who was also nicknamed the Wise, gave a profound chuckle.

"There are more ways of killing a cat than by choking it with cream," he quoted, "but I'm not sure," he added, "that it's not the best way."

Meet Sir Basil Seal

2007-03-23T13:48:00.000Z

I noticed a write-up on myself and Man About Mayfair over at a place called "The People's Media Company". Well, any group whose title includes the words 'the' and 'people's' is one, for obvious reasons, which has me reaching for the Riot Act...Anyway, there is a lady in Dublin who ran across Man About Mayfair, and has written an introduction for the uninitiated. An introduction which includes many mentions of 'snob', 'prig', 'aristocrat', etc...I must point out a few errors in her write-up, she got the 'snob' and 'prig' part right, but the other website she mentions concerning the Legion of Well-Dressed Men actually belongs to RW, I am just a humble member, and I cannot vouch for RW being a snob or not. And my wife is not a 'baroness' but a Countess...My son is the Baron...And my language is not reminiscent of a 'Dickens novel', I eschew Dickens, how about Waugh or Munro, I would be in better company with those comparisons. And really, everyone is welcome, but a jacket and tie are required...Helps keep the riff-raff out, don't you know...She does go into some technical detail about search engines and the like, which seems to indicate, to my immense relief, that I am hard to find. "Advertise my domain" forsooth, I should think a gentleman would never stoop to advertise anything...But anyway, It is indeed a pleasure to meet you Didi of Ireland, and thank you so much for stopping by...

Now people, be honest, do you really think I look like a snob in my portrait?

Sir Basil Seal salutes: Padre M....

2007-03-22T17:14:00.000Z

As many of you know, the good Padre M. is the official Padre of Man About Mayfair as well as the Chaplain of the RCBfA. He was kind enough to share this photograph of himself and Fr. Tucker of Dappled Things, strolling in their soutanes, (the good Padre is on the left) after we had been discussing the state of priestly dress in my diocese. What I like about these young men of God, is that they look like young men of God. Now, I am a Latin Masser, so the soutane is the only garb you will see in my little world, but I must say that in the wider church, it has all but disappeared, although the good news is that according to Padre M it is still widely worn in his diocese of Arlington.

Now the good Padre has informed me that he serves as my official Padre because he believes that I am a test sent to him by Satan, and he is not the sort to back down from a dust-up with the Evil One. I told him, that by happy coincidence, that is exactly the same thing that my parents always told me while I was growing up and trying to locate where they had moved to while I was away at school...So the Padre probably has something there...Anyway, he is a fine young man, and a dedicated servant of God, and I'm thankful to have him in my life. He also has a very keen sense of humor, which makes his association with me much easier on him.

As Padre M's fame grows (he is described as the next Fulton Sheen and will no doubt one day put on the red hat) there have been a few, less than reverent, shall we say, young ladies who have noticed that the Padre has been blessed with strikingly good looks. Some have even gone so far as to dub him the nations number one "Father What-a-Waste"! Now ladies, please...It is true that the good Padre is a very handsome young man, but his call to the ministry is by no means a waste. As the Lord has blessed him with physical beauty (a small portion of which Sir Basil would have been thankful a few years back) we have been blessed by the Padre's dedication to God and the Church and his ministry to us all. Not a "waste" by any means...

So here's to you Padre! We need more like you. Keep up the good work and may God bless you and your Bishop and may the Lord keep you safe and well. I promise to try not to test you...(much)...

Sir Basil Seal

Sir Basil Seal asks: Whose your Llama?

2007-03-22T16:26:00.000Z

Would you, er, gentlemen care to explain this distinctly un-Snake Pliskin-not to mention-Lee Van Cleef-like photo, or should we all pretend it never happened? You do realize this would constitute a speed bump on the Path to Rome. I realize the ECUSA would only be upset about the smokes, but I meant the dresses...Well?...

Back in the day, Sir Basil Seal would take it strong to the hole...

2007-03-22T01:05:00.000Z

But he preferred to lurk on the outside and spot up for the easy jumpah and play little or no defense while passing only under duress. Since March Madness has rolled around in the States, many of my readers write to me and say: "Sir Basil, if I remember correctly, back in the day, were you not somewhat the basketball god"...Well, in all modesty, I must confess that I was. You see, a small portion of my school days were spent in the States, against my wishes of course, but there you are...When I arrived on campus, it was common knowledge that I was a lawn tennis phenom in the Mother Country and of course played Cricket and was somewhat a hand with a foil, so the coaching staff immediately signed me up for basketball. Of course they recognized my superior English athletic ability, my fleet feet and my Adonis like physique...I also happened to be the only person available at that time to make up a side, but I'm not sure that factored into it...But as you can see, canvas shoes (Chuck Taylors by Converse, even today my only sneaker is the Jack Purcell by, of course, Converse. How they have survived Nike I have no idea) were good enough for us, we actually wore socks and pulled them up to our thighs proudly, we bravely donned our "Daisy Duke shorts" (you know the one's, with the little belt on the front) and played ball. We did not dunk, which was illegal, not that any of us could reach the rim anyway, and we, especially me, stood way outside and drained the jumpah, for which we were awarded two points, not three. And most importantly we were smart enough not to try and compete with the brothers...I rarely watch the game today, the players are just so good, that it is kind of embarrassing to remember how terrible most of us were. Although I will add that the uniforms worn by todays players are just absolutely ridiculous. Choose pants or shorts, one or the other please. Plus being able to turn-the-ball-over while dribbling and getting those nebulous 6 or 7 steps to the basket doesn't hurt performance either...Well anyway, it's not Cricket, but when in Rome...Although short, white and slow with no ability to break free of gravity, we had fun and of course loads of style...

Cathy Seipp, RIP

2007-03-20T15:39:00.000Z

Cathy Seipp has passed away from lung cancer...May she rest in peace. She will be missed and our prayers go out to her friends and family.

Monarchy in the age of New Labour

2007-03-20T00:41:00.000Z

Peter Hitchens:

"...Anyone who tries to discuss the political role of the monarchy is immediately banged over the head by tedious quotations from Walter Bagehot (it helps a lot if you know this is pronounced Badjot), who for some reason is believed to be the last word on the subject, thanks to some 19th-century scribblings that have become famous. He limited the functions of the monarch to muttering hesitant advice, and perhaps warnings, into the ears of ministers. This is taken as a sort of gospel on the subject.

And this might have worked in the dead era when the British establishment was run by gentlemen. Though don't be so sure. George V exerted all his influence to obtain a peaceful settlement in Ireland in 1921, which few can object to, but was he entitled to do so? He may well have gone beyond his powers in helping set up the National Government of 1931. Edward VIII came close to causing complete constitutional catastrophe. George VI utterly disgraced himself when he publicly lauded Neville Chamberlain's catastrophic surrender at Munich in 1938, an error he atoned for later but which oughtn't to be overlooked, ever. It is not often enough remembered that George VI and his Queen (the future Queen Mother) invited Chamberlain on to the balcony of Buckingham Palace to bathe in the cheers and admiration of a gigantic, deluded crowd, the whole embarrassing scene illuminated by the only anti-aircraft searchlights then available in London.

There are a couple of interesting fictional reflections on this that are worth looking at. George Macdonald Fraser's 'Mr American', one of his few non-Flashman books, contains an well-observed and historically well-informed depiction of Edward VII and examines the cunning and shrewdness that monarch used to keep pre-1914 Britain from flying apart. Constantine Fitz Gibbon's enjoyable and bitter Cold War thriller 'When the Kissing Had to Stop’ has some cunningly-described scenes as various highly responsible and senior persons try to use the traditional safeguards of the British constitution to prevent a pretty obvious coup d'etat. In an entirely believable way, they all persuade themselves that they are powerless to act until it is too late, and the putsch, with all its terrible consequences, succeeds.

Why does this matter? I think our obsession with 'democracy' as the only thing that makes government legitimate tends to blind us to the importance of other things. Why do we make such a fetish out of universal suffrage? If you had a choice between liberty and democracy - which are by no means the same thing, which would you pick? If you had a choice between the rule of public opinion and the rule of law, which would you pick? Are we safer with both Houses of Parliament 'elected' by party machines, or with at least one House whose members are immune from 'democratic' party pressure?

Actually, pure democracy would be unbearable, since every politician, to survive or prosper, would have to be a crowd-pleasing Blair type (actually, this now seems to be more and more what we have got).

Even assuming that we could reconstruct something like a decent education system, it is hard to see how a state governed purely by the popular will could be anything other than a corrupt anarchy, or a demagogic dictatorship. The purest product of mass democracy since it came into being was Adolf Hitler - whose National Socialists would have won an absolute majority in the Reichstag under our first-past-the post system, by the way. This isn't an argument against that system( which I favour) just a warning against being complacent.

Mass opinion can prevent good actions, as well as stimulating bad ones. It was American democracy, and the fervent campaigns of the America Firsters, that prevented Franklin Roosevelt from aiding Britain against Hitler. US public opinion was dead against involvement in a European war, and it's still not clear what would have happened if Hitler hadn't declared war on the USA after Pearl Harbor.

So most serious wielders of power in democratic states devise ways of frustrating, or getting round the 'people's will' which they praise in public. Mostly, these days, these anti-democrats are of the left. In the US, a largely liberal elite has for decades been using the unelected third chamber of Congress - the Supreme Court - to pass radical social legislation. In Canada, left-wingers who could never get anywhere in parliamentary politics have exploited the 'Charter of Rights and Freedoms' to do the same sort of thing.

And the European Convention on Human Rights gives liberal judges and the lawyers the same power to intervene here. The balance of our mixed constitution, partly as a result of this, has tipped heavily towards the Left. Parliament, especially the House of Commons, is now the servant of a left-wing governing party, not at all its master. So who or what can speak for tradition, for conservative opinions, for private life and family, for inheritance and continuity? Certainly not the Tory Party, which flatly refused to defend the hereditary principle against the attacks of Baroness Jay (who just happened to be the daughter of Jim Callaghan, and had no other visible qualification for her grand post as Leader of the Lords, in one of the best jokes of the 1990s).

That Tory failure to defend heredity was a warning to the British people and the monarchy that worse was to come. We all actually value inheritance - we expect to leave, or be left our goods and wealth in legally enforceable wills. We all know that we inherit important characteristics and gifts from our parents, and hope to pass such things on. Our state, with its memory and experience stretching back a thousand years, inherits each generation the principles of law and justice and liberty wrought by centuries of experience and combat. So what is wrong with a Head of State who embodies this idea?

Nothing, except that he or she gets in the way of the Left's desire for total control over the state, especially over the things previously regarded as politically neutral and so loyal to the crown - the civil service, the armed forces and the police. All these bodies are now increasingly politicised. I think that the moment is approaching when the monarchy has either to assert itself or be abolished. The danger is that, in asserting itself, it may get abolished as a punishment, while being slandered as unrepresentative, elitist etc. It will be a very difficult and risky moment..."

Literary Scamp

2007-03-19T01:50:00.000Z

Arthur Jones writing in Notre Dame Magazine:

"It was February 24, 1949. A bitter winter rain battered the Notre Dame campus. Unconcernedly striding through it, despite water streaming over the brim of his bowler hat and saturating his serviceable tweed coat, was Evelyn Waugh (pronounced EVE-lin war).

Writer of the U.S. best sellers Brideshead Revisited (1945) and The Loved One (1948), Waugh had arrived first-class to examine the church of immigrant Catholic Americans who had made the same trip from Europe traveling steerage. During his two-part winter of 1948-49 reporting trip for Life magazine, it is unlikely Waugh actually met an immigrant, unless one happened to wait on him in a restaurant or on a train.

Half-a-pace behind, and equally wet, was Ken Thoren, intrepid reporter for Notre Dame's weekly, The Scholastic. This was Thoren's sole opportunity to buttonhole Waugh, who had addressed the crowded Navy Drill Hall on campus the previous evening on his eminently repeatable topic, "Three Convert Writers" -- referring to his fellow Englishmen G.K. Chesterton, Father Ronald Knox and Graham Greene.

Waugh's choice of topic was deceptively easy -- Knox and Greene were personal friends, and he knew Chesterton fairly well. He spoke entertainingly, with wit and without notes, according to one young priest present that evening, Father Theodore Hesburgh, CSC. However, his visit to Notre Dame and other U.S. Catholic colleges was something of a charade. He was not in America to sell himself but to indulge himself. He'd been in the United States the year before with his wife, Laura, on a luxurious trip to Hollywood underwritten by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, which wanted to make Brideshead Revisited into a movie.

What he sought in 1948 was another excuse to escape from a war-torn England and his five children, all younger than 11. He didn't like the company of children. Nor did he like England's socialist government and its policies, which he referred to as "Welfaria."

In Britain, everything that was essential was rationed: food, fuel, clothing, even travel money. The British were limited to a mere 20 pounds ($100) British currency foreign travel allowance. Waugh, therefore, laid his America plans carefully..."

"...At Notre Dame, on the dismal February morning following his talk, Waugh sat back in a leather chair in the students' dining hall, puffed on a cigar and talked informally with 15 or so students. (In Life magazine he referred to America's young Catholics as a "Catholic proletariat.") Father Leo L. Ward, CSC, moderated the discussion. The dining room conversation was ended by a telephone call that advised Waugh he must leave for the train station. As the English writer departed, he let hang the answer to the students' final question, "What do you think of America?"

The Waugh who addressed the Navy Drill Hall audience was unabashedly anti-American. Much of it, but not all, was a pose. Unlike his deliberate rudeness to people he did not know, Waugh's anti-Americanism waned with the years.

Now, striding through the rain, Waugh tackled the "America" topic by addressing the unavailability of alcohol in the university cafeteria, "I should think," he told Scholastic reporter Thoren, "you would have great tankards of wine or liquor at the end of your [cafeteria] lines instead of those teetotaling liquids. One should consume great quantities of wine while eating."

At which point Father Ward caught up with the wet duo and began to explain University regulations regarding alcoholic consumption. Waugh would have none of it. "I still maintain," he said, "that [wine and beer in the cafeteria] is better than having them take swigs of gin in their lodgings. Which they probably do, don't they?" Waugh's question provoked no response from Father Ward. Meantime another man arrived with a black umbrella.

Waugh wouldn't let the topic go. He turned to the trio and asked if they knew what Chesterton had to say about drinking. They admitted they did not. So the three stood in the rain as Waugh, under the umbrella and showing off, faced them and recited:

Feast on wine or fast on water
And your honor shall stand sure,
God Almighty's son and daughter
He the valiant, she the pure;
If an angel out of heaven
Brings you other things to drink,
Thank him for his kind attention,
Go and pour them down the sink.

And with that he disappeared into the infirmary to await the University chauffeur..."

"...in 1928, he was the toast of London for his book Decline and Fall. Two years after that he was receiving plaudits in New York as the daring, entertaining, witty, delightfully ironic chronicler of the era's Bright Young People.

On a far deeper level, Notre Dame's Catholic students would have admired -- or been mystified by -- what Waugh was currently up to as a Catholic: deliberately sacrificing his career and glowing future.

For the laudatory reviewers had recoiled when Waugh became a "Catholic" writer. Waugh fully understood. He wrote that his Catholic novel Brideshead Revisited had cost him "the loss of such esteem as I once enjoyed among my contemporaries."

The esteem had been real enough. The pre-eminent American critic Edmund Wilson, in the 1930s had described Waugh as "the only first-rate comic genius that has appeared in English since Bernard Shaw." In 1945, however, when Brideshead Revisited appeared, with its unhappy family of committed, fallen away or newly attracted Roman Catholics, Wilson scoffed, "It is a Catholic tract," and "as the author's taste fails him, the excellent writing goes to seed."

In 1947, Waugh turned down the most money he'd ever see in his life, roughly $1 million (in today's dollars), by refusing to let MGM film Brideshead Revisited -- because he wanted to retain control of its Catholic message, its "theology."

After 1948's The Loved One he would place his pen at the service of the church -- though on his own terms -- and get along as best he could. He would return to the path he'd set himself on with Brideshead Revisited; he would write books about Catholic Christianity not aimed at Catholics.

The parallel lines and crossovers between Waugh the Catholic man and Waugh the Catholic writer are worth a brief explanation..."

continue...

The Way of the WASP

2007-03-19T00:32:00.000Z

Mr. J. M. Garcia III (a Junta member) explains the mystery that is the "Social Register"...It, of course, is not Debrett's, but, then again, treating poorly dressed actors, thuggish athletes and vulgar performers like royalty makes up for it, don't you know...

"...The matter of social class in the United States is intriguing, because as a democratic republic we ostensibly did away with all aristocracy. While this affords a measure of fluidity to the various strata of society similar to the fluidity available in the economic strata (albeit with something of a lag), it also means the notions of class are a difficult target to keep in one’s sights. In places such as the United Kingdom, the matter is far more rigid. There is a monarch as well as dukes, earls, barons and viscounts, plus tomes such as “Debrett’s Peerage” to help everyone keep all these details straight. Fortunately, here in the United States we have something similar; the aforesaid “Social Register.”

While the whole getting-in process is gilded with a glittering lack of specifics, it is a very safe wager this is one of those invitation-only affairs. As near as I can tell, it seems anyone eager to get listed therein must be sponsored and seconded by a number of people already listed. If time is of the essence one may, of course, marry a listee, which seems to work well for women marrying a listee. Men who marry a listee usually see their listee metamorphose into a former listee. Why the Y chromosome should prove a more reliable indicator of NOKDness is something yet to be clarified, but we must accept it as fact. Regardless of your marriage(s), you are not guaranteed Thing One, listing-wise. Pretty much the only guarantee is winning a presidential election. It once was the case Presidents used to be among the listed even before getting so much as elected dogcatcher. This all changed with Harry Truman, who was not 1945’s idea of a Society man.

Afterwards, all Presidents get themselves listed.

When you’re as impertinent as I am, you notice there are aspects of the “Social Register” which seem suffused with special sort of irony. Twist your synapses around this little factoid: There are about 25,000 families in the Republic who presumably delight themselves on “The Social Register’s” exclusivity, yet somehow freely consent to have their addresses and phone numbers in a book available in every public library.

Still, as always, we live in a time of poseurs and arrivistes, and the “Social Register” method, while flawed, provides an acid-test for separating lottery-winnin’ yokels from people of breeding. The doubtlessly stringent and almost certainly Byzantine screening process leaves the reader confident those allowed to grace the “Social Register” pages aren’t merely wealthy, they’re OKd. There isn’t much carved in marble about these people except they are ostensibly tasteful, affluent and discreet, and likely descended from same. Any other desirable and/or deplorable attribute beyond these may readily find refuge among the listees, seemingly at random..."

Saki: What might have been...

2007-03-18T19:57:00.000Z

H. H. Munro "Saki" (1870-1916)

Speculation on what might have been...

by Tim Connell

What might have been
It is perhaps fruitless to speculate on what might have happened had Munro survived - or not even joined up in the first place. So many good men were killed that every walk of life lost its best talent. No fewer than 64 published poets died on the Western Front, and who knows how many budding ones who never had a chance to be known.

What would Munro have come back to do? He would have been 50 in 1920, so it seems unlikely that he would have continued writing about spritely young men of the sort he had seen slaughtered in their thousands. He would happily have passed that mantle on to the much softer stories of P G Wodehouse, and may well have gently encouraged his nephew Dornford Yates in his writing career. He would undoubtedly have enjoyed the more acid style of Evelyn Waugh and perhaps sharpened up his own wit with satirical comment on the country's rulers by returning to his pre-War job as a parliamentary reporter.

He may not have been embittered by his war experiences, but he would have been relentlessly critical of the generals and war leaders whose errors of judgement had led to the deaths of so many good men. He might even have become a Member of Parliament himself in the Conservative persuasion, and joined in the hounding out of Lloyd George from public life. As a popular figure and as one who had served in the ranks he would have attracted a wide ranging vote. With his writing talent and fine voice he could have gone far as an orator. His old CO in the Fusiliers might even have got him a job with the BBC, where he was the gramophone correspondent and founding editor (with Compton Mackenzie) of The Gramophone (which oddly enough, my grandfather wrote reviews for in the 20's and 30's.) Munro might even have aligned himself with Winston Churchill as a critic of appeasement. Whatever the circumstances, I doubt whether he would have faded into obscurity.

Conclusion
Hector Munro was remembered with affection and respect by his peers. Punch said in 1920, "When the literary Roll of Honour of all the belligerents comes to be considered quietly, in the steady light of Peace, not many names will stand higher in any country than that of our English writer HECTOR MUNRO," and it goes on to refer to his "subtle and witty satires, stories and fantasies”. It adds, "There is in every story a phrase or fancy marked by his own inimitable felicity, audacity or humour." His works were re-issued at regular intervals through the 1920s and who wrote the introductory notes is significant: writers like G K Chesterton, A A Milne and Hugh Walpole; old Russia hands like Maurice Baring, H W Nevinson and Rothay Reynolds; Sir John Squire, a key poet in the Georgian movement, and the Liberal Peer Lord Charnwood. Evelyn Waugh did a retrospective on Saki in 1947 and as late as 1963, so did Noel Coward, for the Penguin Complete Saki (which is actually far from being complete). Saki has never been out of print in 100 years. He still appears in anthologies and collected editions. Oddly enough, he has only been serialised once on TV. Emlyn Williams did some sound recordings in 1978 and even produced a one-man show. There is currently an audiobook out on CD containing some of the stories.

As the war generations pass on, and that long Indian Summer of Edward's reign fades into folklore and myth, so the record of a society on the verge of the modern world becomes somehow more attractive, and the piercing observations of human frailty and the acerbic wit add an extra touch to hold the reader's attention. I believe that he was in fact a far more significant contributor to English Literature than we realise, more than a newspaperman, though not quite a man of letters. But he has stood the test of time better than Maurice Baring, who wrote novels and published collections of poetry or Hugh Walpole who was knighted for his services to Literature, let alone GA Henty, who wrote 122 books between 1868 and 1902. Hector Munro was writing a novel a year by the start of World War One. There are technical shortcomings but he may well have matured and written something more heavyweight than his novels and perhaps something deeper than his short stories. He was collaborating on plays; again there seems to be evidence that he was having some trouble with technique, but his quick-witted one-liners and polished style may have allowed him to develop as a playwright, someone perhaps like Ben Travers who had known him at Bodley Head.

So there it is. A man of many parts, who may have been less mysterious had more of his papers survived, and had he even survived himself, but then he was a prime example of the Edwardian age, with a strong sense of Victorian duty. A versatile writer, a sociable man, whose death was much regretted. But he lives on in his work, which has now acquired additional value because of the insights into the world that he inhabited. But the rebellious young men, the overbearing aunts, the absurdity of the humour, the sharpness of the wit, all seem to survive in the modern age. I think there is something there for everyone even today. The fact that so many people have turned out tonight on the anniversary of his death is proof of that.

Basil Seal Takes Manhattan, but gives it back...

2007-03-18T03:30:00.000Z

Now where was I...? Oh yes...

Part III

Friday, Friday evening, The Ball, The St. Regis, Mr. P comes to the rescue (somewhere in NYC): Of course you must realize that after the hard work we had put in the night before, Mr. P and I, being of a certain age, were in need of restoration and rejuvenation. It was with these healthful objectives in mind that we both slept most of the day away, waking in time to luncheon, attend Mass and prepare for the Ball...I shan't bore you all with the details of this time of lounging, not much transpired...I did meet a few natives who were milling about and thought it wise to find out the names of their tailors, in order to avoid them, of course. Although to inquire was not really necessary since most people wear clothing with the name of the manufacturer printed upon it. I am not sure where the tailor Mr. Nike has his shop, but he does seem to do a large business in ugly clothing and his clients are a loyal bunch. Imagine paying a company to advertise their product...Now that is genius...But anyway, on with the story...

As you know, I am always one who attempts to remain unobtrusive and lurk in the background whenever possible. That is why, while choosing my wardrobe for the Ball commemorating the American Revolution, I choose to wear my Regimental togs. I mean if it is the War we are celebrating here, then why not wear the uniform of the only real army engaged...So, resplendent in my red coat I collected Mr. P from his room, where he had spent the afternoon carefully dressing in his best evening clothes...I must say he cut a fine genteel figah from his winged collar to his opera pumps. I was impressed. We stopped at the bar in the club in order to prepare for the evening by downing a few rounds of Black Velvet, for medicinal purposes of course. We jumped in the car and went round to the St. Regis, the site of the event, and made our way to the penthouse...I am sure you are all familiar with these kinds of colonial events. Flags and badly cut dinner jackets, not a cuff in sight, flowers and formal shirts with ruffles on them, row upon row of medals and ribbons whose origin is unknown, ladies in what looked like prom dresses or dresses that at one time were part of a wedding ceremony. Believe me, it is ghastly...There was an open bar, which is where you will find Basil Seal in trying times such as these. I must say that mine was the only red coat in the joint and I entered into the spirit of the event as old adversaries meet to discuss old times. The gentlemen about the place seemed to take it all in stride, and as my charm and accent seemed to be overcoming any tension, Mr. P slowing lost his deer-in-the-headlights look and began to drink more heavily. He still kept a weather eye on me, of course, and I noticed that he made a valiant effort to keep me located around the bar area, and not let me wander...Well, we all took seats and made our way through the meal, which was quite good...Mr. P was seated to my left and to my right was, I think, John Hancock's widow...I don't really remember her name, but to go by appearances, she was probably quite fetching before electricity. Mr. P seemed a bit nervous, and I do believe there were little beads of perspiration about the hairline...I shouldn't wonder, I would hate to have to sit next to me on an occasion such as this. He seemed to have difficulty breathing, or was holding his breath, I really couldn't be sure. I suppose he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, well, he didn't have long to wait.

Now as you are all aware, I am a very peaceful and mellow chap, never seeking out conflict or confrontation. Oh no, I always avoid these things at all times. You know that I never say anything that might wound or hurt someones feelings. Well, we were making our way leisurely through our dinner, chatting about this and that and of course doing my best to ignore the colonial harridan sitting next to me. She seemed to be interested in my red coat and I wasn't getting a sense of a lot of brotherly love from her direction. Finally over coffee, her better angels seemed to give up and she began to make comments about the uniform and the British in general to someone on her other side, just loud enough to ensure that I would hear. Mr. P slumped in his chair at this point, knowing that the die was now cast. I gave him a wink, and ordered two Black Velvets for him and turned to my neighbor...

I smiled and introduced myself to her as Sir Banastre Tarleton VI...And went on to regale her with my most illustrious ancestors exploits in the war...His bravery, his courage his ingenious ways of dealing with rebels. I mean, the church burning thing really didn't happen, but since Americans learn their history from movies instead of books, they don't know that, but anyway, it was a splendid idea wasn't it. And of course you know that this liberty and freedom from tyranny was just a bunch of eye wash...I mean the war was really about a few rich colonists wanting to keep as much money as possible for themselves. I mean, sure they found it convenient to use those thugs The Sons of Liberty as their hired muscle, but really, copying out a few ideas from texts on the Greeks and the Frog philosophers doesn't a government make now does it? And I'm sure all the slaves liked that bit about all men being created equal, that was of course, all men are created equal except those that are not...Hey, didn't Orwell say something about that once, he was English you know...Anyway, we got bored with the whole thing in the end and decided if you wanted to be friends with the Frogs, well good luck to you...I mean we owned the rest of the world anyway, so what do we need with beaver pelts and coon skin caps...I think it was in 1812 or thereabouts that we did stop back by and burn your capitol down, and generally make your lives more miserable than they already were. I think we broke all your dishes too...A very good evening to you madam...

I headed back to the bar at that, having noticed that Mr. P had slipped away sometime during my friendly chat with Dolly Madison. Things progressed on schedule and ran smoothly, well, except the part where I proposed a toast to the Queen, but anyway things were winding down when I noticed that Dolly was eying me from across the room. And she wasn't alone, there seemed to be a rather large group of Revolutionary War Widows present at the evening's festivities and it looked like they had a Tea Party on their minds...I wasn't worried at this point, I could see that there were probably only two good legs available in the whole group, and what with my superior ankle work, to evade, would with me, be the work of a moment. Mr. P had still not surfaced, I assumed the strain of being here with me had sent him to see a man about a dog...I stood enjoying my Black Velvet, when I noticed that Dolly and the Blue Hair Brigade had spent the last hour preforming a double pincer in my general direction. Well, at this point I had blue hair to left of me, and blue hair to the right, so it seemed like up the middle was the way out for yours truly. I finished my Black Velvet, of course, did a quick scout for Mr. P, and began my dash for freedom. They were still sharp as tacks and they divined my tactics in an instant. Those on my flanks, the ones with walkers anyway, were in no position to stop me, but they sent a flying column of farm wives (I am assuming farm wives, from their average size it might have been livestock, but I am not sure on this point) to head me off. Now the only thing I had to do was reach the large table running across the end of the room, use it as interference and I was down the back stairs in a flash. I could see that it was going to be touch and go...I mean, it isn't easy to run with dignity and bearing from a horde of Revolutionary War Widows, try it sometime. I headed left at the table, reversed in the face of several tons of colonial farm wife and noticed that the canes and walkers moved a lot faster than I thought. Nothing for it now, it was up and over the table or nothing. At this point Mr. P appears again...Where he came from I have no idea, but as I performed a peerless Astaire over the table, Mr. P stands up and tips the huge punch bowl over into the path, well onto the women in the path, and throws me a wink to boot. I hit the ground running and was sure Mr. P would be torn limb form limb in a moment. I mean he probably just ruined around 50 old prom dresses with one bowl...But as I glanced back from the back stairs door, he was no where to be seen...Good man yourself, Mr. P. I flicked a piece of lint from my red sleeve, shot my cuffs and headed down in a very dignified manner.

Well, I had a very good time with Mr. P, The Fiendish One, KCC, Mr. Cusack and all the RCBfA. Although I didn't get to meet Dawn Eden, the trip was a success anyway. But I think I'll give NYC a rest for awhile. Thanks to Mrs. P for being such a good sport about the whole thing. I owe you one. Thanks to The Fiendish One for the use of his club and car and influence with the NYPD, and to KCC for his hospitality and kindness. Hat tip to Mr. Cusack for his hospitality and service as a tour guide. Let's do it again sometime...

Do nothing till you hear from me...

2007-03-13T00:13:00.000Z

Have been called away for a short time...Will return and continue with whatever it was I was talking about. Please leave a message.

Sir Basil Seal

Basil Seal Takes Manhattan, but gives it back...

2007-03-01T00:42:00.000Z

Part II

So now we have visited the shrine which is the TNC, collared Mr. Cusack and put his budding young career at risk, we must needs head back past many tall buildings to meet The Fiendish One (TFO) at the club, which is located, if you can believe it, in a tall building.

Thursday evening, Friday morning, NYAC, The Players, Chumleys, Fraunces, face down on boot of police car (somewhere in NYC): "Hail fellow, well met" was the greeting we received from TFO upon our arrival in the Cocktail Lounge at the NYAC. We called the second meeting of the RCBfA to order over and raised our Black Velvets in salute. TFO was fresh from balancing the scales of Justice (in our favour, I hoped) and we spent some time at this beautiful club planning our assault upon the metropolis. I must say that I had hoped to blend inconspicuously into the many-headed, but our small band of brothers seemed to stick out in the crowd, as it were. I really don't know why, I mean, a prominent NY attorney in a 3 piece navy pin stripe, a Mid-Western man in navy blazer and British khaki trousers, a young publishing magnate in training in Harris tweeds, and an English gentleman in Savile Row navy worsted with white waistcoat, Charvet tie, navy Chesterfield, Derby, fawn gloves and stick...This seems all rather ordinary to me, but some of the looks of, should I say interest?, that our table were getting, I just don't know. We decided on a Black Velvet night, come what may, and out of courtesy to our host, we decided to move on before we were moved out and TFO (whose middle name is caution) would have to own up to us publicly...We headed outside and piled into the car...

Thursday evening, The Grill, The Players (somewhere in NYC): We repaired to the Grill at The Players, a well known club whose membership, as the name suggests, is drawn from the world of the theater and motion pictures, writers, artists, etc. We were met there, and were actually allowed in, by a friend of TFO and Mr. Cusack, Knight Commander C. The Knight Commander is a very learned gentleman with loads of charm and wit and was a splendid host. As fellow Knights, he and I shared the secret handshake, in a way that the others could not see...They really hate that. The club rules were explained, which forbids that one notice anyone famous and really forbids the asking for autographs, pictures or any other such nonsense. Which was a relief to me, since I had feared being hounded in NYC by my public. Black Velvets, of course, and we spent most of the time just gazing around at this most remarkable room. The in-house memorabilia which covers just about all the available wall space, makes for very interesting reading. Black Velvet, don't mind if I do...By this time, Mr. P had won several hundred dollars at the billiards table and was fast becoming unpopular. Andrew was searching the walls for maps and I feared that TFO and KCC were going to break out in song at any minute...So, in order to protect our host, I thought it best to move onward and downward into less august company...Right, one last round...Make mine a Black Velvet...

Thursday evening, Chumleys (somewhere in NYC): Now this place is about 130 years old and was hopping during prohibition...There is no sign outside and you still pass through a curtain before you enter the bar. It is laid out in four levels, with booths everywhere and plenty of places to hide, perfect for us. We were well oiled by now of course, and TFO and KCC immediately began to sing "I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night" in, what I must say, were very nice tenors. I contributed my rendition of "Drink, Puppy, Drink" and we were, in a word, swinging...I was badgering Andrew to call Dawn Eden and ask her to come down so we could meet her, but he didn't seem to eager for this to become a reality...I had lost track of Mr. P amidst all the song and dance, but I then heard, drifting over the cacophony of drink, someone in a very loud voice reciting what sounded like The Faerie Queene and The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, mixed together, and doing quite a nice job of it too...I finally spied him standing on a chair near a table full of what looked like longshoreman, or some other group of meaty individuals...They were bearing it pretty well, but pointing at me, shouting "Hey Wooster" and making rather emphatic "come the hell over here" gestures...Well in these circs I did the manly thing and pretended I didn't know Mr. P from Adam. Besides, my name is not Wooster, as Mr. P was kindly trying to explain to them between stanzas...It might have gotten ugly but TFO was able to coax him back to the table by waving a pint of Black Velvet in the air and smacking his lips...Luckily for us, Mr. P's thirst got the better of him just before the longshoreman grew tired of his performance...Dawn Eden had still not shown, and while I was waiting I had gathered quite a nice collection of some of NYCs finest specimens of the female species to our table...It is amazing what a Ben Franklin will do to adjust a young womens attitude toward one...I was busy introducing everyone to Andrew, ordering rounds, joining the chorus when required, wondering why the young women next to me was wearing her ear rings through her nostrils and waiting for Dawn Eden to show up. I spent the next few hours trying to explain that it is not "Bay-sil" but "Bah-sil" but I didn't seem to be getting through...I think the drinking games started shortly after this and somewhere in the mix TFO and KCC headed home. But those of us left standing, had one more stop to make...You know, I don't think I ever did get to meet Dawn Eden...Pity, that...

Friday, early morning, Fraunces Tavern (somewhere in NYC): Now I had to check out this place...I think this was the real hot bed of treason back in the day. I think one of those Sons of the treasonous something groups actually own the place now. So we headed that way in order to try and once again give them a little taste of Empire (well, at least I did, Mr. P was lending moral support, God Bless Him)...This is the reason that a few hours later I was dodging between tables headed for the back entrance, fending off a dozen colonial brutes with my stick, who had no musical taste, disdaining my rendition of "God Save the Queen" (Mr. P's Kipling impersonation didn't fair any better) and who took umbrage at my few remarks about the parentage of George Washington...Mr. P was attempting a daring flanking maneuver under the tables to reach my side, and I think, at this point, Andrew was asleep in the back of the car...It looked like we had met our Gandamak when we were able to squeeze past the press and into the loo and directly out a window, into the arms of New York's finest constabulary. This was the point where we were lying face down on the boot of a police car and suddenly heard TFO's voice somewhere behind us. Glancing round, I saw him in low conversation with one of the men in blue, and a few minutes later we were free to go...Of course, we were thankful to TFO who had thought he had covered the bases earlier concerning our visit and public safety, but I suppose someone didn't get the memo. I'll have to ask him what he said to get us out of the soup, one day...Well, we were able to grab breakfast back at the club and drop Andrew outside his office building (well, it was some office building anyway) in time for work. I am sure he'll do fine, he's young, single and not yet bright enough to steer clear of bad influences like me (I still can't understand why he wouldn't call Dawn Eden)...Mr. P and I are not so young, so we shot straight back to the club for a bit of the dreamless...

Friday, Friday evening, The Ball, The St. Regis, Mr. P comes to the rescue (somewhere in NYC): to be continued...

Basil Seal Takes Manhattan, but gives it back...

2007-02-28T01:32:00.000Z

Part I

As you are all aware, I, Basil Seal recently traveled "out east", or "down east", or, well, east of the Mississippi then...Anyway, I was invited to attend a ball and to be a general Man about Manhattan, as opposed to Mayfair. My plan, if one uses a broad definition, had me meeting up with the usual suspects in the city, and then proceeding from there...And it went pretty much according to plan, give or take one or two small incidents which really held little or no interest to the local constabulary, on which more anon...Let me make one point before I begin in earnest. I am not from, or of New York, nor would I ever want to be, and I really know nothing about it. I especially know nothing about where I am, when I am there, in New York...So, although I would like to sound all knowing and native like, and chat about the five boroughs, and that I went uptown, downtown and up past Groome Street and into the Bowery to visit Bat Jarvis, I cannot. So, I can tell you where I was (name of building, pub, hotel, etc.) but could not tell you how to get there. I viewed the entire jaunt from the backseat of a car, and left the driving to others. And these others will fill in the details I am sure. But anyway, I arrived in the city with my case, a bucket of red paint and a brush...

Thursday Feb. 22: I landed at Teterboro and was met by the car sent for me by friend Fiendish. Well, actually I was met by the driver, and was introduced to the car a bit later, but anyway... Made the proverbial beeline for the NYAC, club of Fiendish (somewhere in NYC), who so graciously insisted that I stay as his guest. Arrived and was established in my room by a very charming staff and made welcome and comfortable by all. Very nice.

It was now time for luncheon. I went downstairs and found The Fiendish One and Mr. P waiting for me in the dining room. Mr. P had arrived after dropping Mrs. P into the bosom of her family, she was dropping in reluctantly I do believe, but being a good sport had given Mr. P his B & C liberty chit for 48 hours. This was my first face-to-face with Mr. P, as you all know I have lunched with Mrs. P, and had spoken to Mr. P briefly on the telephone. I say briefly due to the fact that the phone was slapped from the ear of Mr. P in mid-utterance by a minute-minding Mrs. C. So, we picked up where we had left off, as men do...This was the first actual meeting of the RCBfA, so The Fiendish One feted us in true New York style, and I must say that I am very fond of New York style, since he also picked up the tab. Hey, I heart NY too... I was very excited to be in the city. I asked Fiendish if we would be able to see a policeman display his superior wrist-work with his nightstick on some homeless people, or maybe some pimps and pushers, you know real desperate types, like maybe a bond trader or trial attorney. Mr. P being from Detroit was very familiar with mayhem and murder, so he said it would be best to skip all that boring stuff and shuffle off straight to the pubs (I like Mr. P). But we would try and spot some interesting people, places and things and gawk like farmers on the way. The Fiendish One, who I must say is a very big wheel in the justice system of NYC, I mean, when he is out of the office jurisprudence in NYC waits until he gets back, had to dash back to his office to set things straight but would meet up with us before the serious drinking began. So, The Fiendish One left his car and driver at our disposal and tootled off and Mr. P and I prepared for our first stop: The collection of Mr. Cusack...We were dressed by the best tailors, tanned, rested and ready for the city...

Later on Thursday, the offices of TNC (somewhere in NYC): I wasn't sure what to expect at the offices of this highly influential publication. I suppose I expected an outer lair where Pugsy Maloney sits near the door of the inter sanctum and wards off unwanted visitors. I expected to get the once over from Kid Brady as well. But in reality it is a simple, modern office space with very nice windows. It has somewhat the feel of a "loft" space with hardwood floors. I was excited at this chance to meet my heroes in the flesh; Mr. Kimball, Mr. "Boy Mulcaster" Panero, Mr. Yezzi, Cricket Farnsworth...former TNCer Mr. Beck as well, but we would have more luck running into him in a pub...But alas, when we arrived Mr. Cusack informed us that he had mentioned the impending visit of an esteemed subscriber by the name of Seal at around 3pm, and at 3:10pm he was alone in the office...Something about previous engagements or something. Well anyway, one gets used to it...We toured the offices, I sat in Mr. Kimball's chair, to get a view from the top, if only for a moment. I took one of the books from the box near Mr. Panero's desk and left it with a note to "please sign for Basil Seal" on his chair. We'll see if I ever get that...Mr. Cusack, the assistant editor of TNC and the former sub-editor of Cozy Moments has a very nice cubicle which he shares with the office fridge. Pretty convenient for him if you ask me. I took to Mr. Cusack right away, he is simply a delightful young man, and on this day, dressed in a tweed suit, even though we were in the city. Maybe an American thing, I don't know. Made me feel right at home, and since he was educated in the UK, we were able to converse with no trouble at all. I really wanted to meet Cricket Farnsworth for the simple reason that I wanted to meet someone named Cricket, and because she has always given me the brush-off in the nicest way when I called. But since she was not there I graded the child art near her desk and we departed the offices of TNC a little richer for the experience. By the way, I'm not sure what Mr. P was doing all this time. This was all old hat to him and he seemed to just be wondering about looking in drawers and scribbling in a notebook, tearing off a sheet and placing it in a drawer. Maybe it's an American thing...

Thursday evening, Friday morning, NYAC, The Players, Chumleys, Fraunces, face down on boot of police car (somewhere in NYC): To be continued...

Recovery

2007-02-26T15:17:00.000Z

I am in the midst of recovery after my journey to points east...I am trying to piece together the series of events which led, at some point, to my fleeing at top speed from an irate blue hair Dame of Revolutions, or some such, Dame from Hell would be more apt...Anyway, fleeing at top speed down the back stairs from the St. Regis Penthouse while Mr. P attempted a delaying action near the punch bowl, a fine stand he made I must say...My ankle work around the last turn was a wonder to behold and I do hope Mr. P will survive his injury...From the size of that blue hair, I have my doubts...He was a brave man I will have you know...Anyway, let me collate, and I will be with you anon...

Ball commemorating Treason to the King

2007-02-22T04:01:00.000Z

I am off to New York City, that hotbed of sedition, since I have been invited to a Ball in commemoration of the American Colonies Treasonous Acts against King George. I mean, really, should this be celebrated? I think not. The uniform I will be wearing is sure to raise eyebrows. But any hackles raised will be payback for having to spend an evening being addressed as Bay-sil, especially since Americans seem to be physically unable to use one's surname when addressing one. They will probably try and stick a name tag on me...I feel sorry for the chap who draws that duty. I hope to enjoy myself regaling the colonists with tales of my ancestors as they locked civilians in churches and set them afire. Except the women, at least the young ones that is, for rather obvious reasons. Laughing over tea while they burn of course. Then releasing the dogs and raising their taxes...Oh, those were the days...New York under British rule, seems to have been down hill ever since...

I will be put up at a club, and will rendezvous with my hosts somewhere at some time...I hope to survive, at least long enough to post my report on this colonial shindig...I pray I will be able to find some good port...I hope the Padre is there, he will at least know where they keep the good stuff...Until then...

The Strange Death of Tory England

2007-02-21T15:11:00.000Z

Has the most successful species in British political history finally become extinct? The Conservative party dominated British politics for 120 years from Disraeli's victory in 1874, culminating in an unprecedented eighteen-year spell in government after 1979. And yet at the very end of the century the Tories imploded so disastrously as to suggest the party might be doomed to follow the Liberals into oblivion. Geoffrey Wheatcroft has observed this extraordinary drama at close hand, interviewing all the key players on (and, more often, off) the record: from spirited exchanges with Margaret Thatcher to unprintable asides from Alan Clark. In this provocative and often acerbically funny book he first examines how the Tories came to enjoy their unlikely triumph: what was meant to be the century of the common man', with the unstoppable ascent of Labour, turned out to be the era of the Conservative, as the Tories reinvented themselves over and over again, not least entirely changing the party's class character. The Strange Death of Tory England demonstrates brilliantly how two profound truths explain the Conservatives' decline: that the Right had won politically, but the Left had won culturally; and that it was possible to win the battle, but lose the argument.

Mind The Gap

2007-02-21T15:02:00.000Z

In this provocative and ruthlessly frank book Ferdinand Mount argues that there is a new class divide in Britain which is just as vicious and hard to get rid of as the old one. Through acute observation and vivid illustration, drawing on every aspect of life from soap operas, speech patterns and gardening to education and the distribution of wealth, he demolishes the illusion that we live in a classless society and shows how the worst-off in Britain today are more culturally deprived than their parents or grandparents. The author's solutions, like his explanations of what has gone wrong, are original, surprising and unsparing to intellectuals and politicians of all parties.

Decline & Fall

2007-02-21T14:54:00.000Z

At the outset of the 1870s, the British aristocracy could rightly consider themselves the most fortunate people on earth: they held the lion's share of land, wealth and power in the world's greatest empire. By the end of the 1930s they had lost not only a generation of sons in the First World War, but also much of their prosperity, prestige and political significance.David Cannadine shows how this shift came about and how it was reinforced in the aftermath of the Second World War. Lucidly written and sparkling with wit, The Decline and Fall of the British Aristocracy is a landmark study that dramatically changes our understanding of British social history.

The Decline & Fall of the British Aristocracy

The Strange Death of Moral Britain

2007-02-21T14:24:00.000Z

"It is the rare sociology book that warrants the epitaphs “exciting” and “brilliant.” Such is Christie Davies’ The Strange Death of Moral Britain, a book that deserves to be read by readers on the political right and left. The book’s argument is that between 1950 and 1960 a new form of political reasoning replaced the old ideology or “logic” of “moral Britain,” which underlay legal and social sensibility. The new outlook the author identifies as “causalism,” and it has insidiously become the ethos of modern British society. The consequences of “causalism” as a political ideology are that the tradition of individualism, the legal principle that a just society rewards just behavior, and even national sovereignty, all concepts based upon the idea of moral hierarchy, have been radically undermined..."
continue...

"The bravest man I ever saw"

2007-02-18T18:56:00.000Z

Father Joseph T. O'Callahan S. J.

Navy Roman Catholic Chaplain awarded The Medal of Honor, WWII:

"For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while serving as Chaplain on board the U.S.S. Franklin when that vessel was fiercely attacked by enemy Japanese aircraft during offensive operations near Kobe, Japan, on 19 March 1945. A valiant and forceful leader, calmly braving the perilous barriers of flame and twisted metal to aid his men and his ship, Lieutenant Commander O'Callahan groped his way through smoke-filled corridors to the open flight deck and into the midst of violently exploding bombs, shells, rockets and other armament. With the ship rocked by incessant explosions, with debris and fragments raining down and fires raging in ever increasing fury, he ministered to the wounded and dying, comforting and encouraging men of all faiths; he organized and led fire-fighting crews into the blazing inferno on the flight deck; he directed the jettisoning of live ammunition and the flooding of the magazine; he manned a hose to cool hot, armed bombs rolling dangerously on the listing deck, continuing his efforts despite searing, suffocating smoke which forced men to fall back gasping and imperiled others who replaced them. Serving with courage, fortitude and deep spiritual strength, Lieutenant Commander O'Callahan inspired the gallant officers and men of the Franklin to fight heroically and with profound faith in the face of almost certain death and to return their stricken ship to port."

Father Vincent R. Capodanno

Navy Roman Catholic Chaplain awarded The Medal of Honor (posthumously) Vietnam:

"For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as Chaplain of the 3d Battalion, in connection with operations against enemy forces. In response to reports that the 2d Platoon of M Company was in danger of being overrun by a massed enemy assaulting force, Lt. Capodanno left the relative safety of the company command post and ran through an open area raked with fire, directly to the beleaguered platoon. Disregarding the intense enemy small-arms, automatic-weapons, and mortar fire, he moved about the battlefield administering last rites to the dying and giving medical aid to the wounded. When an exploding mortar round inflicted painful multiple wounds to his arms and legs, and severed a portion of his right hand, he steadfastly refused all medical aid. Instead, he directed the corpsmen to help their wounded comrades and, with calm vigor, continued to move about the battlefield as he provided encouragement by voice and example to the valiant marines. Upon encountering a wounded corpsman in the direct line of fire of an enemy machine gunner positioned approximately 15 yards away, Lt. Capodanno rushed a daring attempt to aid and assist the mortally wounded corpsman. At that instant, only inches from his goal, he was struck down by a burst of machine gun fire. By his heroic conduct on the battlefield, and his inspiring example, Lt. Capodanno upheld the finest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service. He gallantly gave his life in the cause of freedom."

Rites & Wrongs of Passage

2007-02-17T16:00:00.000Z

"The funeral was in the chapel of a navy base, conducted by a retired Episcopal priest of, I believe, Southern middle-of-the-road churchmanship. While the service was not without reverence and the priest was genuinely considerate of the sadness of the loss, he seemed to be trying to keep the service casual.

For the homily, he came out from behind the altar and leaned on the end of it rather than going to the pulpit. When he prepared the vessels on the altar for Communion, there was no formality to his actions: He might just as well have been getting dishes out of the kitchen cupboard for lunch.

There were awkward pauses at several points while he flipped through his book, apparently looking for his place. He also seemed rushed. Since the service was lengthened by the inclusion of Holy Communion, one began to wonder whether he was afraid it would run too long, making us late for the committal at the cemetery.

The deceased was a retired Marine Corps Reserve officer, and, at the request of his widow, the Marine Corps provided pall bearers, as well as a detail for the rifle salute and taps at the interment. This took place in a nearby Veterans Administration cemetery. There the priest first conducted the committal service.

Marine Reverence

Then the marines took over. Everything they did was deliberate, well practiced, careful, unhurried. It was pure ritual. It was clear that they took seriously what they were doing. Every movement had been considered, and, I assume, drilled ahead of time. It was to be done correctly in every detail, with dignity and honor, without regard to time: Seemingly this was all that mattered to them.

The precision and dignity was a matter of honor. At the end, the flag was presented to the widow by the commander of the marines on the base. He could easily have sent a junior officer to deal with a reserve officer’s burial, but chose not to. It was all profoundly moving, as a number of mourners remarked after the services.

The care and dignity of the military rite put the Christian rites to shame. I don’t believe that the priest was intentionally irreverent or unprepared. But by comparison with the marines’ reverent ritual, the chapel service and the committal seemed slapdash..."

Shades of things to come...

2007-02-17T14:52:00.000Z

In the colonies, on Feb. 17, 1801, the House of Representatives (Commons) broke an electoral tie between Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr, electing Jefferson president; Burr became vice president.

When the Electoral College (refer to ridiculous and now ignored U. S. Constitution, the Electoral College is a system to keep important matters, like the election of a President, out of the hands of the mob and in the hands of those who know best, but they are all equal of course) was first created, whoever got the most electoral votes became president and the runner-up became vice president. In 1800, electors votes resulted in a tie for presidential candidate Thomas Jefferson and his running mate, Aaron Burr. The House of Representatives settled the matter, voting to elect Jefferson president and Burr vice president. The crisis prompted an amendment to the Constitution (the 12th), mandating that electors cast separate votes for president and vice president.

Jefferson went on to speculate in French real estate and spend quality time with some of his more attractive slaves. Burr, who liked to shoot pistols (at people) and acquire large portions of real estate that just happened to belong to others, became a running mates worst nightmare and is believed to have gone into Public Relations consulting.

H. L. Hunley

2007-02-17T14:36:00.000Z

On February 17, 1864, during the American Civil War, a.k.a. The War for Southern Independence, or, The War of Northern Aggression, the Union ship U.S.S. Housatonic was rammed and sunk in Charleston Harbor, S.C., by the Confederate hand-cranked submarine H.L. Hunley, which also sank.

H. L. Hunley was a submarine of the Confederate States Navy that demonstrated both the advantages and the dangers of undersea warfare. Hunley was the first submarine to sink a warship, though the sub was also lost following the engagement. Though some know the submarine by the name CSS H. L. Hunley, she was not commissioned and therefore does not warrant the "CSS" prefix.

The H. L. Hunley, almost 40-feet (12-m) long, was built at Mobile, Alabama, launched in July 1863, and shipped by rail to Charleston, SC on August 12, 1863. On February 17, 1864, Hunley attacked and sank the 1800-ton, steam-powered sloop-of-war USS Housatonic in Charleston harbor, but soon after, the Hunley also sank, drowning all 8 crewmen. Over 136 years later, on August 8, 2000, the wreck was recovered, and on April 17, 2004, the DNA-identified remains of the 8 Hunley crewmen were interred in Charleston's Magnolia Cemetery, with full military honors.

Hunley made her first attack against a live target on the night of February 17, 1864. The ship was USS Housatonic. Housatonic, an 1800-ton, steam-powered sloop-of-war with 12 large cannon, stationed at the entrance to Charleston, South Carolina harbor, about 5 miles (8 km) out to sea. In an effort to break the naval blockade of the city, Lieutenant George E. Dixon and a crew of seven volunteers attacked Housatonic, successfully embedding the barbed spar torpedo into her hull. The torpedo was detonated as the submarine backed away, sending Housatonic and five of her crew to the bottom of Charleston harbor in five minutes, although many survived in 2 lifeboats or by climbing rigging until rescued. Hunley also sank, moments after signaling shore of the successful attack, possibly from damage caused by the torpedo blast, though this is not certain. (NOTE: The possibility must be considered that the torpedo was not detonated on command, but rather malfunctioned due to damage incurred during the attack. In previous tests and actual attacks, it was intended that the torpedo should be detonated approximately 150 to 175 feet away from the target, so as to minimize any damage to the sub. However, witnesses aboard the Housatonic uniformly stated that the torpedo detonated at no more than about one hundred feet, and possibly as close as seventy-five.)

There is convincing evidence that Hunley actually survived as long as an hour after the attack (which took place at approximately 8:45 PM). Authors Mark Ragan and Clive Cussler both provide convincing evidence that George E. Dixon flashed a blue signal lantern to the sub's base at Fort Moultrie on Sullivan's Island as late as 9:30 PM, but the indications were that no one ever saw it except crew members of the Housatonic, who were in the ship's rigging awaiting rescue. At that point, George E. Dixon took the sub under to try and make it back to Sullivan's Island. However, shock damage from the torpedo and magazine explosion had probably opened the sub's seams, and she was slowly filling with water. Her crew, likely suffering from malnutrition, respiratory problems, cold, and exhaustion, would have failed to realize that the submarine was slowly going under. Submerging again would have put enough water aboard that her crew would likely have driven her directly into the shallow bottom, blocking the ballast intakes and maing it impossible to pump her back out. Cold and immersion would have killed the crew relatively quickly.

Her crew perished, but H.L. Hunley had earned a place in the history of undersea warfare as the first submarine to sink a ship in wartime.

SAHD

2007-02-15T19:08:00.000Z

I found myself smiling as I read Mr. Joke's post on the different "archetypes" of moms he has been cataloging during his stint as a SAHD. This is of interest to me as I too am a SAHD, although unlike Mr. Joke who seems to be a part-timer, I am a full-time professional SAHD. There are a few reasons for this, not least of which is that my wife, The Countess, realized early on that due to my breeding, classical education and general lack of intelligence, that I was totally unfit to actually earn a living in the 20/21st century. She also realized that this same lack of gray matter made me a dangerous proposition to leave around the house unsupervised or, heaven forbid, responsible for a child's well-being...So, with her characteristic hyper-intelligence she built a library, stocked it to the ceiling with Waugh, Wodehouse and Saki, placed a computer connected to a cable modem on the desk and told me not to come out until she called. So, here I am.

Well, now that my son, The Baron, is older and not likely to be led into mischief or danger by his old pater, I am allowed to drop-off and pick-up and the like when The Countess deems it necessary. So it has been in the last year or so (The Baron is now 30) (just kidding) that I have had an opportunity to observe and catalog some of these females that hang about the place at The Baron's parochial school. Now The Countess has let it be known that she would prefer that I do not actually speak to anyone she knows while I am there, but sometimes people will speak to me first, so I feel one must be at least, civil.

Now, as you know, due to parentage and what-not I have the ability to speak with an American or an English accent. The English accent always helps me to break the ice when I am out numbered 1000 to 1 and they all fear The Countess (for good reason, I fear her too). So, when I am at the school, I plum up the English accent and sometimes chat with the mob. It is funny though, when they hear the English accent, coupled to my bespoke wardrobe, they either think that I am a servant of The Countess (which I suppose I am), or try to recruit me as the football (soccer) coach, sometimes both. Oh, what fun...Now this brings me, in a roundabout way, to Mr. Joke's archetypes...They are all at my school as well, and I must say that Mr. Joke's powers of observation are spot on. Here is his list:

"...About half the moms (new or established) simply cannot manage to stick to my memory banks. Many are yet another example of an archetype, many are just dull--regardless of archetype.

Anyway, in addition to the regulars, this year we have the following:

1- Love Is Blind Mom. She is what everyone's definition of a trophy wife ought be. Tall, blonde, dazzling features, and is in amazing shape. All the moms would hate her except her husband, poor bastid, looks like Danny de Vito caught in a permanent pre-sneeze and has Einstein hair. Sadly, the kids took dad's DNA.
2- Kung Fu Mom. Tiny-short, dirty-blonde hair in a pixie cut. Not terribly pretty, but has maximized what she has to work with. Permanent smile. Usually arrives at pickup wearing loose cotton slacks and one of several XYZ Martial Arts center t-shirts. She is TOO fit, and likely can kick anyone's ass. All the other moms like her, or maybe they are too afraid to say otherwise.
3- Chatterbox Mom. Talks to TWO different people at the same time (different conversations) and also usually has a cellphone attached.
4- Bus Mom. Has a van-van, not a minivan which is, apparently, for pansies. 5 kids. A bit chubby, shortish. Talks with her hands a lot, but in a coreographed way, not at all flail-ish. Has a bit of a nervous laugh. All the kids are chubby too, but they don't laugh. Does a lot of crosswords. 5- Bitter mom. Just moved in. Bad, recent divorce. Lots (I mean LOTS) of self-help books. I try to hide my Y chromosome, because one day she's going to go postal.
and
6- Gardening mom. BIG straw hat. HUGE tote bag. Sometimes dirt on knees. Tailgate of minivan is often open with flats of some plants the name of which escape me, or would escape me if I could be bothered to try to learn their names..."

I just love it...But I think I have one to add...At least here in my area this seems to be the most prevalent mom archetype:

The Pixie Mom: This mom is noted for being the same size and weight as a typical 8 year old girl. If wearing a plaid skirt, impossible to tell the difference. Usually the mother of three or more children, all who are bigger than her by the time they reach the 5th grade. Usually very pretty or cute with short hair in bob cut, wearing children's clothing and shoes. Usually drives a large vehicle, Hummers are the norm. Husbands always seem to be 6ft. 4in and above, usually overweight and somewhat slovenly, poorly dressed in off-the-rack fashion rubbish, with six electronic gadgets clipped to his belt, but rich, which always improves a man's looks. Usually polite, especially when they want you to coach football, but quite aware that they rule the world of women (except for The Countess and her female relatives, they stand no chance against that crew) by virtue of their smallness, the very tiny woman being the most desirable to most men.

I would, then, add the Pixie Mom to the list...Mr. Joke, do you have Pixie Moms at your school?

The World of Psmith

2007-02-15T00:33:00.000Z

Mike (1909) Mike and Psmith, or Enter Psmith (1953)

Within the world of Wodehouse, Rupert Psmith (the P is silent, like the tomb) has always been my favorite character. Although Psmith is an adolescent, he is actually Wodehouse's first adult character. With Psmith Wodehouse moved from the boy's stories he had been writing into the adult comedies we now know and love such as Jeeves & Wooster and the Blandings stories. But Psmith was the first, and in my mind the best of his creations. Unlike Bertie Wooster and the Blandings crowd, Psmith is in no way a bumbler. He is very astute and sure of himself, and with good reason, since he is more clever and sly than anyone else around him. Psmith is such a forceful character that he starts as a sidekick to his school chum Mike, who is actually the main character in the first novel, which is really a boys story centered on cricket at the fictional public school of Wrykyn. Mike is quickly shunted to the wings (which in Wodehouse means he gets engaged and then married) in the successive stories until in the last, Leave it to Psmith, he makes only a cameo appearance for old times sake. With his immaculate wardrobe, his monocle, his money, his clubs and his mode of addressing everyone as "Comrade" coupled with his machine gun delivery of witty dialog, I find Psmith impossible to resist. Many name Leave it to Psmith as their favorite Psmith novel, but it is my least favorite book. In it Psmith has been stripped of everything that made him Psmith. Without his riches, which allow him to do as he pleases, Psmith loses some of his allure. Psmith, like Bertie, is not funny as a poor man. Although Psmith only appears in four novels, the last being a Blandings novel, he does seem to reappear later in the form of Uncle Fred, who for all intents and purposes is a grown up Psmith.

Psmith in the City (1910)
After Wrykyn, Mike and Psmith get roped into working at a bank with hilarious consequences. Battles with bank managers, Psmith's battles with badly dressed co-workers, Socialist Workers meetings and cricket at Lords...

Psmith Journalist (1915)
While at Cambridge, Mike and Psmith take a trip to America over a summers holiday. Mike to play cricket for England and Psmith brings yellow journalism to New York City as he helps acting editor Billy Windsor change the image of Cosy Moments magazine and they are stalked by gangsters when their expose of slum tenements angers an unscrupulous landlord. Mike spends almost all of this book offstage playing cricket during Psmith's adventures in NYC.

Leave it to Psmith (1923)
The Hon. Freddie Threepwood is to make his debut as a jewel thief, but is not alone. Blandings is brimming with criminals and imposters, all intent on stealing Aunt Constance's diamond necklace. It is left to the debonair Psmith, with his usual aplomb, to defeat the efficient Baxter and to discover the identities of one and all. Mike, married and working as the estate manager for Psmith's family, loses his job when the Psmith fortunes turn south. He becomes a school master and makes a cameo appearance early in the novel. A funny book, but a penniless Psmith is just not the same. Psmith becomes engaged at the end of the story which we all know means the end of Psmith. Wodehouse does note in his introduction that he is sure that Psmith read for the bar, took silk and became a famous judge.

All of these novels are available in an omnibus edition as well. Highly recommended if you have not yet met Psmith. And if you have not...Why not?

Literary Converts

2007-02-14T17:28:00.000Z

Literary Converts by Joseph Pearce

This erudite book vividly contrasts the faith that marked the lives of many of Great Britain's more prominent writers of the 20th century with the unbelief that, the author believes, largely marked their times. Many of the book's "converts" began life as Anglicans and then converted to Roman Catholicism, though some, such as C.S. Lewis and T.S. Eliot, remained with the Church of England. Pearce is at his best when he situates writers within the frameworks of a changing Church and a changing world. For example, he claims that the Catholic Church's move away from the Latin mass hastened the emotional deterioration that directly preceded Evelyn Waugh's death. Pearce suggests that because of communist attacks on Catholics in Spain, Scottish poet Roy Campbell supported Franco and was somewhat sympathetic to Nazism. In discussing the post-World War II era, Pearce loses some of his focus: too many minor figures, including Ronald Knox and novelist Robert Hugh Benson, crowd the stage and detract from his more compelling descriptions of such deeply influential authors as G.K. Chesterton, Waugh, Eliot and Graham Greene. Despite its flaws, this volume nonetheless will edify and absorb the reader.

Literary Giants, Literary Catholics

2007-02-14T17:12:00.000Z

Literary Giants, Literary Catholics by Joseph Pearce

British author Joseph Pearce has firmly established himself as the premier literary biographer of our time, especially in interpreting the spiritual depths of the Catholic literary tradition. In this new book, Pearce examines a plethora of authors, taking the reader through a dazzling tour of the creative landscape of Catholic prose and poetry. Literary Giants, Literary Catholics covers the vast terrain from Dante to Tolkien, from Shakespeare to Waugh.

Focusing on the literary revival of the 20th century, Joseph Pearce touches on well-known authors like Evelyn Waugh, G.K. Chesterton and J.R.R. Tolkien, but also introduces readers to lesser-known writers like Roy Campell, Maurice Baring, and Owen Barfield. Anyone who appreciates English literature will be entranced by the wealth and depth of this new masterpiece.

A Bitter Trial

2007-02-14T17:00:00.000Z

A Bitter Trial: Evelyn Waugh and John Carmel Cardinal Heenan on the Liturgical Changes Edited by Scott M. P. Reid

"Evelyn Waugh was remarkably prescient about what radical liturgical reformers would do with their newfound post-conciliar freedom. Below are excerpts from Fr. James Schall's review:

"The 'bitter trial' was Waugh's reaction to the changes in the Church, especially in the Liturgy, stemming from Vatican II. Heenan seems to play the role of a sympathetic Prelate who listens to his famous countryman with patience but with little awareness that what Waugh feared would mostly come about. Waugh seeks to inform the British Prelate of the reactions of many an English Catholic, especially a convert like himself, of a sense of betrayal and a loss of dignity and beauty in the worship of the Church."
...
"Waugh could be acid in his description of movements in the Church. 'If the Mass is changed in form so as to emphasize its social character, many souls will find themselves put at a further distance from their true aim.' Waugh thought that the liturgical changes were largely the product of the Germans-'I think it a great cheek of the Germans to try to teach the rest of the world anything about religion.' Waugh could be biting: 'The Mass is no longer the Holy Sacrifice but the Meal at which the priest is the waiter. The bishop, I suppose, is the head waiter.'
...
"Waugh was also acutely aware that there were theological problems barely below the surface of the changes in the Mass. 'More than the aesthetic changes which rob the Church of poetry, mystery and dignity, there are suggested changes in Faith and morals which alarm me. A kind of anti-clericalism is abroad which seeks to reduce the priest's unique sacramental position. The Mass is written off as a "social meal" in which the "people of God" perform the consecration.'" --Rich Leonardi

"As an orthodox Catholic convert with a fondness for high quality British fiction, I had to have this book of Evelyn Waugh's gripes and barks at poor Cardinal Heenan concerning the end of the Latin Liturgy following Vatican II. As you would expect, Waugh comes off as witty, sardonic, and somewhat tenderly brokenhearted. It is rare to see Waugh in this mode, but you can tell he felt the changes in the Mass on a personal level. Modernity drove Waugh to drink & bouts of fantastic & biting satire, but in these letters he comes across like a very intelligent child who has lost it's mother. Heenan is the villain of the piece, though no fault of Waugh: the Cardinal's letters show him to be a smooth liar firmly bent on pursuing the Gospel of Trendiness with little regard for the feelings of his flock. All in all, a poignant chronicle of one man's dealings with a Bishop-as-Bureaucrat."--K. Derek E. Gray

Guide To Workplace Etiquette

2007-02-14T00:37:00.000Z

Take a look inside:

Dress Code
There is only one rule for dressing at work or anywhere else; wear your best clothes always.

If in doing so you eclipse the President of your company and show him or her to be the vagrant and charlatan that he or she surely is, then so be it.

You may be summarily dismissed, but you will walk out with your head held high and with right on your side.

Avoiding doing work while at work
This is an odd one. What the devil would a chap be doing in the place other than avoiding work? For gawd's sake. He only took the damn thing because he was getting it in the neck from his tailor and the Trouble. He fully expects to be fired the moment they realise how woefully under-qualified he is. He has no intention whatsoever of learning to play golf with the chairman or making merry with the sales director. If he's not out with a month then he'll have to resort to plan B and burn the place down. Work? While at work? Ridiculous.

Hierarchy and how to subvert it
Always dress better than your boss. Let it be known, by occasional reference to your tailor, that you are entirely bespoke. We are often told that the best way to maintain one's nerve in front of an audience is to imagine them naked. There are few things more humorous than watching a man try to maintain his dignity while dressing you down for some petty transgression in an off-the-peg suit and bad shoes.

Behaviour in the Lavatories
Make no noise whatsoever.

If spoken to, reply with a monosyllable and leave immediately. Always wash your hands no matter what. If you take newspaper in with you, which is perfectly acceptable, then take it out with you. Don't leave it there.

Now one might assume that these rules could be applied no matter which side of the Atlantic a chap finds himself working on. Particularly in a country genetically incapable of saying the word toilet, choosing instead words like bathroom, washroom and even lounge.

Alas this would be to accord undue credit to our American cousins.

For a start they seem to think that a flimsy wooden panel from mid-thigh to head-height, with wide gaps either side of the door, is sufficient to allow a chap privacy for his ablutions.
It is not. And if compromising his own privacy weren't enough think of what other users must endure. Intolerable.
And should you find yourself staring peacefully at the porcelain, don't expect to be left to your thoughts. Rather expect a slap on the back from a 'buddy' or a word about work from your boss. Ye Gods! You might even hear a comment chipped in from the occupant of one of the stalls.

The only solution is to eschew the workplace lavatory altogether. Needing little incentive to go out for fresh air go and find a luxury hotel nearby. Each day pop in and tell them you would like to look at a room for the imminent visit of your maiden aunt. Then make full and free use of the hotel loo. Perhaps having a quick shower and a lie down afterwards.

Advertising gak-heads or members of SH who like to travel up the Northern Line can take this opportunity to indulge.
As an added bonus inter-employee frottage is perfectly possible. Better that than delicately turned stilletoed heels poking out either side of the office toilet stall for all to see.

It is snowing, so you need the British Warm...

2007-02-13T20:01:00.000Z

British Officers Warm Greatcoat

The original British warm takes its fabric and styling from the greatcoats worn by officers during the First World War. Intended to go over khaki tunic and jodhpurs and be accompanied by high field boots and an officer's cap, the coat was standard-issue British army. There is a rather moving photo of the princes of Wales and York lamentedly contemplating the battle scene at Zeebrugge in 1918, both wearing their regulation British warms (York's was belted, a style that led to the "wrap coats" of civilian fashion that followed). These officers coats were slightly shaped and fell to just above the knee, always double-breasted in style, with six buttons (three of which are buttoned), with peaked lapels and epaulets on the shoulders.

The most characteristic aspect of the British warm is the fabric itself: a heavy, taupe-colored, slightly fleecy melton cloth. The name comes from Melton Mowbray, a town in Leicestershire, England, where this thick, tightly woven, napped cloth was first woven for riding and hunting garments. "The authentic melton cloth weighs in at 34 ounces," the custom tailor Leonard Logsdail informs us, "and perhaps a bit of body-building boot camp is necessary to wear it."

The redoubtable British warm saw duty in the Second World War and is still worn by officers in the British army, with metal regimental buttons. The civilian-adapted model takes woven leather buttons, may dispense with the epaulets and may be worn slightly longer. Wrap coats--the double-breasted versions with a belt--partake of elements from both the British warm and the polo coat.

Gentleman's Relish

2007-02-13T17:55:00.000Z

Gentleman's Relish is a type of anchovy paste. It is also known as Patum Peperium.

It was created in 1828 by an Englishman called John Osborn. It tastes very strong, very salty and slightly fishy and contains anchovies (minimum 60%), butter, herbs and spices. The exact recipe however has remained a secret and was passed down by word of mouth over the years. Today, only Elsenham Quality Foods in Elsenham, England is licensed to make it.

The traditional way of eating Gentleman's Relish is on thin slices of buttered white bread toast, either on its own, or with cucumber, or mustard and cress.

Gentleman's Relish can also be added to mince for a different-tasting shepherd's pie or to the mixture for fish cakes, potato cakes and croquettes. Alternatively it can be melted into scrambled eggs or be used as a topping for jacket potatoes.

In recent times Patum Peperium became a blog.

Fleming mentions Patum Perperium sandwiches (with cucumber) in the Bond canon.

The Chesterfield

2007-02-13T15:19:00.000Z

"...The chesterfield is the most formal and classic town coat a gentleman can own. It was originally a variation of the basic Victorian frock coat, whose skirt descended straight to the bottom hem--in either a single- or a double-breasted version--but, unlike the frock, had no waist seam. It was named for the sixth Earl of Chesterfield (not the famous fourth earl, who wrote all those instructive letters to his bastard son), a leader of fashion among the Regency dandies who strolled Bond Street in the early years of the nineteenth century. He probably didn't invent the velvet collar--the coat's trademark. But he was certainly a great popularizer of the style, because when he died in 1866 his name had already become common coinage for the garment.

By the turn of the twentieth century, the chesterfield had assumed the classic lines and details it retains today: a full-length (which at the moment means to the calf) usually single-breasted coat with fly-front closure on the single-breasted version, shaped body, velvet collar, center back vent, two side pockets and set-in sleeves. As the dressiest of town coats, it's usually tailored in dark blue, dark gray or black patternless wool or cashmere. Variations, though limited, include patterns of self-striped wool and herringbone tweed in brown, as well as gray and blue. The most popular variation these days is the chesterfield done in fawn (a marled greenish tan) covert or whipcord twill, with either a bottle green or dark chestnut brown velvet collar. The velvet collar cover--whose color is intended to quietly complement rather than contrast with the coat's color--is not only a bit of discreet adornment, but was, in an age when men wore their hair longer, a practical way of dealing with soiled collars: it's easier and cheaper to replace the velvet cover than to dispense with the entire collar..."

While in London, Father M. wants you to visit...

2007-02-13T14:37:00.000Z

Father M. who is the official Padre of Man About Mayfair and Chaplain for the RCBfA has suggested some things to see while you are in London visiting the Drones...You will do so, because he is a Priest and he said so...Thanks Padre...

Westminster Cathedral in London, England, is the mother church of the Roman Catholic community in England and Wales and the Metropolitan Church and Cathedral for the Archdiocese of Westminster.

The cathedral is located in Victoria, SW1, in the City of Westminster. It is the largest Roman Catholic church in England and Wales. Not to be confused with Westminster Abbey of the Church of England, Westminster Cathedral is the seat of the Archbishop of Westminster, currently Cormac Cardinal Murphy-O'Connor, shepherd of the Archdiocese of Westminster. As a matter of custom each newly appointed Archbishop of Westminster has been created a cardinal in consistory.

Mr. Elk knows something about The Campanile...

The Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, popularly but incorrectly known as the Brompton Oratory, is a church in Knightsbridge, London. It is situated on Brompton Road, next to the Victoria and Albert Museum, at the junction with Cromwell Gardens.

Designed by Herbert Gribble, and consecrated April 16, 1884, it stands 200 ft tall and is the second largest Roman Catholic church in London, after Westminster Cathedral.

Italian Renaissance in style, it is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful and splendid churches in London, with its superb marble columns and altar rails, its huge vaulted dome, its mosaics, and its carvings in wood and stone. In addition, it houses 12 statues of the apostles by Mazzuoli (1644–1725).

The Church belongs to and is served by the Congregation of the London Oratory. There are two other Oratories in the UK, the Birmingham Oratory and the Oxford Oratory.

The Oratorian Fathers emphasise the liturgy. Mass is celebrated every day in Latin in both the Novus Ordo and Tridentine rites. Every Sunday, mass is celebrated according to the Tridentine liturgy.

St Mary of the Angels Catholic Church, Bayswater, London is a large, friendly and vibrant parish in a busy part of London. The Church was built in 1857, and for over 100 years was served by priests of the Order of St Charles Borromeo, whose motto HUMILITAS (humility) can be seen around the Church.

Originally, the parish served the Irish Immigrants who were building Paddington Station. Their numbers were later swelled by members of the Caribbean and Hispanic Communities. Now, St Mary's hosts a large Portuguese congregation, and includes parishioners from every part of the world. The parish is part of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Westminster, and serves the varied and vibrant community of Bayswater and Notting Hill.

Farm Street Church

2007-02-13T00:40:00.000Z

In Mayfair, somewhat between Berkeley Square and Grosvenor Square (pronounced "Grove-nuh" Square, it's where the Yanks live...Plus statues of Ike and FDR), on Mount Street sits The Church of the Immaculate Conception Farm Street. This church of The Society of Jesus is where Evelyn Waugh and many others received instruction and were received into the Roman Catholic Church. The red brick building next door is the headquarters of the British Jesuits.

The Pandagon Papers

2007-02-12T17:20:00.000Z

This is just hilarious...Please go and read the whole thing...I can't stop laughing...

To: Senator John Edwards
From: Amanda Marcotte
Re: Campaign Ideas

Dear Senator Edwards:

I had a couple of ideas for getting the campaign off to a fucking roaring start. I ran some numbers and discovered that (1) Orange County North Carolina has a shocking lack of women's reproductive health centers, and (2) your new home there has 28,000 square feet of space. What better way to address community health needs -- and appeal to the women's vote -- than by installing an abortion clinic inside your own house? It would only take up about 500 square feet total (not counting the exterior biohazard dumpster), and you appear to have a fucking awesome space between the indoor basketball court and reflective koi pond.

I also discovered that North Carolina is home to NASCAR, which as you know is the official sport of toothless Southern white supremecist racists. I think would make fucking great campaign street theater to drive over to one of the local fucking dickwad reich wing repugnican NASCAR garages and piss all over their goddamn earth-destroying Klan-mobiles. On the way there, it probably wouldn't fucking kill you to drop in at the Durham courthouse to support District Attorney Nifong in his brave battle to bring the white rapist Duke lacrosse team to justice.

To help organize the local campaign swing, I've lined up a couple of camera crews and programmed directions into the GPS of your Benz (the silver one).

On To The White House!
Amanda

PS - I cross-posted my thoughts at the official campaign site, I will let you know about voter feedback.

Thank you Christine...

The Tomb

2007-02-12T15:59:00.000Z

Lincoln's Tomb Springfield, Illinois dedicated Oct. 15, 1874

On Feb. 12, 1809, Abraham Lincoln, the 16th president of the United States, was born in present-day Larue County, Ky. He was assassinated and died on April 15, 1865 and is buried in Springfield, Illinois.

Two years after the dedication, Lincoln's body escaped a failed attempt by a counterfeiting ring to steal his body and hold it for a ransom of $200,000 and the freedom of the gang's imprisoned master engraver. In all, Lincoln's coffin has been moved 17 times, mainly due to reconstruction, and has been opened five times. The last time for both was September 26, 1901, when officials verified that the remains were Lincoln's and then set his coffin in a concrete crypt beneath the monument's floor surrounded by reinforced steel, in part to prevent further attempts at desecration. Despite additional reconstructions, Lincoln's remains have rested in peace since 1901. Thousands continue to journey to the tomb each year to pay their respects to one of the country's most revered leaders. It seems that the National Lincoln Monument Association completed its task of erecting a tribute that conveys the country's estimate placed upon his life, virtues, and public services.

Lincoln's sarcophagus in the monument's burial chamber lies 10 feet below this marker in a steel reinforced concrete crypt. His wife and three of his four children are buried in the walls of the burial chamber.

A bust of Lincoln outside the tomb, and one of the many statues within...As you can see from these photographs, the shiny portions, the nose and foot, are created by people touching Lincoln as they pass around and though the tomb. All statues that can be reached exhibit these shiny patches.

A stone from the wall of Servius Tullius, presented to Lincoln by the citizens of Rome in 1865 and now part of the Lincoln Tomb.

The Nine Day Queen

2007-02-12T15:38:00.000Z

le Supplice de Jeanne Grey by Paul Delaroche 1833

On February 12, 1554, Lady Jane Grey, who had claimed the throne of England for nine days, and her husband, Guildford Dudley, were beheaded after being condemned for high treason.

Lord Yaxley

2007-02-12T01:44:00.000Z

Sir P. G. Wodehouse never got around to writing about it...But based on what he did write, it seems that upon the death of his Uncle George, Bertie will become Lord Yaxley, being the oldest male nephew...I always found this amusing and wish Wodehouse had taken the stories in that direction. I'm sure he would have come up with something hilarious.

This is exactly what happened, and you can read about it in C. Northcote Parkinson's biography of Reginald Jeeves: Jeeves: A Gentleman's Personal Gentleman

Curzon Street

2007-02-12T01:32:00.000Z

This is a door in Curzon Street, Mayfair...We all know whose door this is...The Junior Ganymede Club is also located in Curzon Street.

The Junior Ganymede is a club for "gentlemen's gentlemen", of which Reginald Jeeves is a member.

One of the club's rules states that its members are required to enter any embarrassing or compromising information about their employers into the Junior Ganymede Club Book, and it is a much-laughed-about fact among the members that the section entitled WOOSTER B is the largest, containing eleven pages. While the rule requires that members keep the information recorded in the book strictly confidential, Jeeves uses it on occasion to help his employer, most notably to discover the nature of Roderick Spode's business in The Code of the Woosters.

In Much Obliged, Jeeves, Bingley, a former valet of Bertie's friend Ginger Winship, steals the Club Book and threatens to sell it, endangering Winship's campaign for election to the House of Commons; however, Jeeves promptly recovers it by drugging Bingley's drink.

Dover Street

2007-02-11T23:24:00.000Z

This is Dover Street, Mayfair...That would be pronounced "Dovah" as in "Come on Dovah, move your bloomin' arse"...Here you will find the Drones Club, home to Bertie Wooster and his gang. The Arts Club is in this street as well. When in Dover Street you might see some of these gents:

Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Richard "Bingo" Little
Augustus "Gussie" Fink-Nottle
Cyril "Barmy" Fotheringay-Phipps (pronounced fungy-fipps)
Oofy Prosser
Freddie Widgeon
Claude "Catsmeat" Potter-Pirbright
Pongo Twistleton
Boko Fittleworth
Hildebrand "Tuppy" Glossop
Rupert Psmith (the P is silent, like the tomb)

The Two Classes of Gentlemen's Clubs
The gentlemens' clubs of London were a very important part of the genteel world of the twenties, and Wodehouse's satire of them is continuous and hilarious. While American club life tends to be business oriented, the British clubs are elegant clandestine establishments designed to serve as escapes form the responsibilities - and often the drabness - of their members' home lives. Wooster's club is The Drones, whose exclusively upper-class members are invariably shown in their beautifully furnished clubrooms jumping on sofas, playing catch with cricket balls, or throwing dinner rolls at one another. Jeeves' club is the Ganymede, whose equally exclusive membership is composed of butlers, valets, gentlemen's gentlemen, and other in the upper reached of London's servant class. The Ganymede clubrooms are as elegant as The Drones', but the behavior of the Ganymede members is impeccable. The club names themselves are a deft malicious touch. Drones, of course, are the stingless male bees that make no honey and live off the work of other bees. Ganymede, in classic mythology, is the cup-bearer to the gods.

Berkeley Square

2007-02-09T02:08:00.000Z

This, of course, is Berkeley Square, Mayfair...That would be pronounced "Bark-lee" Square by the way. It is here that Bertie Wooster and Reginald Jeeves live at 3A Berkeley Mansions, Berkeley Square, London, W1. Please visit soon, won't you?......Remember, "Bark-lee" Square.

Encyclopedia Jeevesiana

What ho! My hero, P. G. Wodehouse

2007-02-09T01:58:00.000Z

by Stephen Fry

"Had his only contribution to literature been Lord Emsworth and Blandings Castle, his place in history would have been assured. Had he written of none but Mike and Psmith, he would be cherished today as the best and brightest of our comic authors. If Jeeves and Wooster had been his solitary theme, still he would be hailed as the Master. If he had given us only Ukridge, or nothing but recollections of the Mulliner family, or a pure diet of golfing stories, Doctor Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse would nonetheless be considered immortal. That he gave us all those - and more - is our good fortune and a testament to the most industrious, prolific and beneficent author ever to have sat down, scratched his head and banged out a sentence.

If I were to say that the defining characteristic of Wodehouse, the man, was his professionalism, that might make him sound rather dull. We look for eccentricity, sexual weirdness, family trauma and personal demons in our great men. Wodehouse, who knew just what was expected of authors, was used to having to apologise for a childhood that was "as normal as rice-pudding" and a life that consisted of little more than "sitting in front of the typewriter and cursing a bit"..."

continue...

If your phone doesn't ring...It's me...

2007-02-08T20:46:00.000Z

Last weekend, I returned home from my club and found an urgent email from someone or other listing phone numbers, declaring emergency and demanding I call. Now, as you all know, I am not one for modern technology, a modern Luddite would best describe me, but I do have a telephone, placed in the foyer in case a call to the local constabulary is required.

Intrigued by this e-missive, I dialed and immediately was embroiled in an argument about whether or not it was actually me on the phone or someone else. Of course with the raucous laughter and breaking glass sounds in the background, I realized at once that I had reached either Mrs. P or the Card's Wife...I was surprised that they didn't ask if I had Prince Albert in a can, etc.

If, by chance, you have phoned someone in the midst of a drunken pub crawl you realize that the conversation is not on a level that one would normally desire, and that the volume might be described as somewhat shrill...Although I did get a few words with The Card and Mr. P, there was a cry about 'minutes' in the background and I found myself discussing Saki with a dial tone.

Well, it was nice to hear from them anyway...

Live in glass houses, don't throw stones, etc.

2007-02-08T20:32:00.000Z

"...Under its corrupt government, which is widely believed to sell seats in the upper house of parliament in return for contributions to ruling party funds, the once-free nation of Britain is rapidly turning into a police state. Pre-trial detention, once limited to 72 hours, is being repeatedly extended to far longer periods. Old rules about the accused being innocent until proved guilty are being cast aside. The right to silence has been abolished and so has the law which prevented anyone being tried twice for the same offence. The police increasingly take action against individuals for expressing opinions which defy 'political correctness', the official orthodoxy of the British state. The major Churches claim that new laws discriminate against their freedom of conscience.

The streets are under perpetual surveillance by closed-circuit TV cameras recording every action. The citizens are shortly to be issued with internal passports similar to Russian ones, and will be compelled to provide their fingerprints to their authorities. Schoolchildren are already being fingerprinted on such pretexts as allowing library access. The police increasingly use arrests - not followed by charges - to harass those they wish to pursue - and anyone arrested - whether convicted or not - is now compelled to give a DNA sample. As a result, Britain now has the most comprehensive DNA records of its population, anywhere in the world. Many state bodies now have the power to search people's homes, and the old maxim that 'An Englishman's Home is His Castle' is now so untrue as to be laughable.

Elections are still held, but are a sham in which all the parties have more or less the same policies. The main political movements, which have lost much of their popular support, are kept going by state subsidies and contributions from millionaire businessmen. The main state-owned broadcasting system is slavishly loyal to the government and keeps minority viewpoints off the air, or treats them with contempt and derision, while the other channels mostly purvey low-grade pornographic entertainment, so-called 'reality' shows of stunning banality, old movies and sport.

Meanwhile, actual crime is out of control, though citizens are legally prevented from many actions of self-defence and a government minister recently advised Britons to 'jump up and down' if they saw an old woman being attacked in the street, in the hope of distracting the attacker. This is the country which lectures Russia about 'civil society' and 'human rights'..."

Mr. Peter Hitchens via Mr. Cusack of TNC fame...

Taki's Top Drawer

2007-02-08T20:25:00.000Z

"I want to shake up the stodgy world of so-called ‘conservative’ opinion. For the past ten years at least, the conservative movement has been dominated by a bunch of pudgy, pasty-faced kids in bow-ties and blue blazers who spent their youths playing Risk in gothic dormitories, while sipping port and smoking their father’s stolen cigars. Thanks to the tragedy of September 11—and a compliant and dim-witted president—these kids got the chance to play Risk with real soldiers, with American soldiers. Patriotic men and women are dying over in Iraq for a war that was never in America’s interests. And now these spitball gunners, these chicken hawks, want to attack Iran—which is no threat to the U.S. at all.

One thing I can tell you for sure, there may well be some atheists in foxholes—but you’ll never find a neocon. They prefer to send blue-collar kids out to die on their behalf, so they get to feel macho—and make up for all the times they got wedgies in prep school. It shall be our considered task to take on the chicken-hawks of this world, and give them wedgies again.”

We want to reflect a traditional conservatism that prefers peace with honor to proxy wars, Western civilization to multicultural barbarism, Christendom to the European Union, and Russell Kirk to Leon Trotsky. This will undoubtedly infuriate many in the mainstream ‘conservative’ movement, who have transferred their loyalties elsewhere. It’s time to raise their blood pressure a few points—and help them burn off some of those five-course meals they’ve been eating down on K Street."

Dictatorial Style

2007-02-06T18:47:00.000Z

"Style is the most abused word in the English language. It is usually attributed to fashionable people by those not in the know. Style, however, is an elusive quality, and few fashionable people and almost no celebrities possess it outright. No one is capable of buying it, although thousands try. The dictionary defines ‘style’ as a noticeably superior quality. It is of an abstract nature and one either has it or one does not. As a child, I used to admire dictators, their brilliant uniforms, their swagger and their conviction. Although I hate to admit it, I still like dictators and for a very good reason: their lack of hypocrisy. They do not resort to taking the advice of pollsters and image-makers in order to find out who they ought to be. They don’t give a fig for what the great unwashed think. Imagine caring what Jade Goody’s wishes are. After all, style has a lot to do with lack of pretence..."

Dozy bints - Western handmaids of Allah

2007-02-06T18:24:00.000Z

"Why are Western women sympathetic to Islam? Why are we not repulsed by an ideology that classes us as inferior, that could have married us off at nine, that allows our husbands to beat us and our three co-wives, and would have us stoned to death for “adultery” even when this results from rape? I can understand – barely – the attraction of Islam for Western men, particularly those who are not keen on uppity women. But for women? It defies common sense.

Women’s inferior status in Islam has been fully documented. Their wretched half-lives are lived out in all Islamic countries, and the more Islamic the country, the worse it is for them. Moreover, the treatment cannot be ascribed merely to culture or custom as it derives from the Koran itself and from the example of Mohammed. By way of illustration, on seizing power in Iran, one of the first laws Ayatollah Khomeini passed was to lower the age of “consent” for “marriage” of girls to nine, on the example of Mohammed, who, as attested in the authentic Hadith of Bukhari and Muslim, consummated his “marriage” to Aisha when she was nine years old.

Women and girls unfortunate enough to live under Islamic law, or even in nominally secular countries where Islam holds sway, have little choice but to submit to their fate. To speak out against it is to invite at best ostracism and at worst honour killing. However, in the West, in the free world, where the individual is valued and where women are starting to attain something resembling equal rights, we do have a choice, and a duty to exercise our freedom responsibly. For Western women, the only rational response to Islam should be revulsion, with a smattering of contempt and mockery. Fear, lest this ideology come to power, is also rational. But respect, even tolerance, for Islam, is irresponsible and dangerous. Western women who freely embrace Islam, or who speak favourably of it are misguided or wilfully ignorant and occasionally wicked. I call these women dozy bints..."

Star Trek: To seek out new girls and libations...

2007-02-02T15:09:00.000Z

Make no mistake—Captain Kirk and his crew were cowboys and they treated the universe like the Wild West. There was always a lot of solemn talk about the Prime Directive and not interfering with native cultures, but that went right out the window the moment Kirk laid eyes on the first attractive female of whatever species they came across. Sure, they solved a lot of problems, but half the time they were solving problems they created. The crew of the original Enterprise wasn’t trying to unite the universe, they weren’t trying to right the universe’s many and sundry wrongs—they were looking for kicks......

Top Ten Signs Your Starship Captain is a Drunkard

10.) When Spock mind probes him, Spock gets hammered.

9.) Wakes up next to a Klingon chick at least once a week.

8.) Starts the ship’s self-destruct sequence just to f*** with the yeoman who blew him off in the officer’s lounge.

7.) Each time you discover a new planet he tells Spock to scan the surface for cheap scotch and loose females.

6.) The first thing he says when negotiating with Romulans is, “So, what’s the ale situation?”

5.) McCoy tells him, “I’m a doctor, Jim, not a bartender!”

4.) He keeps slipping down to the engineering room to “discuss ancient Scottish traditions” with Scotty.

3.) Giggles every time Spock says they should launch a “deep space probe.”

2.) Whenever a female yeoman brings him a clipboard he tries to open a tab.

1.) Is willing to make beer runs into the neutral zone.

Nowadays and thenadays...

2007-02-01T02:31:00.000Z

"...In my youth one could go into a drugstore and confidently ask for a package of Luckies and nervously whisper one's request for condoms. Now things are precisely reversed..."

more...

Mr. Waugh, where are you when we need you?

2007-02-01T02:20:00.000Z

"...Major League Baseball has a marketing deal with a company called Eternal Image. It'll put team logos on caskets and urns. The effort begins next season with the Yankees, Red Sox, Tigers, Phillies, Cubs and Dodgers. It could eventually include all 30 teams..."

Alright, stop crying and grab your Waugh, he has already dealt with this...It is always better to laugh than cry, don't you think...

So sorry...

2007-02-01T01:51:00.000Z

I have been away due to some malfunction with the machinery...Don't understand, but one box is replaced with another and all is well...So...What did I miss?

Out, Out, Damn Scot!

2007-01-25T19:30:00.000Z

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...

2007-01-25T17:45:00.000Z

"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

2007-01-24T14:46:00.000Z

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

The Last Lion...

2007-01-24T14:43:00.000Z

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

Vote with your feet...

2007-01-23T02:49:00.000Z

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

2007-01-23T02:32:00.000Z

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

2007-01-21T16:22:00.000Z

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

The Orwell Reader

Procession to eternity...

2007-01-21T16:13:00.000Z

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

2007-01-20T03:14:00.000Z

Thank you M. Leader...

To celebrate, or not....

2007-01-19T15:19:00.000Z

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...

2007-01-18T19:21:00.000Z

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?

2007-01-18T15:42:00.000Z

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...

2007-01-17T02:50:00.000Z

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...

2007-01-15T18:54:00.000Z

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

2007-01-15T16:24:00.000Z

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?

2007-01-15T02:30:00.000Z

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...

2007-01-14T04:43:00.000Z

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...

2007-01-12T15:56:00.000Z

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!!!!

2007-01-10T19:00:00.001Z

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...

2007-01-10T16:51:00.000Z

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...

2007-01-10T16:27:00.000Z

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

Sir Basil Seal investigates...

2007-01-09T00:35:00.000Z

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...

2007-01-08T15:33:00.000Z

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

2007-01-08T15:05:00.000Z

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...

2007-01-08T14:49:00.000Z

He got lucky...

Happy Birthday King...

2007-01-08T14:11:00.000Z

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

2007-01-05T15:35:00.000Z

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...

Sir Basil Seal will be back soon...

2006-12-29T15:12:00.000Z

Yes Dear Readers, I will be back soon...I am out and about on holiday at this moment, but look for my return in early '07...I certainly hope you all had a very Merry Christmas, and here is wishing you all a very Happy New Year...

Sir Basil Seal

Noel!

2006-12-25T02:02:00.000Z

I pray good beef and I pray good beer
This holy night of all the year,
But I pray detestable drink to them
That give no honour to Bethlehem.

May all good fellows that here agree
Drink Audit Ale in heaven with me,
And may all my enemies go to hell!
Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!
May all my enemies go to hell!
Noel! Noel!

In Reference: Christmas, Merry: Please see Mr. Cusack

In Defense of Scrooge and Basil Seal

2006-12-23T04:39:00.000Z

"It's Christmas again, time to celebrate the transformation of Ebenezer Scrooge. You know the ritual: boo the curmudgeon initially encountered in Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol, then cheer the sweetie pie he becomes in the end. It's too bad no one notices that the curmudgeon had a point—quite a few points, in fact.

To appreciate them, it is necessary first to distinguish Scrooge's outlook on life from his disagreeable persona. He is said to have a pointed nose and a harsh voice, but not all hardheaded businessmen are so lamentably endowed, nor are their feckless nephews (remember Fred?) always "ruddy and handsome," and possessed of pretty wives. These touches of the storyteller's art only bias the issue...continue..."

Thanks RW for reminding me...