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.
turns to thoughts of haiku. You know the things I mean. Japanese poetry doohickies, much beloved of the nibs. I just dashed one off–inspiration, what–and the little woman said it practically bared my soul. Now I’m foisting if off on my clamoring public, if foist is the word I mean.
Dash it, dash it all,
I have got mud on my spats.
The spring rain. What ho.
A positively barmy idea. None knows better than I how true the blushful Hippocrene looks the morning after, when one’s head is chattering like a convention of rocket-fueled hens. But therein lies peril. Hair of the dog fail, as the Americans would say. Perhaps Jeeves can toddle around to the White H. with one of his pick-me-ups.
Er, red. What I mean to say is, orange tie or cordovan belt, one or the other, but not both. (more…)
When in need of some convivial potation to cheer my spirits and restore my bold, confident outlook, I have Jeeves bring me a whiskey-and-VDH, without the VDH.
Unless I’m reading these charts upside down, the American cost of living is off into the wild blue yonder, climbing high into the sun, toodle-oo, toodle-um. Perhaps its time for Bertram to sojourn in Old Blighty. But dash it, what price the cost of living near Aunt Agatha?
Your Bertram was dashed eloquent at the Drones last week viz. the horrors of horror fiction. But that blighted lunkhead Kippercub entirely mistook the gravamen, or res, of my eloquent remarks. He got the notion into what he is pleased to call his brain that it wasn’t the horror in the genre that so merited disapprobation as it was the fiction. What stuff!
Soapy Sid has released his new budget today, which for those who like that sort of thing is apparently just the sort of thing they do not like. The outlook is bleak, grim, and not at all farm-fresh straight from our family to yours. Bally rotten, dash it. (more…)
Us literary types seem blithe and merry on the surface, but we’re just wearing the mask. Underneath we are a cauldron of serious thought and what Jeeves calls moral reflection. You betcher. So when ink-stained Bertram sees a fellow literateur unburden himself in one, long passionate cri de couer, his own soul is not untouched. “That’s telling ‘em, my good man,’ he calls encouragingly. Though how on earth the honest scribbler left out the absolutely-bally required discursus on the evils of plus-fours, one cannot say. Negligence somewhere, I suppose, what?
Well, I say, old BSA. Many happy returns on the day and all that. This dashed deserved encomium brought a not unmanly tear to my jaded eye.
Can anyone direct me to a turf accountant who is making book on the various budget proposals? The nibs back Feckless Default to win going away, but this sportsman might be willing to take a flyer on a dark horse.
In the spirit of constructive criticism and frank, fearless whatsit, let me say that at the fireside last night rolling out the 2011 Youth theme with video and song, the debonair figure gracefully draped over the back pew was me, in the flesh.
The music was sub-par. (more…)
If you wish to converse with an urbane clubman, you shall find me wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying by a fireplace. Brrr, I mean to say. Icebergs aren’t in it. (more…)
I consider this to be a dashed bit of infernal cheek. I mean to say! I shall send Jeeves out for sound volumes on jujitsu or judo or one of those. A machine will have to get up pretty early in the morning to steal a march on B. Wooster.
Merry Christmas, what ho, what ho, what ho! (more…)