As is my wont, I’ve had a longer break than expected. I’ve spent the last five months holed up on a wretched paddle steamer somewhere along the handsome Nile river. As well as two weeks in a decrepit hotel in Tunis with a curious young local man named Raymond. Spoke with a thick Welsh accent and looked like he was wearing a painted tan, but insisted that he was born in Cadiz.
Come to think of it, Cadiz is in Spain, not Tunisia. And he could have said Cardiff.
Ah well.
The story goes as follows.
The rest of my retreat in Scotland passed with little event. We stole the light bulb from the local lighthouse and then spent the evening sat on the cliff-top watching the hilarious site of two fishing boats breaking up on the rocks. The next day was spent with the local constabulary, providing evidence that we’d been Badger watching and not stealing light bulbs from lighthouses.
After that incident, Pinky and I spent the rest of my stay holed up in the games room and library of Castle Occai, reading extracts from Orlando Bloom’s Unauthorised Biography and playing Strip Billiards.
I received, quite out of the blue, an invitation from my long-time friend and partner in crime from the Public School days, Andrew Saintjohn Marshall-McBellamy, third Earl of Greyfriars Bus Station, Northampton, to accompany him on a jaunt to Egypt to dig up a Pyramid. Little did I know that the nearest I would get to an actual pyramid was the family-sized Toblerone I had Winkerton buy on my behalf in the local supermarket, but I got rather excited by the romantic idea.
We nipped into town for a marvellous lunch at the local homeless soup kitchen, which the chef later told me was called Cockaleekie (which I always thought was a slang term the lower classes use for a prostate problem), and then moved along the promenade to the Gentleman’s Outfitters, Stick and Son with Da Dickiebow. A fine establishment, with proprietors of the highest cholesterol ratings in the area.
After spending several thousand pounds of my estranged son’s inheritance on a complete desert explorer’s outfit, we departed from Southampton on a steamer.
Being passed by several hundred passenger ferries in the two days it took us to leave the English Channel was slightly dispiriting, and I was looking forward to docking in Gibraltar so I could replenish my stock of Glenfidditch and the finest shag.
We didn’t dock in Gibraltar. We did not stop anywhere else until we reached Alexandria.
Alexandria is, quite simply, not what it used to be. I don’t want to get all Michael Palin on your donkey-horses, so I won’t give thorough details of our stay. But suffice it to stay that Marshall-McBellamy is not a conventional traveller. He had not booked us a hotel. We were instead to stay with the family of one of his former sevants, Hasan. Hasan’s family were small, dirty and resentful of the man who once accused one of their own of stealing marital aids from his wife’s dresser. (It later turned out to be a maid called Ethel who stole the aforementioned items – she later became Mrs Marshall-McBellamy IV.)
We stayed in Alexandria, being tolerated by Hasan's parents for a further three months. During which time we survived three disturbing night attacks - all from Mr Hasan (never did manage to get the damn fool's name...) and all involved being beaten savagely with a rotting courgette and his Algerian passport.
After the third occasion, it occurred to Marshall-McBellamy that if Mr Hasan had an Algerian passport, maybe he wasn't supposed to be there. After some checking via the British Consulate, he uncovered the disturbing fact that Mr Hasan was none other than Ali Vanu, the notorious vegetable inserting butcher of Algiers. He was deported and as a consequence, we spent the remainder of our stay in privacy and relative comfort.
I must away to my club and speak to some dear friends about various doings. I will continue to chronicle my adventures in the very near future. Pip pip!
Sir Leonard.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Monday, January 22, 2007
The Bold Adventurer returns – with a bang and a whimper.
Pip-pip.
To begin with, dear, sweet, reader, please accept a thousand apologies for my absence. I accepted an invitation to spend a month or so with my old school chum Jeremy McEwen-Price at his remote country retreat in the highlands of Scotland, and in my haste to pack and load my vanity cases onto the Blithely carriage, I neglected to update my bally journal.
I said to my mole-resembling driver, Blinkerton, “Blast, old chap! Forgot to ride the interweb and tell my avid readership that I would be absent for a time.”
The 3 day drive to the Highlands in the Austin Healey (christened “Dennis” by the former Lady Blithely) was a joy – rarely reaching speeds upwards of 30mph meant that we could take in the breathtaking scenery of the glorious array of bushes and shrubs that surround the M25.
Suffice it to say, we stopped numerous times on our journey, and met many gentlemen in the lovely uniform of the Automobile Association.
It was a healthy 2.30am when we managed to push the carriage up the last part of the drive and onto the gravel forecourt of “Chez McEwen-Price” or Castle Occai as it is officially known to both the Ordnance Survey and the Taxman - or woman – don’t want to be sexist… Can be awfully troublesome.
Had a picket line of three hundred large – and hairy – handed feminine-types outside Beastly Hall last summer for asking the owner of a local teashop if they only employed lesbians because it was the nearest they could get to chaps. Blasted woofter only told the local newspaper who began a campaign to bring me to task.
In the end, I issued a press statement apologising for the whole thing. I no longer frequent the place, as when I’m having tea and toast, I want to know which side my toast has been buttered. And chaps can wield a steadier butter knife.
My first night was endured while bent at awkward angles on the back seat of the automobile, as no one would open the door, despite Blinkerton dealing out numerous thunderings to the door and myself letting out my most blood-curdling yell of “Tally-ho chaps, Beastly’s here!”
The next morning I was served with a full English breakfast in the Healey. Despite the cold toast (shoddily buttered I might add, as the cook here is a woman, and I wasn’t given a choice between pre-buttered toast and butter on the side), it was a good start. My old chum, “Pinky” McEwen-Price came to greet me and escorted me to the bathroom where he obviously left me to wash.
That particular day was spent hunting Famous Grouse and Haggis on Pinky’s estate.
In the next entry, I shall elucidate on the adventures had when we were joined by some mildly famous persons. And of course, the moment I saw Hazel Irvine from afar…
Until next time, my dear friends, bon voyage. Miss you already.
Sir Leonard.
To begin with, dear, sweet, reader, please accept a thousand apologies for my absence. I accepted an invitation to spend a month or so with my old school chum Jeremy McEwen-Price at his remote country retreat in the highlands of Scotland, and in my haste to pack and load my vanity cases onto the Blithely carriage, I neglected to update my bally journal.
I said to my mole-resembling driver, Blinkerton, “Blast, old chap! Forgot to ride the interweb and tell my avid readership that I would be absent for a time.”
The 3 day drive to the Highlands in the Austin Healey (christened “Dennis” by the former Lady Blithely) was a joy – rarely reaching speeds upwards of 30mph meant that we could take in the breathtaking scenery of the glorious array of bushes and shrubs that surround the M25.
Suffice it to say, we stopped numerous times on our journey, and met many gentlemen in the lovely uniform of the Automobile Association.
It was a healthy 2.30am when we managed to push the carriage up the last part of the drive and onto the gravel forecourt of “Chez McEwen-Price” or Castle Occai as it is officially known to both the Ordnance Survey and the Taxman - or woman – don’t want to be sexist… Can be awfully troublesome.
Had a picket line of three hundred large – and hairy – handed feminine-types outside Beastly Hall last summer for asking the owner of a local teashop if they only employed lesbians because it was the nearest they could get to chaps. Blasted woofter only told the local newspaper who began a campaign to bring me to task.
In the end, I issued a press statement apologising for the whole thing. I no longer frequent the place, as when I’m having tea and toast, I want to know which side my toast has been buttered. And chaps can wield a steadier butter knife.
My first night was endured while bent at awkward angles on the back seat of the automobile, as no one would open the door, despite Blinkerton dealing out numerous thunderings to the door and myself letting out my most blood-curdling yell of “Tally-ho chaps, Beastly’s here!”
The next morning I was served with a full English breakfast in the Healey. Despite the cold toast (shoddily buttered I might add, as the cook here is a woman, and I wasn’t given a choice between pre-buttered toast and butter on the side), it was a good start. My old chum, “Pinky” McEwen-Price came to greet me and escorted me to the bathroom where he obviously left me to wash.
That particular day was spent hunting Famous Grouse and Haggis on Pinky’s estate.
In the next entry, I shall elucidate on the adventures had when we were joined by some mildly famous persons. And of course, the moment I saw Hazel Irvine from afar…
Until next time, my dear friends, bon voyage. Miss you already.
Sir Leonard.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
The Morning After The Night(mare) Before
As an assumed knight of the realm, falling out of one's stately bed this morning was not a pleasant experience. Not just because there was no help there to break my fall.
I landed on my late father's small collection of antique Victorian oil lamps, all of which were alight at the time. I have no idea why.
Somehow I have remained intact and largely unhurt - save some nasty bruising in some delicate areas. Of course, the exquisite flannel pajamas I was wearing were burned clean off, along with 97% of my body hair (I won't tell you where the remaining tuft is, but let's just say that it's starting to chafe a little).
I would, of course, like to apologise for my comments early this morning. They were out of character and predictably, straight out of the bottle I was clutching feverishly at the time. When simply drunk, I am an affable, aimiable sort, who would not cause much trouble to even the most eager of irritants (you know who you are, Christopher Moyles...). However, when I am drunk on the sort of cocktail of spirits I had imbued last night, my "Mr Hyde" side comes to the fore and very often I do not remember what has happened until I read the society pages the following day.
This morning's scene was one of devastation. My study, where I apparently retired to "listen to Rachmaninov and search the interweb for filthy pictures of Moira Stewart," was a shameful wreck.
[I should say that the quotations are from conversations I have had both with my footman, Winkerton, and my cooks - Mrs Bullstrot and Mrs Hamfist.]
Winkerton told me that I proceeded to conduct Rachmaninov's third symphony using a Baguette, pausing only to vomit into a wastepaper basket and scream abuse at a bust of Neville Chamberlain. Apparently I then scoured the house "muttering something about the Daily Mail". When I found the previous weekend's papers, I tore through them until I pulled out one of the free CDs, and returned to my study, whereupon I sang along to a collection of songs by someone called Simply Red.
Winkerton tells me that I then decided to update the blog – which I see is true from the shameful evidence below. I shall be keeping the entry up on the interweb, if only to try and show others the paths not to follow. I am, of course, utterly and terribly ashamed.
For the public record, I did indeed spend three hours with Mr Boris Johnson (whom I firmly believe will be made Lord Johnson of Liverpool one fine, utopian day), and Peter Mandleson. The less said about the latter, the better, however.
We spent a fine evening at the club, going through numerous cheroots and downing port and then spirits like there was no 1845. Jolly nice time of it, we had too. Johnson is a wonderful chap and I’m having a meeting next Tuesday to discuss my invitation to him to be a team captain on next January’s annual Peasant Hunt. He seemed to like the idea, although his assistant (I think it was an assistant, anyway – looked like an harassed underling to me) shouted “You! See you next Tuesday!”. Peasant hunt, I thought.
Spending the evening with Sir Terrance of Wogan in the morrow. Promises to be an amusing occasion. To be sure (I thank you), I’ll be asking him what he keeps under his green pointy hat, and whether he lives at the end of that rainbow with his huge pot of Licence Fee gold…
Pip pip, my dear, sweet old things.
Sir Leonard.
I landed on my late father's small collection of antique Victorian oil lamps, all of which were alight at the time. I have no idea why.
Somehow I have remained intact and largely unhurt - save some nasty bruising in some delicate areas. Of course, the exquisite flannel pajamas I was wearing were burned clean off, along with 97% of my body hair (I won't tell you where the remaining tuft is, but let's just say that it's starting to chafe a little).
I would, of course, like to apologise for my comments early this morning. They were out of character and predictably, straight out of the bottle I was clutching feverishly at the time. When simply drunk, I am an affable, aimiable sort, who would not cause much trouble to even the most eager of irritants (you know who you are, Christopher Moyles...). However, when I am drunk on the sort of cocktail of spirits I had imbued last night, my "Mr Hyde" side comes to the fore and very often I do not remember what has happened until I read the society pages the following day.
This morning's scene was one of devastation. My study, where I apparently retired to "listen to Rachmaninov and search the interweb for filthy pictures of Moira Stewart," was a shameful wreck.
[I should say that the quotations are from conversations I have had both with my footman, Winkerton, and my cooks - Mrs Bullstrot and Mrs Hamfist.]
Winkerton told me that I proceeded to conduct Rachmaninov's third symphony using a Baguette, pausing only to vomit into a wastepaper basket and scream abuse at a bust of Neville Chamberlain. Apparently I then scoured the house "muttering something about the Daily Mail". When I found the previous weekend's papers, I tore through them until I pulled out one of the free CDs, and returned to my study, whereupon I sang along to a collection of songs by someone called Simply Red.
Winkerton tells me that I then decided to update the blog – which I see is true from the shameful evidence below. I shall be keeping the entry up on the interweb, if only to try and show others the paths not to follow. I am, of course, utterly and terribly ashamed.
For the public record, I did indeed spend three hours with Mr Boris Johnson (whom I firmly believe will be made Lord Johnson of Liverpool one fine, utopian day), and Peter Mandleson. The less said about the latter, the better, however.
We spent a fine evening at the club, going through numerous cheroots and downing port and then spirits like there was no 1845. Jolly nice time of it, we had too. Johnson is a wonderful chap and I’m having a meeting next Tuesday to discuss my invitation to him to be a team captain on next January’s annual Peasant Hunt. He seemed to like the idea, although his assistant (I think it was an assistant, anyway – looked like an harassed underling to me) shouted “You! See you next Tuesday!”. Peasant hunt, I thought.
Spending the evening with Sir Terrance of Wogan in the morrow. Promises to be an amusing occasion. To be sure (I thank you), I’ll be asking him what he keeps under his green pointy hat, and whether he lives at the end of that rainbow with his huge pot of Licence Fee gold…
Pip pip, my dear, sweet old things.
Sir Leonard.
Monday, November 20, 2006
I love you. You're my best mate, you are.
Pip pip old muckers.
Beastly here. Afraid I might not be able to sense make really well this fine today.
Been having a drinkypoo, see? Rum, gin and vermouth. Even stooped as low as vodka. Of course, have also added lemon slices and pineapple chunks (got to get my 5-a-day somehow...).
Spent three hours tonight talking to Boris Johnson MP (he asked me to put the MP - think it stands for Mad Professor) and his lovely lady husband Peter Mandleson (he told me he was former minister without porthole and ex-mayor of the arse-end of nowhere).
Screen spins before the eyes of this drunken old aristocat faster than a whirling dirvish with hula hoop.
Time for bed, methinks.
---------------------------------------------
Ed: I think it should probably be pointed out that the comments above were penned - or rather tapped out - by a rather inebriated Sir Leonard. Therefore, please take his comments with a pinch of salt. Or maybe even a handful. You'll need that salt to go with the tequila, anyway, so I'm sure you have some around. I'm sure Sir Leonard will be ashamed of his actions and comments (should he remember them) in the morning.
Beastly here. Afraid I might not be able to sense make really well this fine today.
Been having a drinkypoo, see? Rum, gin and vermouth. Even stooped as low as vodka. Of course, have also added lemon slices and pineapple chunks (got to get my 5-a-day somehow...).
Spent three hours tonight talking to Boris Johnson MP (he asked me to put the MP - think it stands for Mad Professor) and his lovely lady husband Peter Mandleson (he told me he was former minister without porthole and ex-mayor of the arse-end of nowhere).
Screen spins before the eyes of this drunken old aristocat faster than a whirling dirvish with hula hoop.
Time for bed, methinks.
---------------------------------------------
Ed: I think it should probably be pointed out that the comments above were penned - or rather tapped out - by a rather inebriated Sir Leonard. Therefore, please take his comments with a pinch of salt. Or maybe even a handful. You'll need that salt to go with the tequila, anyway, so I'm sure you have some around. I'm sure Sir Leonard will be ashamed of his actions and comments (should he remember them) in the morning.
Friday, November 17, 2006
An Unforgiveable Ommission
My friends, my dear, sweet, fragrant friends (you know who you are - open a window).
I am sorry.Henry and Squiffy have both called to point out that I missed something out of last night's post, which I had promised to tell.
I can only put this down to the alcoholic fug I found myself staring through to see the screen of my computer last night, but nevertheless, it was unforgiveable of me, and I sincerely apologise.
You are, I am sure, all desperately waiting on news regarding yesterday's tea, and how it performed. Well, I caught it just in time, and seeing as it had just started displaying the signs of stewing, it was all right really.
Overall, it is a mediocre tea with a mediocre taste to start with, and for all of that, it was just about all right. Not a good sign. There was no distinctive flavour, aroma or aftertaste, which means that what I drank was plainer than a Jane standing in the Gobi desert.
Pip pip.
I am sorry.Henry and Squiffy have both called to point out that I missed something out of last night's post, which I had promised to tell.
I can only put this down to the alcoholic fug I found myself staring through to see the screen of my computer last night, but nevertheless, it was unforgiveable of me, and I sincerely apologise.
You are, I am sure, all desperately waiting on news regarding yesterday's tea, and how it performed. Well, I caught it just in time, and seeing as it had just started displaying the signs of stewing, it was all right really.
Overall, it is a mediocre tea with a mediocre taste to start with, and for all of that, it was just about all right. Not a good sign. There was no distinctive flavour, aroma or aftertaste, which means that what I drank was plainer than a Jane standing in the Gobi desert.
Pip pip.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Illegal chefs and television personalities
I had an absolute ball last night.
Although the evening had a shaky start, if I am honest!Went to dinner at the Buckingham with Squiffy, Margery and Henry. The three courses were up to the usual standard - we sent the soup back twice before we changed our order to prawn cocktails (which came with a slice of wholemeal bread we had to spread our own butter on - what a disgrace!).
We then questioned the chef's familiarity with both a kitchen and the immigration laws of this country when we found several hairs and a blatantly forged passport in the baked trout.We left the Buckingham in rather a fluster after being threatened rather unneccessarily in a language none of us understood and with a nasty looking skewer.
After hastily muching on some "sandwiches" purchased in something called a "Tesco" and staring rather aimlessly at a statue of a small boy widdling on the dead body of a small furry animal (The inscription had been worn off, so we couldn't work out what it was in rememberance of - but we did have a guess. The most likely suggestion was a tribute to the work of Huntingdon Life Sciences.), we decided that the time had come to move on to a bar.And so we ended up in my private club, Wellington's. Well, Henry, Squiffy and I did.
Margery had to wait at the door for us to finish our cheroots and measures of whiskey. When we had done so, off we trotted, looking for a party.
As something seemed to be going on in one particularly lively hostelry, we decided to blend in to the crowd there.Met a chap who said he works in television. Graham something. Same name as a rather stylish motorcycle I had during one of my mid-life crises... Norton. That was it. Graham Norton. Jolly nice chap, too. Promised to come round for high tea next week.Squiffy said something about Mr Norton being homosexual. Can't see that myself...Anyway, I have to call his agent to arrange the tea. And that means I have to find the telephone. 40 rooms and I never manage to leave it in the same one twice.
Pip pip.
SLB
Although the evening had a shaky start, if I am honest!Went to dinner at the Buckingham with Squiffy, Margery and Henry. The three courses were up to the usual standard - we sent the soup back twice before we changed our order to prawn cocktails (which came with a slice of wholemeal bread we had to spread our own butter on - what a disgrace!).
We then questioned the chef's familiarity with both a kitchen and the immigration laws of this country when we found several hairs and a blatantly forged passport in the baked trout.We left the Buckingham in rather a fluster after being threatened rather unneccessarily in a language none of us understood and with a nasty looking skewer.
After hastily muching on some "sandwiches" purchased in something called a "Tesco" and staring rather aimlessly at a statue of a small boy widdling on the dead body of a small furry animal (The inscription had been worn off, so we couldn't work out what it was in rememberance of - but we did have a guess. The most likely suggestion was a tribute to the work of Huntingdon Life Sciences.), we decided that the time had come to move on to a bar.And so we ended up in my private club, Wellington's. Well, Henry, Squiffy and I did.
Margery had to wait at the door for us to finish our cheroots and measures of whiskey. When we had done so, off we trotted, looking for a party.
As something seemed to be going on in one particularly lively hostelry, we decided to blend in to the crowd there.Met a chap who said he works in television. Graham something. Same name as a rather stylish motorcycle I had during one of my mid-life crises... Norton. That was it. Graham Norton. Jolly nice chap, too. Promised to come round for high tea next week.Squiffy said something about Mr Norton being homosexual. Can't see that myself...Anyway, I have to call his agent to arrange the tea. And that means I have to find the telephone. 40 rooms and I never manage to leave it in the same one twice.
Pip pip.
SLB
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
An Obligatory Welcome Handshake
Welcome. Welcome, and thrice welcome.
I am Sir Leonard Beastly. This is my blog, and this is where you can read all about my day-to-day social adventures. Or misadventures, you could say!
This is an entirely exclusive site, with the words I write here only appearing otherwise in the new monthly tome for the intellectual urban enthusiast with a title, “Rightful Heirs”.During the course of my nightly gin-fuelled meanderings, I meet an awful lot of people, and have taken high tea with some of the most interesting and delightful people you would ever aspire to meet. And a certain Mr Kilroy-Slik.
This will be my diary, my confessional, my omnipotent friend and confidant. I will tell you all about the soirees and the saucy happenings I encounter, as well as news on such tip-top events such as my annual January Commoner Hunt.
Anyway, my fine friends, I must dash. I take tea soon, and if the leaves are in the pot for too long it will be simply undrinkable.
Pip-pip, me-hearties.
Sir Leonard.
PS. I will of course let you know how the tea has performed in my next “post”
I am Sir Leonard Beastly. This is my blog, and this is where you can read all about my day-to-day social adventures. Or misadventures, you could say!
This is an entirely exclusive site, with the words I write here only appearing otherwise in the new monthly tome for the intellectual urban enthusiast with a title, “Rightful Heirs”.During the course of my nightly gin-fuelled meanderings, I meet an awful lot of people, and have taken high tea with some of the most interesting and delightful people you would ever aspire to meet. And a certain Mr Kilroy-Slik.
This will be my diary, my confessional, my omnipotent friend and confidant. I will tell you all about the soirees and the saucy happenings I encounter, as well as news on such tip-top events such as my annual January Commoner Hunt.
Anyway, my fine friends, I must dash. I take tea soon, and if the leaves are in the pot for too long it will be simply undrinkable.
Pip-pip, me-hearties.
Sir Leonard.
PS. I will of course let you know how the tea has performed in my next “post”
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