As I was singing in the bath this AM–why do the streets have no name, do you think? Negligence in the municipal roads departments?–I pulled up from the treasure vaults of memory something I’ve been meaning to tell you. (more…)

I drew Beau GST’s name for the Drones Club Chess Tournament Sweepstakes, so naturally I toddled around and put the laddy on a strict training regimen. (more…)

Chez Wooster is no place for daubers of colors, but some of these entries are rather festive, what?

The worst part of these village treats is the children’s choir. The little blighters are rather de trop, what? Seared into the Wooster gray matter–to give you just one instance of the many that come to mind–is the occasion that Kim “Kimber-bimber” Jong-Il of the Drones’ Club invited me down to his country place and what was looking like a promising little week-end with a well-stocked cellar was constantly spoiled by little excrescences mumbling ‘Dear Leader” this and shrilling “Dear Leader” that wherever one turned. It began where ghastly left off.

Towards a Mormon jurisprudence? I never thought of Joseph Smith as one of those beaky legal types, handing out fines for the lightest causes, and burying advice on socage-in-chief in the Book of Mormon, coming it the heavy with this ‘and what explanation do you give for yourself, Mr. Wooster’ stuff, when really I was speeding very moderately, if at all, but they tell me its so. Cor chase my Aunt Fanny up the gum tree.

The American President has deplored the, ah, deplorable habit Washington, D.C., has of getting all wee-weed up in August, that abominable time of year. (more…)

Oh, rather. I mean to say, pass your eyes over the Wooster physique. Trim, I hear you saying. Svelte. Soignee. Yet my idea of exercise rather stops with a quiet stroll or batting a few tennis balls. I’m not one of those strenuous chappies, what?

I must say, one rather tuned in to the Pioneer Day Commemoration with something of an expectation that the ceremonies would be, how should I put it, pioneerish. (more…)

The many-headed may criticize this resignation as a move that is on the whole not judicious, perhaps even rash, but Bertram Wooster cannot agree, and not just because he’s a preux chevalier. He–by which I mean me, if you follow me–too has known the pressures of being a public figure. Why, I remember when I was writing my little article for Milday’s Boudouir, the pressure was downright intense. I had to drain the bitter cup, not to mention several glasses of whiskey and s., light on the s. No, you shall not catch our Bertram criticizing La Palin. Bertram Knows.

What, one wonders, is this “health care” that our American cousins bruit about so much? Something to do with loony doctors?

This calls for the red cummerbund sash thing. A touch of the jolly old hidalgo, don’t you know.

The horse that the stewards rejected is now become the first place finisher, as someone once said.

Jeeves tells me that Stephen Maturin is sound on Rousseau and Kant. (more…)

It came to me yesterday, amidst my busy schedule of plucking the gowans fine and imbibing potations in moderation, whom it was that the American President reminded me of. All in a flash–or in a sudden moment of illumination, if you prefer to put it that way, one of Jeeves’ gags–I saw it all. “Strike me pink, it’s Soapy Sid!”

I only wonder that a normally observant fellow like me missed it for so long. I mean to say, the two of them are practically twins, like wossname, Damocles and Psoriasis.

On the bright side, my Aunt Agatha will not make it either.