Will get you an explanation of the offside rule you can finally understand, what?
I never could quite understand Jeeve’s explanation, dash it all. If only he’d thought to use simple pictures, perhaps I’d have it crammed in the old bean by now.
I tooled up in the roadster to New Hampshire yesterday to take in the hustings. After the hustle and bustle of Manhattan, one rather enjoys these quaint American customs. A good time was had by all. (more…)
I asked Jeeves if he would take up the burdens of noblesse oblige and the Code of the Woosters on my behalf. It would be a dashed sight convenient and way feudal, as I explained to him in a few well-chosen phrases. He entered a firm nolle prosequi. Fellow doesn’t seem to realize its the latest thing.
In the intervals between the sparkling badinage at the Drones and manly, straight-from-the-hip hometeaching, one dips from time to time into the sprightly oeuvre of some private eye novelist. Just at the moment I am positively gripped by the latest entry in the adventures of Ron Johnson, Sleuthin’ Senator Shamus. One hears rave reviews everywhere, but the half was not told me. (more…)
Rather sporting of the Yanks to extend full civil rights to albino chinamen, what? (more…)
Proof: (more…)
Although rather a goodish egg in her way, Aunt Nancy put the “imp” in “imperiousness.” I often found it rather difficult to tell her “no.” In fact, I didn’t tell her “no.” My performance vis-a-vis Aunt N. was modeled on the broad lines of a summer intern or a cooked spaghetti noodle.
Whether its the tight plotting, the crisp murders, or the lavish clues I do not say, but the siren call of Steyn’s latest mystery thriller had young Bertie W. battling the many-headed throng around purveyors of fine detective novels everywhere to secure my own copy with a grip of steel and carry it out triumphantly over my head like whatsit after the battle of thingummy. The book is gripping stuff. The advance publicity was good, but the half was not told unto me.
What ho, what ho, what ho! B. Young’s ‘Varsity has done it again. Time for all her loyal sons and benevolent onlookers, such as yours truly, to lift a glass in her honor.
The postman always rings twice, lest you think he never could recapture
the first, fine, fearless rapture.
Once, on a lark, having invested wisely in a rank outsider and feeling rather boompsy-daisy in consequence, I LOLed my way through what they call a career aptitude test. (more…)
Is marriage a business? When the dear little woman pulls down my head to hers and whispers “my mate” and, er, well, one needn’t elaborate. . . . Hardly here or there, what? The point, the thing I’m driving at, if you get me, is that one hardly associates the lovebird stuff with the green eye-shade set. Bertram isn’t actually married yet, I hear you saying, and I gracefully concede the objection. But I hardly see how a few well-expressed vows in front of a beneficent clergyman will transmute the bwessed awwangement into pots o’ goblins. Dashed nonsense.
I tell you truly, as man to man, I don’t quite follow all this. Too much ratiocination and ruddy statistics for the old bean, if you get me. But I gather that Americans will have to forsake their homes for charming West End flats? Doesn’t sound so rotten to me.
Color me unsurprised. The rozzers have, as it were, caused a marked diminution in Bertram’s youthful larking on Boat Race night. “Omigosh, cheese it, its the dudes in blue,” one hears oneself saying, and stands not on the order of one’s going.