Fortescue Towers

Mellow Fruitfulness

2006-11-15T10:57:00.000Z

As one writes all is right with the world. The trees are alive with the colours of Autumn and all is quiet barring the gentle chatter of a Vickers from the North tower as the Mem' tries to bag a few migratory ducks as they pass overhead. Although judging by the starlings littering the lawn one fears that she is not having much luck on that front and nor are the starlings. Must get Clackthorpe to make sure they are cleared away forthwith, not because one fears a visit from the RSPB inspector but one is sure cooks menu for this evening mentioned 'Game Pie'.

Even the gazebo is back in its rightful place after being rescued from its watery grave and Blenkinsop has even recovered from the recovery attempt. At least physically if not mentally. One is still not sure how he ended up like that but at least his wooden leg kept him afloat even after Utterthwaites rescue attempt left him concussed and confused.

One is still confused oneself as to the discovery of a rather soggy pair of scorched Y-Fronts and some ladies frilly apparel in the submerged gazebo. One cannot imagine how they might have arrived in such a place and their parading by Utterthwaite on the end of his mole clubbing spade caused some consternation amongst onlookers. Lady J was heard to mutter "Oh my!" before crashing into the herbaceous border in a dead faint and the under gardener Luigi was suddenly nowhere to be found.

Anyhow, as one said, all is right with the world as one gazes from ones study window across the mist wreathed estate although it rather appears that the Mem' may have mistaken the postman for a Grouse. One thinks one should really get one of the staff to rescue him from where he is pinned down at the main gate as one would hate to raise the ire of the village postmistress again having lost another of her staff. Not so close to Christmas and the arrival of a postal order from great aunt Hortensia.

Bangers and Crash

2006-07-28T10:47:00.000Z

With the recent spell of clement, some might say overly so, weather one decided that a little al fresco dining might be called for. The fact that great uncle Quentin was in residence and his constantly burning briar had necessitated a fog warning siren to be fitted in the long gallery naturally had nothing to do with it. One simply felt mans primal urge to hunt down and consume ones food beneath the azure skies or at least get cook to throw a few meaty morsels from ones local purveyor of such upon a barbecue on the terrace in the hope that even cook could not ruin them any more than the average outdoor chef.

One really should have learned by now that if cook is involved even water is in danger of becoming scorched, ruined and otherwise unpalatable. Gazing from the study window, one was momentarily convinced that the weather had broken and a dense fog had rolled in from the sea some miles distant but on opening the window one became more convinced that great uncle Quentin was puffing a particularly vile mixture of old English Shag mixed with Utterthwaites special compost mixture. However, this was not the case as uncle Quentin does not have a tendency to explode when he lights up.

Deep in the roiling fug one noticed a brief flash of light and one was surprised to hear the deep booms of several explosions the like of which one had not heard since ones service days. Seconds later the fug cleared and one was greeted by the sight of the Gazebo hurtling skywards on a plume of fire and a shower of smoke trailing chipolatas.

Rushing from the study one swiftly ascertained that cook, having some problems with the barbecue had adulterated the charcoal with a can of petrol Utterthwaite had been using to refuel 'Old Betsy', his faithful lawnmower with by the gazebo. On applying a match to the barbecue cook discovered that petrol, fire and chipolatas are rather a bad mixture, the resulting explosion hurling meat based products several hundred feet into the air. Worse however, was yet to come as due to spillage a trail of fire raced back to the gazebo.

It would appear that Clackthorpe, fearing another invasion of Johnny Foreigner had taken to stockpiling munitions once again and was using the base of the gazebo as a bunker...one had wondered what the furtive rustlings beneath ones feet were when one was avoiding the mem' by taking a decent port and a good book out to the gazebo for a few hours solitude. Anyhow, on being exposed to the flame the stored explosives did what explosives are wont to do and rather went bang.

Luckily the gazebo made a splash landing in the ornamental lake and injuries were light, confined to a slightly scorched cook and the verger who was rather taken by surprise by a banger from heaven as he cycled along the lane. One is told that the resulting damage to the 'Tea Shoppe' is not too severe and that the cream gateaux saved the verger from any lasting damage. One was slightly perplexed to notice Luigi, the under gardener and the chambermaid sneaking through the kitchen garden, soaking wet, slightly scorched and in a state of deshabille. One really cannot fathom how they might have arrived at such a state as they were nowhere to be seen at cooks ill fated outdoor culinary attempt.

Flying the flag

2006-06-06T13:48:00.000Z

One is, as regular readers will know, a patriotic chap. Loyal to Queen and country and always ready to fly the flag. Thus, with the rapidly approaching jamboree of sporting prowess that is the World Cup one thought one had better show ones support and fly the flag from ones car as so many other patriotic fellahs are doing. However, one feels that maybe one should have made it clear to Blenkinsop, gentlemans gentleman since 1947 that one required a small flag to fly from ones vehicle.

Imagine ones surprise then when emerging from Fortescue Towers for a jaunt to ones club to avoid the Mem' who had been at the medicinal brandy one discovered that the Bentley had sprouted a flagpole which was not too distant a relative to the one on the parade ground we used to hoist Cuthbertson Jnr to the top of on a regular basis when one was a junior officer. How the daft old beggar had managed to climb to the top of the East wing to cut it down evades one, especially after all his complaints about the damp in his wooden leg.

Of course, one would have had him remove it forthwith but the Mem' had roused from her inebriated fug and had managed to find the keys to the gun cupboard once more so one was forced to flee rather hastily lest a few ounces of buck shot perforate the upholstery.

Now one finds oneself in the rather awkward position of being up in front of ones fellow magistrates for dangerous driving. It's jolly well not on. A chap tries to be patriotic and show his support and is hauled up in front of the beak for his trouble.

All one can say is that surely that at least one of the village cycling club, the verger and the local bobby should have been able to see one pootling down the road. After all, the flagpole was large enough as was the flag and they really have no excuse for not seeing one and one did stop to help rescue them from the village duck pond.

Water, Water Everywhere...

2006-05-17T10:17:00.000Z

One is in something of a pickle after the Mem' discovered ones good self sharing a tub with one of the servants. Of course one protested ones innocence and pointed out to the Mem' that despite the parlourmaids obvious nubile charms that one had not noticed in the slightest until the Mem' had pointed them out that one was in fact attempting to carry out ones civic duty to save water. One has a good memory and was simply remembering the old slogan from the last water crisis to "save water and bath with a friend."

Fortunately for one the steam in ones bath chamber had affected the two rounds of bird shot that the Mem' had loaded in the Purdey she was pointing at one at the time and she stormed off uttering the kind of oaths that would make RSM McNulty blush and mentioning that one might consider taking ones ablutions with Blenkinsop in attendance in future. Of course one was utterly outraged at this. Bathe with Blenkinsop ? That would mean standing in the stableyard whilst being hosed down by Luigi and scrubbed by the stable lad with a broom and carbolic. This was not always the case as ones staff did try bathing ones gentlemans gentleman in the lake but as a result of this dead trout were surfacing for weeks and one had several complaints from the local waterboard about toxic run off getting into their aquifers.

Naturally, other than the parlour and chambermaids this only leaves Clackthorpe, Utterthwaite and Perkins. Clackthorpe has apparently vanished into the shrubbery again and has not been seen for weeks barring the occasional furtive rustling amongst the Gladioli, Utterthwaite hasn't bathed since 1947 claiming the earthy aroma means the moles can't smell him sneaking up on them and as for Perkins, well, given his little peccadilloes one would rather not have him fiddling around for the soap when one is in ones bath.

So, one simply has no choice other than bathe with the parlourmaid if one is to save water as we have been asked to do. One wonders why the Mem' is so suspicious ? After all, one is a gentleman of the highest standing. One is merely trying to do ones bit and one had hoped the Mem' had forgotten the unfortunate incident in the linen cupboard that occured some time ago.

However, one is a tad perturbed that having heard of ones attempts at water conservation a certain caddish major of ones acquaintance has taken to following Lady J with a towel and loofah.

Row, row, row your boat

2006-04-12T10:19:00.000Z

One knew it was a rather large mistake to agree to go off on a fishing trip with ones somewhat deranged cousin Arthur but one did believe that the poor chap had recovered from his little obsession about German naval power.

It was a sunny day in early February when one had Blenkinsop load ones tackle into a small boat and one along with ones batman, Perkins and cousin Arthur set off down the river for a quiet afternoons fishing. No sooner had our small party set off than Arthur began to mutter about searching for 'the Kaisers battleship' and took over the engine mumbling like a madman, which in the circumstances is an apt description, about ironclads and the dastardly hun. Before we knew it we were some miles out to sea pootling up and down the channel. Now this in itself would not have been too bad if Arthurs obsession had not led him to decide that 'jerry' was hiding in one of his ports and that the only way to stop his expansionist plans was to take the battle to him, cold British steel, grit, pluck and up the jolly old empire. The fog bank probably did not help either.

One can honestly say that getting lost somewhere in the Atlantic with a raving madman and a chap who one is most definitely convinced bats from the opposite end of the pavilion is not ones idea of a jolly jaunt especially when all one has to eat is a packet of cooks ham sandwiches which had curled into something that resembled sausage rolls. Of course being an ex-military chap one took the hardships with some fortitude and a stiff upper lip but one did rather wish that Arthur had not taken to firing potshots at any passing oil tanker in the mistaken belief it was a heavily disguised battleship out to take over the dominions of her Brittanic majesty.

Two damned months of floating around the North Atlantic until Arthur runs out of ammunition and we wash up in Africa, Tangiers to be exact. Thought the nightmare was over when one reached the consulate but then Arthur was spotted riding off into the desert on a camel followed by a pack of the local fellahs chanting something about "El Orrance!" and one has heard rather disturbing rumours about the local trains vanishing out in the desert. Probably nothing to do with Arthur but a party of German tourists did return somewhat traumatised after apparently being captured by a deranged madman in a djellaba ranting on about the Kaisers colonial aggression.

As you might guess, after all this one is rather glad to be back home in ones stately pile. Even the mems' little foibles and Blenkinsops constant complaining about the wet rot in his wooden leg cannot spoil ones relief at being back...although one is vaguely perturbed at Perkins wandering around the place offering to show anyone and everyone the 'artistic' postcards he got from the 'rather nice chap' he met in the souk.

The return of the Hamish

2006-01-27T11:53:00.000Z

No sooner has one recovered from the excesses of the festive season and the last of the Stilton has been safely disposed of by ones manservant and a specially trained squad from the local TA than what should roll around once more but Burns night.

This year one was hoping for a respite from cooks culinary disasters and a generally peaceful time but instead one was rather rudely awakened by a terrible screaming emanating from the vicinity of the shrubbery. Naturally one immediately thought that one of the footmen had inadvertantly trodden on one of Utterthwaites mole traps or that Luigi had sunk back into his old ways and was exposing himself to the maid servants once again. This was discounted when one did not hear hysterical laughter shortly afterwards nor spotted a mackintoshed figure slinking furtively away.

Instead the screaming resolved itself into a strangled rendition of 'Amazing Grace' and one was treated to the sight of RSM McNulty accompanied by a shadowy figure weaving across the lawn puffing as hard as he could into a set of bagpipes. It would appear that Cousin Hamish has finally managed to extricate himself from the crate in which he was sealed last year and returned to castle McSlurry. Fortunately for ones eardrums one of his whisky sodden weavings took him into the rockery where one of Clackthorpes explosive devices lay undetonated by the rampaging French chefs of the summer invasion. A blinding flash of light and explosion later and the infernal pipes were sailing over the arboretum and Hamish was standing bereft of kilt showing that he truly is a real Scotsman.

Luckily the mem' was woken by the racket and with commendable speed and a far better aim than usual she gave the airborne instrument both barrels ensuring its brief reign of terror at Fortescue Towers was over. Although one is told that the local constable was somewhat surprised to be knocked off his bicycle by what appeared to be a giant smoking tartan Tarantula hurtling out of the night sky.

One has since heard that ones good friend and neighbour Lady J required reviving after inadvertantly viewing the terrible sight of Hamish standing naked in the rockery through her binoculars but one does rather wonder why she was bird watching at two in the morning.

A butler in a fir tree

2005-12-05T15:06:00.000Z

One has discovered that ones gentlemans gentleman and fir trees do not mix awfully well.

After last years Christmas lights debacle which only saw the drive cleared of 737s in mid January one decided to ensure that this years festive decorations were a little more low-key. Just a small pine tree for the great hall and a bit of tinsel around grandfathers portrait above the stairs. Thus one sent Blenkinsop limping through the snow with Clackthorpe to select a suitable tree from the big wood at the top of the hill and one settled down for a pleasant post lunch nap as cooks mashed potato was sitting somewhat heavily. One must have dozed for some hours as the embers were glowing in the fireplace and dusk was falling about Fortescue Towers when one was woken by the kind of screams usually heard from below stairs when Great Aunt Agatha cannot find the key to the Sherry Cabinet. This time however, they seemed to be emanating from beyond the study window.

Ones gaze was caught by the sight of ones butler hurtling down the slope on a rather large fir tree, his agonized screams being caused every time the runaway pine hit a hillock and brought his nether regions into contact with the trunk. Like a woody torpedo he was headed straight for the front entrance. It was most fortuitous that the parlour maid was on hand as her quick thinking saved the door from destruction by the simple expedient of opening both it and the windows at the rear of the house.

Like a guided missile the tree and its screaming manservant cargo shot through the house, helped on its way by the mem' who gave it both barrels from the upper landing. Describing a graceful arc it shot over the verandah and through the ornamental gardens until its headlong flight was halted in an explosion of pine needles, squirrels and tumbling butler by the Summer house by the ornamental pond.

A fir tree stuck horizontally through the summer house is not quite what one had in mind but one must say that the servants have done a splendid job decorating it. In fact if the local W.I had a prize for the most Avant Garde decorated tree in the village one is sure one would walk off with the prize without any problem whatsoever. However, one thinks that next year one will get the tree from B & Q.

Atchoo!

2005-10-31T08:05:00.000Z

The village has gone absolutely crackers. Everyone from the vicar to the families on the council estate wandering round in protective suits and masks in case a swan sneezes on 'em. Papers are the same, every time a Sparrow drops dead half way across the globe there is ten pages on how we are all doomed. Bonkers, the lot of them and one is definitely not going to give up dining on well hung Pheasant in case it has forgotten to blow its beak.

In fact one is suffering from something of a surfeit of slightly gamey avian wildlife at the moment as the mem' concerned about her health has been blasting away from the clocktower like some deranged sniper. One cannot even go out without the risk of being brained by birdlife tumbling from the sky. The postman will no longer deliver after being knocked unconscious by a plummeting Cormorant and ones gun dog needed resuscitating after a flock of Starlings flew over. Poor thing was running around the great lawn picking up feathered corpses for two hours then the mem' spotted a couple of flights of geese headed our way.

One did attempt to remonstrate with the mad woman but to no avail and the avian slaughter got worse when she discovered the Bofors gun ones father had hidden after the last big shindig just in case the Wehrmacht tried another world tour or the reds arrived on the doorstep one morning. One does rather hope that she runs out of 40mm soon as the pilot of 4.30 mail plane may get something of a shock as he passes overhead. One really does not fancy a re-enactment of the Dambusters raid over the ornamental pond if he should suddenly get flashbacks to his days over Berlin. Birdlife falling from the skies is bad enough but having a sack of birthday cards and telephone bills skip across the lake and crash through ones study window is just not on. One should receive ones mail through the postbox, not be precision bombed by it.

Still at least cook is happy as she can now try a few recipes from her ' Origynalle Mediaevalle Cooke Booke - 1978 Edition' although if Blenkinsop can find ones tin helmet one is going to make a dash for it in case the mem' really does manage to bag four and twenty blackbirds.

On Mobile Telephones

2005-10-20T08:12:00.000Z

Ones niece Josella has recently acquired one of those portable telephones. Allows her to keep in touch with the other debutantes and plays 'Rule Britannia' every time someone calls her. Been trying to convince one to invest in one as well. Absolutely not, bloody infernal devices, see the local common oiks hanging around outside the village store using them. Tippity-tapping away to their equally revolting chums, probably informing them that Mr Bhutee has had a few cases of cheap cider delivered and to get there before they drink it all. Not going to lower oneself to that level and anyway, carrying one means that the mem' can get hold of one even when one is enjoying a quiet snifter at ones club or comfortably ensconced in the summer house with a G and T and one of Sir Percivals collection of vintage erotica.

Of course, one isn't completely out of touch with technology. Ones grandfather, the late Sir 'Binky' Fortescue VC, OBE, DFC had one of Mr Bells Telephonic Apparatus installed in the 1890s. Been providing sterling service ever since without the need for gimmicks and makeovers. Does the job it was designed for and can't see Mr Bell resorting to annoying blue amphibians to sell a few more.

However, one does rather prefer to use the old fashioned method of pen and paper. Scribble a missive and get Blenkinsop to deliver it to the mem' in the East wing. If he returns safely unmarked by a couple of rounds of birdshot and without his wooden leg in splinters one knows the message has been well received. Much more pleasant than having to listen to the mems dulcet tones emanating from ones telephone as she employs the turn of phrase that would make a navvy blush.

The battle of Fortescue Towers

2005-09-20T08:06:00.000Z

Been a bit of a week here at the old stately pile as a dastardly plot by our continental neighbours was revealed to be happening right under ones nose or more precisely the Lower Meadow.

Seems that the great unwashed camping on the village green were in fact an undercover unit of top French chefs driven to Blightys shores by the likelihood of a rather poor truffle crop in their own country. Having caught wind of rumours of a rich crop beneath the lower meadow after last years celebrity fungus fiasco the blighters upped sticks and set up camp in the village, disguised as a bunch of itinerant peddlars and layabouts, waiting until they could put their infernal scheme into practice. Really one should have been more suspicious at the wafts of garlic and Gauloises drifting over from the village.

The first one knew about this terrible deed was when Utterthwaite heard the unmistakeable sounds of tunneling from beneath the Lower Meadow. Stout fellah that he his, he tootled off with his mole clubbing shovel, convinced that he had discovered a fresh outbreak of the furry little fiends just waiting to get at the hallowed turf of the great lawn. Several good hard whacks later he was somewhat surprised to have uncovered four chefs, two entremetier, a boulanger and a rather confused confiseur tunneling under the greensward from the direction of the village. A moment later he was running for his life as a small party of sous chefs gave chase as well. Damned continentals were trying to steal ones fungi by resorting to the kind of tactics last seen employed by decent chaps trying to get out of the Huns Stalags.

Naturally Utterthwaites yells attracted ones attention and he had the presence of mind to lead the raiding party towards the rockery which as regular followers of ones reports will know was heavily mined by ones estate manager. Moments later there were Continentals cartwheeling through the air towards the church much to the chagrin of the verger who had only recently finished prising the last of the druids from the steeple. Luckily the vicar was at an ecumenical conference and was spared the sight of an airborne sous chef landing in the baptismal.

One has been keeping ones elephant gun to hand in case any more of those dashed theme park chaps arrived at ones gates so one was able to pot a few of the blighters from the verandah. Must say, bagging a brace of Michelin starred restaurateurs is much more fun than Pheasant shooting. A couple of ounces of buckshot applied to the derriere and they turn the air bluer than that sweary fellah from the television.

Clackthorpe meanwhile had organised the staff and a swift bayonet charge across the tennis courts saw the invaders caught in a pincer movement between oneself and fine British steel. Although one must say that the sight of Blenkinsop limping down the grassy bank wearing the housekeepers chamberpot on his head did rather take the polish off the moment. There was a brief period when an attack by a force of determined sauciers almost flanked the chaps but the day was saved by cook who along with the housemaid had managed to gain access to the battlements and set up a barrage of rock buns and scones from the cannons one had installed for ceremonial occasions. The horror of being bombarded with rock hard pastries caused their nerve to crack, having only been used to soft as cream gateaux and eclairs and the whole bally lot of them fled with their tails between their legs only to run slap bang into RSM McNulty emerging from the shrubbery, sporran all a quiver with a somewhat wilted aspidistra attached to his head and a bunch of gladioli protruding from his kilt as camouflage. The sight of this, enough to break even the stoutest of resolve finally finished them off and they were last spotted attempting to swim the channel in record time. One thinks one will have no more trouble from that quarter any more. Bounders should be glad that the mem' was off with the ladies of the W.I otherwise there would have been a lot less of them making the swim home, especially after what the potager did in her prize Floribunda.

Still, saw the blighters off, another great victory for the jolly old empire and all done before afternoon tea as well.

Toodle pip!

Curse this infernal heat Carstairs

2005-09-06T20:20:00.000Z

Once again the weather has been dominating conversation here at Fortescue Towers. As summer draws to a close it is unseasonably warm and the local waterboard have banned the use of hosepipes. This has somewhat put paid to ones plans to deploy a water cannon or two in the vicinity of the village green where the scruffy layabouts who spent their solstice dancing round the tennis court have joined with the local travellers to set up a tented village and tribal drumming school. Not only that, the Rolls is looking decidedly dusty and the vicar is complaining that his Petunias are wilting. Even caught Clackthorpe washing his feet in the ornamental pond yesterday, the sight of gasping Koi was to distressing to bear so was forced to give him a sound thrashing all the way back to his hut. What's more, Blenkinsop hasn't bathed for weeks and is becoming quite noxious. Several of the ladies became quite overcome when he served tea and Lady Jacobea almost tumbled off the verandah into the mems rose bushes as he passed by.

Naturally one has been making the best of the situation by sitting on the verandah with a cooling G and T or two whilst being fanned by ones Punkawallah, Jham, the son of Mr Bhutee who runs the village store. A worthwhile occupation even if the local social worker fellah accused one of being a relic of empire for offering the lad a job. Ones chums from the regiment were most impressed with his fanning skills as we watched the sun set and regaled each other with tales of the frontier.

With all this heat one is reminded of the time one was stationed at Wadi Yu'See, a grim sun baked place, surrounded by revolting savages. A little like Blackpool at high season but with a better class of neighbours. We were down to our last drops of water and the chaps were beginning to get delirious. Carruthers Snr had become convinced that Carstairs was in fact a giant iced lollipop and had attempted to take a few bites out of the poor fellow. Carstairs had shut himself in his tent with his service revolver and was refusing to come out. I think Carstairs may have been driven to the brink that day as shortly after he went native and there was the unpleasant incident with a camel named Fifi but we do not talk about that. Brought shame to the regiment. Luckily for us Carruthers became convinced that the wily pathans surrounding our camp were in fact Italian ice cream sellers and was last seen with the RSM in tow charging up the dunes singing 'O Sole Mio' and demanding a Mr Whippy with a flake. Caused enough of a distraction for one to lead the rest of the regiment to safety. All a bit of a to do.

Anyhow, one hopes the heavens will open soon as the nightly emanations of roasting Tofu wafting over from the village green is becoming most unpleasant and one occasionally even catches a whiff of ones gentlemans gentleman even though one has locked him in the summer house until the ban is lifted and one can get the gardeners help to give him a quick hose down through the window.

Lashings of ginger beer ?

2005-08-15T08:16:00.000Z

One has recovered somewhat from ones recent incapacity due to raised blood pressure, caused no doubt by some damnable colonial attempting to buy Fortescue Towers and have the whole lot shipped lock, stock and Blenkinsop over to his theme park 'Ye Olde Merrye EnglandeWorlde' somewhere in the swamps. Of course, one saw the bounder off and gave him a damn good thrashing with a riding crop for his crimes against the Queens English and rather unpleasantly loud shirt and shorts combination after which one took up residence in the study with ones Elephant gun in case any other Yankees turned up and tried to make off with the summer house and Sir Percivals folly.
Of course this did ones blood pressure no good at all and ones quack in the village advised one to lay off the Port and take some rest. Infernal cheek, how can one lay off the Port ? Essential when ones chums from the regiment arrive for dinner. Can't be seen to be refusing it when passed. Make one look dashed silly if one has to turn round and say "Sorry old boy, sticking to the old Indian tonic water nowadays!". Look like one of those chaps who bats from the opposite end of the pavilion, rather like ones quack one thinks, can't seem to wait to get the old rubber gloves on, tell one to drop ones trousers and start fiddling about the nether regions.

Anyway, one did take his advice and took the mem' off for a spell at a rather marvellous establishment in Devon. Absolutely splendid, hot and cold running servants, afternoon tea, hotly contested games of Croquet on the lawn and a few rounds of golf with the Arch-Bishop (one rather wonders where he acquired his rather interesting turn of phrase as one does not usually expect a high ranking member of the church to come out with such salty epithets even when struck in the lower reaches by an errant five iron). Aided in ones recovery splendidly and being a rather select establishment one did not have to mix with the usual seaside rabble, beer bellies hanging over their football shorts, down on charabanc trips from their grim industrial towns in the north.

Naturally it brought back memories of ones youth, cycling the roads of Devon with ones chums, Blenkinsops father, Blenkinsop senior bringing up the rear with a hamper filled with scones, jam, clotted cream and lashings of ginger beer balanced across the handlebars of his old boneshaker. Sometimes he would even manage to catch us up before we had been forced to frequent some roadside cafe with its rosy cheeked landlady for our daily ginger beer and cream tea. Of course, him being 83 probably did not help.

Important news

2005-07-21T08:19:00.000Z

The colonel will be taking a short rest to recover from raised blood pressure after a group of our US cousins offered to buy Fortescue Towers and have it shipped back to Texas as an exhibit in a theme park. He will return when his apoplectic rage has diminished and we can can coerce the old boy to emerge from the study where he has taken up residence with a bottle of port and his elephant gun, waiting for the next "damned yankee to poke his head above the parapet!".

Any suggestions as to how to lower the Colonels blood pressure and convince him not to damage Anglo-American relations would be appreciated.

J. Blenkinsop - Gentlemans Gentleman since 1947.

Return of the druid

2005-07-01T08:20:00.000Z

Finally managed to get rid of the hippy layabouts camped on the croquet lawn yesterday. Carruthers brought the light cavalry down from the hills where they had been waiting in case the continentals got past the herbaceous borders and in a pincer movement involving RSM McNulty leading a bayonet charge through the orangery, drove them off ones land. One would like to say that it was a magnificent sight of burnished chest plates and well groomed stallions sweeping across the plains but as Carruthers cavalry consists of half a dozen farmworkers and the verger on bicycles one would be rather over stretching the truth. However, it was quite glorious to see the morning sun glinting on lance tip and bayonet as the great unwashed scattered across the lower meadow.

Unfortunately if one was expecting a good nights sleep and a lie in, undisturbed by nocturnal twangings one was rather disappointed as one was woken in the early hours by a hideous moaning and several explosions from the vicinity of the gardens. Gazing blearily from ones bed chamber one was rather shocked to see Sir Humphrey and his pagan chums cavorting stark bollock naked around the rockery. One feels that Clackthorpe should have signposted the fact that the rockery is heavily mined as since this morning one has learnt that the vicar was quite perturbed to find several naked druids clinging to the spire of the church when he went to open up for morning bell ringing. One also needs to have a word about how much explosive Clackthorpe has used as well, can't have him flinging Johnny Foreigner around willy nilly. Make the place look untidy. One thought one had seen the last of Sir Humphrey leaping about with his bits all a dangle when Luigis' topiary peculiarities had been finally destroyed earlier in the year.

Accosting the naked peer from the window one demanded to know what was going on only to be informed they were celebrating the summer solstice and that "it was a free and democratic country where citizens have the right to do as they pleased without interference!". One pointed out that the solstice had in fact fallen over a week earlier and they were a little late in their naked jiggling only to be told that they had not been able to make it as they were all up in Parliament supporting the governments recent identity cards bill.

Festival Frolics

2005-06-28T08:16:00.000Z

Woke up this morning to hear an absolutely infernal racket emanating from the ornamental gardens. First thought was that RSM McNulty was practicing the bagpipes at some ungodly hour. Staggered out into the early light to discover a sea of tents all over the Croquet lawn and a damn great stage on the Tennis court. Seems that the recent bad weather washed a few hundred of those hippy types down river from that fellahs farm, the one who stages entertainment with popular beat combos.

Anyway, suffice it to say the place is overrun with the beggars who have decided to have a festival of their own. Wandering round the place, playing strange instruments and trying to smoke the mems' Floribundas, it's just not on. Whatever next one wonders, French Gypsies camping on the greensward of our nations racecourses ? Naturally, one immediately enlisted the aid of Utterthwaite and his mole clubbing shovel and turfed Clackthorpe out of the rockery where he has been waiting for Johnny Foreigner for the last few weeks and set off to turf the blighters off ones land...only to be stopped by the mem'.

One thinks that the mem' may have been smoking the Floribundas too. Normally she would be taking pot shots from the East wing but she seems to have taken to wearing Kaftans and playing the Sitar. Damn well gone native one reckons, could be worse than that time Carstairs went a bit strange up in the foothills. Still at least this time there are no camels involved. Daft old girl has installed a guru in the snooker room too. Damnable cheek! Should never have trusted the quack from the village and his new fangled ideas on therapy.

Of course, this means that one has to suffer the wailing and screeching of so called popular musicians hour after hour. What's wrong with a military band and a few decent marches ? Bit of martial music, far better than all this caterwauling and loafing around making the place look untidy. One does have a plan though. If you cannot beat them....let cook do the catering. Should see 'em off in no time and one can get back to normal. After all, can't have Utterthwaite wasting his time hanging round here, there are lanes to be patrolled.

Churchillian Spirit

2005-06-08T17:02:00.000Z

One reads in the broadsheets that some Irish fellah, part of a popular beat combo has called for a bunch of that lot over the jolly old channel to bring their boats over to blighty in support of some shindig he is organizing north of the border. Well, one can say it is just jolly well not on! Can't have boatloads of Johnny Foreigner invading our green and pleasant shores. Look what happened last time they turned up at Hastings. Completely ruined afternoon tea and left us with damn great castles and the whiff of garlic for years afterwards. Honestly, before a chap knows it there will be a bunch of bloody Jerries on the throne and Greeks wandering around Windsor castle.

It's bad enough having to put up with tourists wandering around the place as it is, poking their noses in where they are not wanted and demanding to have photographs taken with 'his lordship' without having fifty thousand of the blighters descend upon our beaches all in one go.

Well, one is just not going to take it lying down. One has already called an emergency meeting of the village council and has set Blenkinsop to clearing the weeds from the old pill boxes at the entrance to the estate where it is our intention to set up the 25 pounder and two Vickers guns that until earlier formed the village war memorial. Blighters are going to get a bit of a shock when they get this far. Clackthorpe has been spotted honing his commando knife to razor sharpness and has taken to hiding in the ornamental shrubbery with RSM McNulty so that "if they get this far I can leap out and give 'em a taste of cold British steel before they reach the house, sah!". One does wonder about the wisdom of sowing mines in the rockery though, several of the gardeners have already been hospitalized.

Even Utterthwaite has been mobilized and is currently acting as reconnaissance. One would suggest that anyone meeting him in the winding lanes stands well aside. He really is not too steady on a bicycle at the best of times and the rifle and tin helmet do somewhat handicap him in his perambulations. Would hate to think of him spearing some stout English yeoman with his bayonet as he rounds the corner all askance.

So, in the spirit of Churchill, we will fight them on the beaches, in the fields, in the hedgrows and if they get past those then the mem' will give 'em both barrels from the East wing when they reach the herbaceous borders. If that does not finish them then the sight of McNulty emerging from the shrubbery in a kilt with a number of Gladioli tied about his person will surely send them fleeing back across the channel with their tails between their legs.

A fete worse than death

2005-06-05T13:09:00.000Z

The summer season has arrived. One knows this not because outside Fortescue Towers it is currently raining and Blenkinsop is valiantly attempting to bail the Croquet lawn but because we have just suffered the first of the years village fetes.

As usual the entire village gathered on the part of the green not taken over by itinerant tarmac sellers for a few hours of jollity or at least as much jollity as can be had standing beneath plastic awnings watching the rain. Of course, the sun did break through occasionally and the plethora of stalls and sideshows were well attended. Utterthwaites 'Bat-a-Rat' stall did a roaring trade although one feels that one should tell him that a sand filled sock is the norm and that real rodents are not to be used. There were a number of complaints about airborne rodents spoiling afternoon tea as they flew through the windows of houses bordering the green. Several elderly ladies had to be revived with smelling salts after wildlife landed on the fruit cake.

Equally, cooks 'Guess the age of the marmalade' and 'Guess the weight of the cake' stall was well attended with numerous villagers asking if they guessed the correct figure whether they could be let off claiming the prize. One would never have guessed that a Victoria sponge could be quite that heavy. The good news is that one has been informed that the verger will make a complete recovery given time and rest and that the back pain will vanish. One did tell him to seek help before trying to lift it singlehandedly.

The other big draw seemed to be Mr Llewelyns lucky dip. It was only afterwards we discovered why. The old chap is somewhat hard of hearing and had not quite caught the meaning of "Fill the barrel with bran, Dai.". One did wonder why it was so popular with the youngsters from the council estate at the far end of the village. No doubt made a change from their usual cheap cider. Just rather glad that the vicar discovered it before the youngsters from the local junior school finished their dance presentation. The tabloids would have had a field day.

Naturally the highlight of the day was the village vs travellers cricket match. One is sad to say that it was a dark day in village history, losing as we did by so many runs. Not only did the victorious travelling side make off with the wickets as is the custom but most of the tiles from the pavilion roof as well. Even more galling is that they took Blenkinsops wooden leg that was acting as middle stump after it was discovered that the one from the village set had succumbed to woodworm over the winter months. One supposes one will have to sacrifice another of the Chippendale chairs so that Utterthwaite can carve him another one. He does look rather odd hopping around the Croquet lawn in a yellow raincoat. Rather resembles a demented Canary, quite off putting when one is trying to read the newspapers.

Healthy Living

2005-05-19T08:22:00.000Z

One has been slightly unwell recently. Of course, one put it down to the spectacular failure of the Fortescue party to seize control of government at the recent general election and the resulting blue funk that followed. However, ones quack begs to differ, claiming a dissolute lifestyle of far too much Port and Brandy and good food is to blame. Absolute balderdash! If the dashed new fellah at the surgery knew anything of cooks culinary peculiarities he would understand why one spends most of ones mealtimes eating at ones gentlemans club. At least there the last fatality was when Sir Basil keeled over from a surfeit of plum duff rather than shuffling off this mortal coil after just smelling the food as most of cooks victims do.

Anyhow, the upshot of it all is that one has been forced to go on a regime of healthy eating which seems to involve consuming the kinds of food that look like the fodder one used to feed ones horse when one was in the light cavalry. Damned stuff comes in sacks too, not sure whether to eat it or get Clackthorpe to resurface the long drive with it. Was convinced for days that one of ones niece Jemimas pet rabbits had done number twos in the cereal bowl. The mem' has gone all organic and environmentally friendly too and has been using it instead of a couple of rounds of OO when she takes potshots at the ramblers in the lower meadow.

Unsurprisingly cook has thrown herself somewhat wholeheartedly into the new regime, whipping up such delights as Alfalfa and Sprout surprise...unfortunately the surprise comes two hours later when ones evening game of bridge is interrupted by a series of small explosions from the staff quarters lavatorial facilities. What's more, the verger has not been quite the same since she tried out her Tofu and Spinach casserole on him and has become convinced that the sulpherous stench that follows him wherever he goes is a visitation from Beelzebub. It took the vicar three days to convince him to emerge from the vestry where he had locked himself with a supply of crucifixes and holy water and was awaiting armageddon.

Of course, the fast food franchise in the neighbouring village of Slymme-On-The-Water is loving it as ones staff have taken to eating there. After all when faced with death by Tofu and sprouts what's a little diabetes to worry about.

Election Fever

2005-04-28T08:16:00.000Z

One has recently taken to spending ones time in the summer house along with a good bottle of port and a decent Stilton in order to avoid the ever increasing influx of politician chappies, desperate to win votes in the forthcoming general election, into the village. However, emerging from ones exile after running out of water biscuits and seeing the state of the parties one has decided to run for office oneself. After all, one cannot do worse than some of the current fellahs can one ?

So, what does one stand for ? The manifesto of the Fortescue party is as follows:

Education: A return to old fashioned values. None of this wishy-washy liberal stuff. Sound thrashings, cold showers, double Latin, triple Algebra, ten mile runs around the playing field before breakfast and jammy bread for tea. Every school is to have at least one VIth former by the name of Flashman and fagging will be re-established as a disciplinary tool. All games masters will have served at least ten years as an RSM and will have been discharged after findings of brutality. First years will no longer be known by name, simply as "You scrotty little oik!". Masters will have access to a decent wine cellar and the works of Plato, Julius Caesar and Socrates will be put back on the curriculum.

Immigration: A multi-racial society allows us to appreciate other cultures. However, we will have none of this unlimited immigration malarkey. If fellahs from exotic climes wish to settle in this green and pleasant land they will have to show an appreciation for roast beef, warm beer, decent Stilton, jam rolypoly and the history and etiquette of village fetes.

Foreign Policy: We are all for having troops stationed in other lands. After all it did not do one any harm facing the wily Pathan on the frontiers of empire. Cold British steel, that's what they understand. Furthermore it still means that as a nation we have a semblance of empire. In fact, one believes that as a nation it is our duty to show johnny foreigner what we are made of every so often. Can't have 'em coming over here reeking of Gauloises and onions and expecting us to do what they tell us. Thrashed 'em throughout history, not going to let 'em get away with it now.

Crime: Again, none of this liberal nonsense. Hard labour, that's what they need. Televisions in cells ? Rubbish! Sewing mail bags and breaking rocks, soon have them straightened out or at least so worn out that they won't be able to commit any crimes for at least ten years. Furthermore, a mandatory sentence of 25 years will be brought in for anyone caught wearing Burberry baseball caps, tracksuits or cheap jewellry from high street chains. Shooting trespassers will no longer be a crime although this is mainly to save one the embarrassment of having to get the mem' out of the cells yet again.

Health: Been a lot of worries about nasty superbugs. How can we ensure that patients do not become infected. Simple, cut down on the number of patients. A fit nation is a healthy nation therefore everyone will be expected to adhere to a strict PT regime. We will employ all those ex RSMs who do not become games masters to become community PT officers. Every street in the land will be assigned one of these to lead the local citizenry in physical exercise twice a day.

Defence: One is committed to bringing back national service. It has a great many benefits. All those lardy teenagers will get fit thus having an impact on health. Crime will fall due to the thieving classes marching up and down the parade ground or being packed off to defend the frontiers of pseudo-empire and once again Britain will have a strong army with which to give foreign johnnies a bloody nose. This in turn will reinvigorate the defence industry allowing the production lines to turn out Spitfires and Matildas once again after too many years in mothballs.

Economy: Much as one hates to admit it, the current chappie is doing a decent enough job. Must offer him a good bottle of port to see if one can convince him to come over to us. However, one pledges a strong economy and the reinstatement of decently sized paper pound notes and the thruppenny bit.

Countryside matters: As mentioned before on these pages we fully support the right to roam. In fact we propose new legislation that combines this with that other great pursuit, hunting. In this way the day-glo anoraked rambling types get plenty of exercise whilst being chased through the hedgerows and over the meadows by the sporting gentry and a large pack of hounds.

So, there you have it. Vote Fortescue for PM! All round decent chap and thoroughly good egg!

Staff problems

2005-04-24T20:31:00.000Z

Ones good friend Lady J has been discovering that the old adage of "You just cannot get the staff these days" still has a rather unpleasant ring of truth about it. Concerned about the poor state of her boundaries and with worries that the travellers camped on the village green might suddenly encroach on her land or that several swarthy fellows might suddenly arrive and offer to tarmacadam her drive (although given that her drive is almost a mile in length, one fears that a few tons of surfacing material purloined from the nearest roadworks might not quite suffice unless of course the nearest roadworks happen to be the M25) she attempted to secure the services of a reputable tradesman.

Naturally, in light of events one believes that her suspicions should have been raised when her 'reputable' boundary builder arrived three days late with only a bicycle and a packet of superstrength Capstan in his possession and demanded that her cook put the kettle on before he had even progressed beyond the kitchen garden then proceeded to drink tea every half hour and even intrude upon Lady Js luncheon. Apparently it was only the fellows particularly ripe personal odour that kept her upright and prevented the need for the smelling salts to be used. Not only this but when asked how he liked it the impertinent chap replied "Strong, hot and sweet". Although her cook assured her that this was not some lurid suggestion about bedroom matters but merely a comment on how tradesmen liked their tea, Lady J could not help but notice that he winked and gestured several times whilst making the comment but put it down to the poor fellow having a severe facial tic instead.
However, after neglecting the task for which he had been employed and several incidents that led to him being banned from entering the kitchen or being found in the vicinity of cook, his descriptions of 'how he liked it' finally led to him being grabbed by his personage and thrown into the nearest duck pond by the groomsman who had taken offence at his language.

Of course, this still leaves her ladyship without proper boundaries and the chance of waking up one morning to discover the croquet lawn gravelled over and several caravans parked on the tennis courts. Clackthorpe did offer a few 'items' from his service days but these were vetoed due to their highly explosive nature. Not of course because her ladyship was worried about the travellers but simply due to the abundance of wildlife in the area. Relations with the village are strained enough after the problems over Easter without residents being pelted with high velocity badgers from Lady Js herbaceous borders.

Egg hunt

2005-04-01T09:31:00.000Z

Just returned from sorting out the debacle that was this years village easter egg hunt. Luckily, being a magistrate one was able to bring ones influence to bear and have the whole sorry saga swept under the carpet before the tabloids got wind of it.

Of course, in these politically sensitive times the village W.I should have thought long and hard before using the word 'Hunt' in the title as before we knew it the place was crawling with long haired layabouts tootling horns and trying to fling themselves in front of the horses. One would have thought some sense might have prevailed when they realised there were no horses to fling themselves in front of, although one did launch themselves at the vicars bicycle and another did minor damage to the milkmans float.

Undeterred by this setback they then started running around the place waving aniseed soaked rags to confuse the hounds. Again, doomed to failure despite attracting the attention of a few mangy curs from the travellers camp at the end of the village. Several of the saboteurs were spotted haring across the lower meadow with a pack of starving wolfhounds in hot pursuit. One supposes that might be considered a form of justice.

In the midst of all this, the ladies of the W.I were bravely attempting to muster the village Scouts and Guides and a minor celebrity from some awful television soap opera to set off on to find where the eggs were hidden. Shame that the mem', woken from her sherry induced fug by the baying of hounds and the panicked screams of protestors trying to leap the fence encircling the meadow, decided to see the trespassers off with a few well placed rounds of buckshot. Now the mem' isn't the steadiest of us at the best of times but after an evening on the sherry with great aunt Cecilia her aim is rather worse.

Naturally it was not her intention to hit the soap opera chappie but the image of his bare arse over a table in the local inn whilst the doctor picked the lead pellets out will haunt one for many years to come and one certainly saw some gruesome sights during ones years on the frontiers of empire. Luckily further damage was averted when Clackthorpe managed to knock the mem' cold with a sand filled sock after a furtive creep through the arboretum reminiscent of his days with the commandos albeit slightly less deadly. Must give the chap a raise.

Fortunately the village bobby was most understanding despite a stray shot or two putting a few holes in his nice shiny new patrol car and as mentioned before, one, in ones capacity as magistrate was able to sort things out without charges needing to be brought. However, next Easter, one will be locking the mem' in the cellar and suggesting that the W.I leave eggs well alone.

Our man in....

2005-03-22T08:09:00.000Z

The sun has finally set on the British Empire. One has heard from ones sources in the corridors of power that the High Commissions in Tonga, Kiribati and Vanuatu are to be closed down. Quite abominable and one will of course be writing stern missives to ones MP, The Times and of course Her Majesty to protest at such behaviour from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.

Postings to such exotic locales were much sought after when one was a subaltern in ones younger days. Ten years with the screw guns and mule trains on the frontier, being shot at by the natives, heat, dust and having to take tiffin with the mem' would be rewarded with a nice cushy billet on an island paradise. Dusky maidens and G and T's on the verandah as the sun sank over crystal seas would more than make up for the flies and a charwallah that made Blenkinsop look like the jolliest man in the empire. A rather pleasant perk of being one of the ruling classes and one that should jolly well be retained. After all, nowadays they pack the common oiks from council estates off to parts foreign, claiming it is character building and will stop them being such bad lads, so why not continue funding decent upstanding chaps to be sent to far flung corners of the world. After all, they are much less likely to try to steal the hubcaps from the local chieftains Rolls Royce and get hideously drunk on the local firewater.

What's more, such postings enabled those of wealth and standing to quietly move their black sheep out of the public gaze in times of scandal and send them off to some remote corner of empire where they could not do too much damage, unless of course one counts cousin Henry and most of the local medicine men have now lifted their curses after intervention from one of our gun boats in the area and an undisclosed sum from the treasury. One distinctly remembers great uncle Arbuthnott being given a diplomatic post and a one way ticket on a steamer from Portsmouth after that little embarrassment involving several barnyard creatures and a peer of the realm. Saw him twenty years later, stuffed full of G and T, three wives, twenty children and the governorship of a small island, proudly raising the flag for queen and country. Didn't do him any harm at all. Family honour intact, Her Majesty got a representative on distant shores and the locals got a fine example of British pluck and determination through watching his ever more desperate attempts to build a raft that would return him to civilization.

Religious ramblings

2005-03-16T08:19:00.000Z

The vicar was most irate when he arrived for dinner last night. After mumbling through starters and letting fly with some most unvicarly epithets during the main course....although one did put that down to the sprout terrine lovingly prepared in the Fortescue Towers kitchen, one finally managed to get him to tell all over a post prandial port and cigar.

Seems some chaps and chapesses have been busily re-writing the good book to make it more accessible to the common man, removing all the 'archaic' language and good bits and now the vicar is quite disgusted.

"Fortescue," he says "before you know it they will have done away with the Old Testament and the New Testament will be 'Bloke born in a shed becomes chippie, wanders around a bit, does some miracles, has lunch with some other chaps, gets betrayed by an oily tick, killed by the state, comes back to life, the end'. Where will it stop ? Modernisation ? 'Chap born in council house, grows up, does some magic, gets a few mates involved' might as well call it Harry Potter and the gang from Gallilee. Absolutely bloody disgusted I am. At this rate there won't be enough to fill a side of A4. Fire and brimstone, that's what puts bums on pews. Bit of patricide, fratricide and matricide, a few fights, the wrath of God and lots of begating in between. Got to be better than Eastenders to get them off their lardy backsides and praying for deliverance. The place is almost empty as it is. What happens if they can memorise the whole damn thing in two minutes flat ? I'll tell you what, bugger all in the collection plate and me having to justify why the vicarage needs a new roof to the archbishop. It's just not on. Going to write a stiff letter to the Church Times I am."

Must admit one has mixed feelings about all this. Old Testament, it's what made empire great, all those missionaries fired up on tales of Gods wrath and a bit of begating, faces glowing with religious zeal setting off to convert the heathens, turning the map of the world pink as they went, putting the fear of God into all and sundry. Kept 'em from cluttering up street corners too, can't be making the place look untidy and scaring the citizenry whilst you're pootling around darkest Africa with a pith helmet and a chest of religious tracts. However, one remembers ones days as a choirboy, believe me a King James Bible hurt a lot more than a ball of paper when it was hurled at one by an irate minister after he caught one having a crafty forty winks at the back of the altar.

Scandal

2005-03-07T08:29:00.000Z

Bit of a scandal last week, sort of thing that the less savoury tabloids love. Vicar in love child shocker! Seems they were claiming the old boy cast his wild oats when he was younger and now the past was coming back to haunt him in the forms of Lady Emmaline and her sister Lady Agatha. Of course one did not believe a word of it but looking back, the signs were there.

One remembers those far distant summers spent punting down the river with Lady Emmaline and her delightful sisters Agatha and Eglatine along with the vicar and Blenkinsop who would limp along the riverbank bowed beneath the weight of a picnic hamper full of delightful comestibles and lashings of ginger beer, occasionally disappearing from sight as he fell over clumps of nettles. All so often 'Roly Poly' as the vicar was affectionately known and Agatha would disappear to collect wild flowers for her to press and would be gone for some time. Should have been suspicious of the time they vanished into the churchyard only to reappear several hours later with 'In Loving Memory' embossed across the back of her coat.

Just last week, the ladies returned along with a young gentleman who actually bore a startling resemblance to Luigi, the under gardener. Could not quite work it out until one suddenly remembered the day when the artistic Eglatine requested that Luigis father sit for her in the top meadow. Agatha went along too and one can distinctly remember them returning somewhat flushed but one put it down to sitting in the afternoon sun for too long. Oddly enough several of the house maids left soon after with mystery ailments. Used to be most disturbed at the sounds of retching emanating from the servants quarters of a morning but attributed it to the suppers cook whipped up of an evening.

Anyway, alls well that ends well, the vicar has been completely exonerated without so much as a stain on his character, seems that he and Agatha simply fell asleep in the churchyard and there was no wrongdoing whatsoever. Luigi has gained a brother he never knew he had, although one does hope that he does not share in Luigis topiary peculiarities and everyone is happy. However, one will have Blenkinsop on standby with ones Purdey when ones nieces come to visit just in case the new brothers take after their father and the Mem' has begun interviewing replacement house maids, none of whom are under fifty and most of whom resemble the Russian Olympic shot putt team.

The White Stuff

2005-02-23T07:56:00.000Z

Weather, it's a bit of an obsession with us British. Can't go to a dinner without the conversation turning to how unexpected such and such weather is over the brandy and cigars. That and the incident involving 'Squiffy' and the young lady in the changing rooms at Harrods.

So, it comes as no surprise that a few flakes of the white stuff drifting down from above and the whole country seems to go collectively bonkers. Seems to have become much worse over the past few years. One remembers the days when the snow would be three feet deep and everyone would dig themselves out and get on with their daily life. Nowadays, ten flakes and the place comes to a standstill, the trains grind to a halt, gritting lorries cannot get out of their depots and one is unable to find a pot of 'Gentlemans Relish' anywhere. Where's the wartime spirit gone eh ? Winter of '41, dashed cold, bit of snow and ice didn't stop the Huns and it didn't stop us giving them a bloody nose either. Didn't find Spitfires unable to get out of their hangers because of a couple of inches of snow on the runway. Didn't stop us chaps on the frontiers of empire from keeping the wily Pathan under control either. Hardy lot back then, can remember RSM McNulty running off over the snow covered passes in nothing but a kilt and vest, sporran flapping in the breeze, said it made a man out of him. Never could work out why his nickname was 'Clackers' though.

Can't get out of the damn front door now without cook pressing a flask of tea and an icescraper into ones hands. Was only going for a brisk walk to the village, hardly a trek to the South Pole. Been doing it to all the staff apparently, found Utterthwaite using his beverage to preserve the fence around the 'Big Wood'. Cheaper than creosote and apparently lasts ten times longer. Was tempted to dispose of ones down the nearest drain but feared the possible repercussions lest it get into the water supply.

Anyway, must get on, have to write a letter to ones MP about the relish situation. Snow or no snow it's just not on, a gentleman needs his Anchovy based products, especially if he has a cook like ones.

Speaking in tongues

2005-02-18T08:19:00.000Z

The mem' has been reading the tabloids and has discovered that Her Majesty is rather adept at speaking in a Cockney accent. Unfortunately this has resulted in the mem' deciding to go one better and begin speaking in an accent that can only be described as Yorkshire incorporating a whiff of cat with a strangulated hernia. She is now accompanied on her jaunts "ower t' moor" by a pack of Whippets and ones morning ablutions are seriously disturbed by the cage of ferrets sitting in the bath. Just can't concentrate on the Sporting Times with a pair of beady eyes watching one from between the taps.

Worse still, she has involved the staff as well and last evening cook served up a 'reet gradely' repast of tripe and black pudding....at least one thinks it was tripe and black pudding, it could have been well done sausages and congealed mash knowing cooks culinary skills. Needed several stiff brandies to get over that one. Even Blenkinsop has not been immune and his usual "Would you care for some more kippers sir ?" at breakfast has been replaced with a request of "'ood 'ee care f'r um mooar kippers lad ?". One needed Clackthorpe just to translate over breakfast this morning and he speaks unintelligible gibberish at the best of times.

In fact, it has become so bad that Utterthwaite who hails from somewhere north of Barnsley, dismayed at the mangling of his native tongue has offered to take some time off clubbing the moles in the arboretum to use his shovel to club some sense into the other staff members. So now the estate resounds to the sound of "'eee bah gum lad..."...SPAAAANG! as he takes his new crusade rather seriously indeed.

One hopes that this is just a passing phase and that normal conversation will be resumed soon. Heaven help us if the mem' decides to try another dialect. One does not think one could take "Yurr, pass oi th' marmaladel downyer awri moi babber!" at breakfast without reaching for the gun cabinet.

Royal Engagements

2005-02-14T07:53:00.000Z

So, HRH is getting betrothed eh ? One supposes one will have to give the servants a day off and no doubt the ladies of the W.I will be busy knitting cakes and brewing jam or whatever it is they do and covering the village with red, white and blue bunting for the big day. Seems like five minutes since the last one, then again, given the size of the family it probably is.

Of course, one is staunchly for the monarchy. After all, ones family have been serving them on the fields of battle since Agincourt where Sir Clarence de Fortesque gave the frogs a jolly sound thrashing. However, one does not think one will be receiving an invitation to the royal knees up. Not since the incident involving ones grandfather, 'Binky' Fortescue and a certain man who would be king. Royalty it seems have long memories.

Personally one thinks he should have been awarded the VC for the scandal he managed to avert. How was he to know that Madame Fifi LaTouche was in fact Sir Cuthbert Topswell-Slimme. It was dashed lucky he managed to get Mr.X back to the palace without being spotted. All it would have taken was one lightning fast scribbler to be out and about and before you knew it the front pages of the next days penny dreadfuls would have been covered with artful engravings of a royal personage staggering bollock naked through Piccadilly save for a Masonic pinny, a handful of French Ticklers, a feather duster and singing 'Four and twenty virgins' in a deep baritone and a headline of 'Prurient Princes Private Peccadilloes'. Papparazzi have nothing on the sketch artists of the 1880s, could bang off a sketch in the time it takes for todays tabloids to come up with the headline 'Royal in Gender Bending MP Scandal'

Of course, HRH was not amused and ones grandfather was banished to the North-West frontier for rather a long time and one believes Sir Cuthbert was made Keeper of Her Imperial Majesties Sewerage System in the next honours list in order to keep him out of the way after Mr. X was heard to enquire about 'that delightful young filly' he had become acquainted with on one of his nocturnal excursions. In fact, one has heard rumours of sewerage engineers inspecting Mr Bazalgettes legacy to the nations sanitary habits being accosted by a ghostly, bedraggled transvestite enquiring which way it is to the palace.

Hunting Season

2005-02-03T07:38:00.000Z

So, we are allowed to use reasonable force to protect our homes and castles...those of us that have castles that is...from the privations of intruders, even if that means shooting the thieving beggars. Of course, the memsahib has been doing this for years. Anything that moves within a five hundred yard radius of the west wing gets a couple of rounds sent its way. On occasion it might even get something larger if she manages to evade the houseboys and reaches the cannon on the terrace. One remembers when the vicar first arrived in the parish, couldn't get out in the garden to tend his petunias for weeks without a couple of shells being lobbed in his direction. Convinced he was a ne'er do-well after her jewels she was. Anyway, one digresses.

Had the local PC arrive to explain the situation, nice chap with his regulation issue bicycle and MP5, just the sort of thing for sorting out arguments at the W.I fete. Hasn't been a decent punch up over the jam prizes for a good few years now. Apparently you can give the blighters both barrels or a decent manly uppercut to the jaw as perfected by Mr Hannay, Drummond et al but you aren't allowed to keep doing it once they are down. Of course, this does rather spoil the pleasure of giving the cads a damn good licking or horse-whipping them down the drive covered in tar and feathers but as one pointed out, if they get on the wrong end of ones elephant gun they definitely won't be getting up. In fact one might be hard pressed to find enough of them to actually press charges against oneself.

Seems a jolly sound idea and can't wait to try it against the local bad lads once they recover from the New Year incident. Have even arranged for some of ones chums to visit, after all, the law does not mention volley fire. Clackthorpe is positively beside himself with joy after being told he can now use the now redundant Fortescue hounds to chase the bounders across the Lower meadow to flush them into the path of the waiting guns as it does not contravene any of the new hunting regulations.

Sanity prevails! Toodle pip!

Youth of today

2005-01-27T07:27:00.000Z

Good lord! What's all this one reads in the broadsheets about twenty five percent of todays young chaps being a bunch of oiks and cads ? Absolutely terrible and would not have happened in my day. Discipline, that's what it's all about. Blame the schools m'self. Back in my day it was six of the best and back to double lit' and woe betide you if you showed any emotion as the prefects would have you over a good blaze before you knew it, none of this liberal namby-pamby rubbish about paying the blighters to turn up. Hated Latin, didn't expect any other incentive than the threat of a damn good beating and twenty laps of the playing field if you didn't arrive in time.

Knew where you stood in those days in terms of discipline, roasting ones fag outside of the allotted hours, six of the best, double it if his screams disturbed the housemasters evening sojourn. Failure to conjugate your verbs, fifty laps of the 'Soggy Bottom' before cocoa, rogering Smythe-Cuthbertson after lights out, up before the beak and the likelihood of stout English willow being applied to ones backside. Many is the time I have seen chaps return to the dorm with a glazed expression and a faint whiff of Linseed about their shorts. 'Old Thumper' did sterling service in those days and not just on the playing fields of St Scrofulas. Nowadays it's all reasoning and psycho-babble rather than the sound thump of willow on flesh from behind the Pav'. Dashed shame one can tell you. Didn't do one any harm at all....Carruthers on the other hand...but one doesn't mention that in polite company. Always was a little strange even in those days but at least there were no camels in dorm 3.

Damned schools don't even support team games nowadays. Rugger, vital to discipline, especially the annual juniors versus Upper VI prefects XV. So what if there were a few injuries, we didn't go whining to mummy about the amputations matron used to perform. Got on with life even if it meant limping for a while until the groundskeeper got round to carving one a replacement limb from an old desk. First Pater and Mater knew about it would be when they collected us for the hols, beaming of face and wearing our wounds with pride. Discipline!

Can't even send the snotty oiks off to do some military service. Sight of a hundred wily pathans heading towards 'em with daggers drawn would soon sort 'em out. Make 'em realise what discipline is. Cold showers, cold steel and sound thrashings, the things that made the empire great.

Chieftain o' the puddin' race

2005-01-26T07:52:00.000Z

Bit of a palaver at Fortescue towers yesterday. Cousin Hamish decided to pay a visit for the traditional Burns supper, although with cooks culinary peculiarities she burns supper most nights. Anyway, first thing one knows about his arrival is when reports start arriving about a half naked blue man in a skirt running amok in the woods. Initially one thinks that perhaps Utterthwaite has forgotten his medication again so send Blenkinsop off to investigate armed with a large bottle of valium and one of the mems' larger butterfly nets. Imagine ones surprise when he returns not with a deranged staff member but with cousin Hamish. Never been quite the same since he visited the picture house and saw that film with that Australian chappy in a kilt...Brave something. Involved a lot of fellahs waving their arses around and talking in incomprehensible accents.

Claimed he had been looking for the place for hours after losing his way in the dark but one has ones doubts about the veracity of his claims, especially after one hears that the vicar was woken up from his afternoon nap by a blue-painted transvestite waving its tackle at the French windows and shouting "Ye'll ne'er tak' oor freedom!". Poor fellah is quite un-nerved and has taken to the medicinal brandy again, something he hasn't done since the incident involving the archbishop and the sheep.

Should have taken the sensible option and locked Hamish in the linen cupboard but by the time the key was located he had consumed most of the whisky that had been laid on for guests and had taken to the battlements with his bagpipes. Attempts to coax him down failed miserably and for hours sounds emanated from the rooftops that reminded one of the time one discovered one of the hill tribes taking part in the highly illegal thugee cat strangling rituals. Unfortunately one could not order ones chaps to apply some cold steel to stop the horror this time as Hamish had locked the door to the roof.

Finally alcohol and a well aimed haggis put paid to his ramblings although not before he had regaled the assembled onlookers with two renditions of 'Auld Jock and the ghost of Mad Murdo' and shown them what a scotsman has up his kilt. One fears that Lady J may never emerge from her bedchamber again. Luckily his fall was broken by the shrubbery and Clackthorpe. Not quite sure what he was doing in the shrubbery outside the maids quarters with a ladder at midnight though.

All's well that ends well, at least we didn't have to partake of cooks haggis this year although one is informed that some fellahs from the MOD want to examine it in case it can be used to replace the armour on the next generation of tanks. As for Hamish, one is told that Blenkinsop packed him off back to castle McSlurry. Doesn't explain the sounds of hammering in the early hours or why the large crate that stood in the corner of the stable is missing though. Very odd.

Must remember to find out who flung the haggis though, useful chap to have on ones team in the inter-village cricket matches.

Monsoon season

2005-01-13T08:01:00.000Z

Rather inclement weather we are having here at Fortescue towers. Howling gales and it has not stopped raining for days. The peacocks in the formal gardens have begun to resemble a small U-Boat pack as they wander forlornly back and forth heads poking from the surface of the water like beady eyed periscopes. Cook has even taken to spear fishing in the kitchen garden. One thinks that the wetsuit might be a mistake as the Japanese whaling fleet has been reported steaming full speed ahead towards the estuary.

Of course, what with the ancestral pile not being what it once was a few draughts have been finding their way into the great hall of late. Reminds one of the sort of wind that used to howl up the Khyber when one served on the frontier. In fact, must make sure the chambermaids do their jobs properly, been getting a bit lax with the cleaning recently. Took the old elephant gun to what one thought was a grizzly roaming the hallways only to discover it was a giant dust bunny propelled by the gale howling through the hole Sir Hubert made when he fell through the floorboards over the festive season. I think cooks plum duff may have been to blame for that one.

Place is full of strange smells too, not just from cooks leftover sprout soup and Blenkinsops little problem. No, the mem' has decided to take pity on the sheep in the lower meadow and now the place is full of the beggars drying out in front of the fire. Can't even enjoy a glass of port and the broadsheets without having one of them decide to take a bite out of the crossword. Damnably annoying and all that sopping wool makes the place smell like a school cloakroom. Think one prefers it when the mem' is taking potshots at the servants rather than being charitable.

Just wish it would stop raining, can't take much more of Blenkinsops complaining about wet rot in his wooden leg. Can hear him moaning about it a mile off as he limps slowly down the long gallery with ones bedtime cocoa, preceded only by the occasional surprised bleat as he stands on a wandering sheep in the darkness. Really should show him where the light switches are, might get ones cocoa whilst it is still warm then.

Surviving the festive season

2005-01-06T11:10:00.000Z

Well, one survived the festive season more or less intact. Only three houseguests were hospitalised through cooks plum duff, something of a miracle given last years record of 53. Giving her a copy of that Delia womans book in her Christmas box may have reduced casualties somewhat. Even Utterthwaites naked sprint through the shrubbery couldn't dampen spirits although Lady J did have to be revived once again. Must remember to water the servants wine ration down a tad next year.

The boxing day hunt was a roaring success even though no foxes were chased whatsoever. Flash of genius from whoever it was who thought of spraying the gypsy encampment on the village green with aniseed. One minute they're whittling pegs and putting in illegal drains, next minute they're off over the hedgerows with a pack of beagles and the Fortescue hunt in hot pursuit. Blighters certainly can run with a bit of encouragement. Some even managed to get as far as Little Crumbling in-the-marsh. Bloody good sport!

Even those wounded in the slight incident over New Year have started to get better, the medical chappies at the cottage hospital reckon most will even make a full recovery. Of course, it was their own fault. Honestly, one minute there you are sipping a good port and mulling over another slice of Stilton whilst the guests get ready to sing Auld Lang Syne when all of a sudden it's like the Somme outside as the entire village lets off their hoard of illegally stored fireworks. Of course they were not to know that Carstairs and his chums from the regimental hospital had been let out for the celebrations but that's beside the point. Just because the chaps are a little shaky from a few too many tours on the frontiers of empire you can hardly blame them for their actions although one isn't quite sure why the memsahib joined in as well. These are military chaps and returning fire from the Orangery is only natural. Not quite sure where they got the screw gun from though. Still, it was a textbook barrage, shows the regiment can still handle itself in times of crisis. Paid for all the damage and as our local constabulary point out, three of the casualties were the local bad lads so crime figures will fall for a while. Oh and in all the confusion the topiary had a slight accident so the vicar will once again be able to write his sermons without being disturbed by the phallic vision across the churchyard. Poor fellow was becoming quite agitated.

Food for thought

2004-12-24T11:00:00.000Z

Oh dear! One knew it was a big mistake allowing cook to roam in the library. Seems the mad old bat has found a tome on mediaeval Christmas catering. A nice plump, juicy goose is off the menu at Fortescue Towers this year as the crazed woman has decided on something a shade more adventurous. Even as one writes the sound of gunfire reverberates around the study as she stalks the estate for anything that walks, squawks, crawls, has wings, eyes or vaguely looks edible. Half an hour ago there were several explosions from the kitchen garden as she shot the veg. Wouldn't have thought the sprouts needed both barrels, they only become dangerous after cook gets her hands on them. At least, one thinks it was cook, maybe the mem' is shooting the natives again. Damn! They'll be more revolting than ever if she is.

Even the peacocks in the formal garden have flown south for the holiday season although there are unsubstantiated claims that they are hiding in the cellar at the 'Jolly Weasel' having not made it that far. Most of the estate staff are hiding in the bar.

A tentative look over the menu reveals we are apparently having swan with a jus of finely ground squirrel and stuffed with magpies tongues. One hopes that it being carried flaming around the great hall as the illustration shows has escaped cooks notice as we cannot afford any more repairs after the accident in the east wing. However, the fire brigade have been notified just in case. One also hopes that none of her shots go astray, what with her being a little shaky after a shade too much of the cooking sherry. If Luigi gets hit again heaven only knows what he will do, the topiary is still causing consternation in some quarters.

Ah well, one will just have to send Blenkinsop to the village for the usual seasonal order of a gross of 'Old FoulBellyes Patent Stomach Elixir' and hope not too many of the guests are hospitalised this year.

Toodle pip and 'Merry Christmas' to one and all!

A Jolly knees up

2004-12-21T12:00:00.000Z

Had a bit of a bash for the below stairs staff yesterday. Jolly good fun was had by all although one fears that cooks decision to add a few bottles of her parsnip wine to the punch might be the cause of the hideous screaming emerging from the footmans water closet this morning. Of course, one attended briefly as master of the house then left the staff to their own devices. Nothing further shall be mentioned of the incident involving oneself and the chambermaid. We were in the linen cupboard checking that the sheets were correctly folded, the staff have been a bit lax on proper folding etiquette recently. It was all perfectly innocent and if the tabloids mention a word on the subject they will be hearing from ones solicitors.

Anyway, there were far worse goings on. Enough said although it was jolly unfortunate that the Mem' managed to get into the gun room again. At least the damage was minimal although one does think that Luigi, the under gardener has over-reacted a tad. Of course, he's continental, damn excitable those foreign chappies, can't see that Titchmarsh fellah getting worked up like that although one is told that he does scribble some quite racy novels. Couldn't believe what Luigi had done to the topiary. The great drive is now dominated by a giant...well....John Thomas, artistically sculpted from the Laurel that has stood there since Sir Cholmondleys day. It took Blenkinsop three hours to revive Lady Jacobea when she arrived for afternoon tea and the vicar is claiming it quite puts him off writing his sermon every time he looks from the window. What's worse, had some of those druid chappies turn up and start dancing around it at sunrise this morning, something about solstices and fertility symbols. Dashed nerve. Would have set the dogs on them if they had not been the local MP and chaps from ones club. Quite put one off ones kippers to see Sir Humphrey dancing round the garden in a sheet with a towel on his head and waving a sprig of mistletoe. I suppose one should be grateful for small mercies, at least they don't do that thing with virgins any more.

Rambling free

2004-12-15T15:25:00.000Z

One reads in the broadsheets that under the governments 'Right to roam' drive, huge tracts of land have been opened for the hoi-polloi to wander about willy-nilly. Damn well had one choking into ones scrambled porridge this morning. Parties of the great unwashed traipsing around ones estate. Probably find that they will be demanding that guard rails be fitted around the lake in case someone falls in and that the memsahib is kept securely locked away and unable to get to the gun cabinet...although the latter would be a damn fine idea, save on bribes to keep wounded servants from going to the tabloids.

Although, this may have its advantages. After all, the chaps in office have stopped us landed gentry chasing cute, fuzzy little foxy fellahs but nothing has been said about chasing less cute rambler types across the countryside. Clackthorpe is positively ecstatic at the idea. After all, those day-glo anoraks they wear means they are easier to spot when they go to ground in the big wood. Less likely to escape than foxes and much more sporting than just giving the bounders both barrels of ones Purdey. One can just imagine the splendour of the Fortescue hounds charging across the lower meadow, the blare of horns, riders in hunting pink, faces all ruddy from the exhilaration and a hot toddy, chasing down some common oik who dared sully the hallowed turf of the formal gardens. What's more it saves us having to cover Blenkinsop in Aniseed and set him off for the hounds to follow. What with his wooden leg one doubts he would make it as far as the gates and one fears the sport would not last for long unless he was released at least a week beforehand.

Tally ho!

Christmas Illuminations - Part II

2004-12-14T15:34:00.000Z

Having sent Blenkinsop back onto the roof of Fortescue Towers, securely anchored this time to avoid any further damage to the memsahibs roses and having banished Clackthorpe to a distant part of the estate it was hoped that the sorry state of the Christmas illuminations could at last be sorted out.

Indeed, with a little help from Utterthwaite, the great house soon boasted a fine display of seasonal lighting by yesterday evening. A million twinkling fairy lights stretched down the long drive. Saint Nicholas could be seen peeping from the west wing chimneys, illuminated deer gambolled through the arboretum and a thousand festive lanterns brought cheer to the formal gardens. Even the charred remains of the east wing roof shone with cheerful seasonal light. Quite splendid and almost certain to win the prize for the best illuminated dwelling in the village. Can't be shown up by ones workers and servants can one ?

Safe in the knowledge that the horrors of the weekend had been erased and with the mem' off at one of her W.I meetings one settled down with a large brandy and ones chums Carstairs, Fanshawe-Smythe and the vicar for a few rubbers of bridge and some reminiscing about the good old days on the frontier.

We had just reached the story about sergeant major Wilkins, the two donkeys and several 'ladies' from the 'Club Cha-Cha' when our evenings entertainment was rather rudely interrupted by a loud roaring noise and a quantity of plaster falling from the ceiling. Of course, one immediately thought that cook had got into the wine cellar again and was attempting to kill Blenkinsop, an all too common occurence given their volatile differences. However, a few moments later the infernal racket was repeated sending us all outside to locate the source to find a large aircraft parked on the lawn and Blenkinsop attempting to guide another down the long drive with two table tennis bats from the games room. It would seem that several pilots mistook the long drive for runway three at the local airport and the flashing Santa Claus on the west wing for the lights of Terminal two.

Of course, being a military man one immediately set to sorting the whole jolly mess out. After all, the wily pathan could never bother one so why should a couple short haul passenger flights parked in ones drive. A couple of hours and we had them on their way although one is told that PC Brown was none too happy about a couple of 737s rolling through the village at 1am.

All in all, quite an adventure but one does wonder how to explain the tyre tracks across the mems croquet lawn.

Santa goes hunting.

2004-12-13T11:54:00.000Z

Having seen the array of festive lights festooned across the houses of the estate workers and others of the lower classes in the village one decided that perhaps Fortescue towers might benefit from some illumination, what with the festive season upon us once again. So, over the weekend one instructed ones estate manager and Blenkinsop to brighten the ancestral pile up a bit, a topical but festive tableau was ones suggestion.

Now, not having much experience of this sort of thing and in hindsight one should have realised that things were not as they should have been after the air was rent by the sound of chain saws sometime after dinner on Saturday. One was also rather put off ones brandy and cigar when Blenkinsop plummeted past the study window clutching what appeared to be an armful of puppies. Fortunately the mems' rose bushes broke his fall and no-one was harmed...at least not until the mem' spots the damage done to her prize Floribunda. Must remember to slip a few non-slip patches for wooden legs into the old chaps Christmas box this year.

One really should have remembered Clackthorpes pro-hunting stance as come the grand switching on of the lights in the presence of the vicar, the assembled ladies of the W.I and a select gathering of staff the full horror was revealed. When one asked for topical but festive, one had envisaged a tasteful nativity tableau accompanied by a depiction of the good Saint Nicholas handing small gifts to the poor and needy all presided over by a host of benevolent angels and a banner bearing seasons greetings. Instead, what was revealed was Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer pursued by a pack of cuddly Snoopies (ones niece Joscella assures me this is a popular cartoon character) and a red-coated gentleman whom I believe may have been Santa Claus at some time before a Clackthorpe removed his headgear with a chainsaw and replaced it with a riding helmet. The banner that one had hoped would wish 'A Merry Christmas To One And ALL.' now announced 'Up Yours Blair!' in six foot high letters across the roof of the great house.
The whole lot was illuminated by thousands of fairy lights that caused a distinct glow in the night sky that could be seen for several miles.

In fact, one is reliably informed that this horrific vision could be seen as far away as Biss-Hopp Hall where my dear friend Lady Jacobea immediately took to her bed with a large G and T and a bucket of smelling salts. In the immediate vicinity the silence was only broken by several of the W.I ladies hitting the ground in a dead faint and the vicar uttering something quite un-vicarly.

One fears that one will not be receiving a Christmas card from No. 10 this year.

Ladies with weapons

2004-12-10T11:00:00.000Z

The memsahib had one of her little turns last night. One became aware of this as several heavy calibre bullets punctured the summer house where one had sought refuge from cooks sticky bloater pudding. God knows how the mem' managed to get hold of ones service revolver but it rather brought ones post-prandial musings to a sudden halt as ones years of experience on the North West frontier came to the fore and one sought cover behind a wickerwork chaise.

It was over an hour before the lady of the house could be subdued during which time she had taken pot shots at several servants, the vicar who had called to discuss ones judging of the jams at this years Christmas fete and a pair of hikers who had the misfortune to be crossing the lower meadow at the time.

Fortunately one had the presence of mind to send Blenkinsop sprinting at high speed across the rose garden...or at least at as high a speed as a one legged retainer can muster...to draw her fire whilst several of the houseboys and the under gardener stormed her room in the west wing.

Luckily there were no casualties barring Blenkinsops wooden leg which stopped a round during his dash through the rose bushes and even now, Utterthwaite has been set to whittling him a replacement from an old kitchen chair. Heaven knows what would have happened if one of the other servants had been hit. In the old days you could have amputated a limb and they would have been up and about the next day, black leading the range with a smile and a small plaster. Nowadays, anything more than a flesh wound and you're up to your neck in lawyer chappies and the bounders are suing you for industrial injuries. A jolly bad show!

Mouldy Fungi

2004-12-09T13:59:00.000Z

Was reading the broadsheets over breakfast this morning when one noticed that a recently excavated truffle that had been auctioned for £28,000 had been allowed to go somewhat inedible after being kept rather too long. Seems that a number of celebrities are now a bit out of pocket after the mouldy fungi was buried with full honours in some fellahs back garden. Of course this has set one thinking and what with the east wing needing re-roofing after cooks little disaster with the salad, one wonders if one could convince a few of the rich and famous to part with a small donation for one of cooks mushroom omelettes which are quite disgusting to start with so no hanging about waiting for it to go off before it needs to be interred, thus saving valuable time to be getting on with whatever celebrity chaps and chapesses get on with nowadays.

In anticipation of the bids coming rolling in one has despatched Blenkinsop, gentlemans gentleman since 1947, off to the lower meadow to collect a few fruits of the field. I know there will be a rich crop as this part of the estate always seems popular with mushroom pickers as many is the time one has heard ones estate manager discharging his twelve bore and exclaiming "Gerroutofit y' hippy mushroom picking layabouts!". Luckily the mists that seem to hang over the gardens at this time of year seem to have muffled Blenkinsops complaints about rising damp in his wooden leg as he squelches off into the distance. The silence is now only broken by the quiet thump of Utterthwaite, the head gardener, clubbing moles in the arboretum.

In the meantime one has settled down to polish off the rest of ones kippers in lemon curd...another of cooks little culinary experiments one believes but at least not quite as incendiary as the salad....and to wait for the first cheques to arrive.