October 9, 2000
Oh, the pain. Oh, the suffering.
One awoke one sunny October morning, this week, to find that one's head ached. One's eyes, normally so clear and so preternaturally sharp and attentive, were misty. One's nose, the object of so much calf love among the young maidens of the countryside, seemed clogged. There was a tickle in the back of one's throat.
One sat up in bed, alarmed. Had one spent too long within this world of woe? Was one soon to shuffle off the mortal coil for another, greater world? In the words of the immortal poet, Shakespeare, was one soon to bite the big one?
One feared so, for at that moment, a massive sensation, the likes of which one has ne'er before felt, afflicted one. One struggled for breath; one winced with pain. Without warning, one has a massive spasm and expelled all the air in one's lungs with a mighty roar.
"Geshundheit," said one's butler.
"Great god in heaven!" one cried. "Nearer one is to thee! Whatever in the world was that?" It was then I noticed a curious substance affixed to one's man's coat. It had come from that immense whatever-it-was, through one's noble nasal cavities. "Lord almighty!" one cried in fear. "Are those one's brains?"
One's man wiped off the substance off his jacket, distaste coloring his expression. "Have you never sneezed before, sir? It's not."
"It's not my brains?"
"No sir. It's not."
"It's not what?"
"Sir, it's not."
"What is it then, man? Speak up!"
One's man cleared his throat. "My lord. 'Snot."
One shook one head and sent him away. It's difficult to get anywhere with these monkeys.
Naturally one sent for the physician immediately. He informed one it was merely a common cold. One dismissed him on the spot, and wrote a tart telegram to Her Majesty's Royal Academy of Physicians requesting the revocation of his license. A common cold, indeed. One is a baronet. One deserves a titled cold, at the very least.
In great suffering, one remains,
Oh my, Sir Charles,
I saw in last week's column that you had a perfectly mammoth erection that you showed off to all of Fishampton. I was impressed, and more than a little intrigued.
We here at the in jolly Weston Super-Mare at the Weston Super-Mare Boys School for Architecture were wondering if you'd be willing to come out to the coast and display that whopping erection for us. It must be something to behold.
Sir Charles replies:
"Unimaginably immense," wrote the Fishampton Bugle. "Despite a shaky pole, stayed upright for the entire day," triumphed the -----shire Herald. "The only noteworthy object in all of Colonel Jambly's Annual Memoirs of the Raj Chutney Parade, especially including the chutneys," warbled the London Timely.
As the correspondent can see, one's reviews were magnificent. One has had them reproduced on vellum and mounted in a special baby sealskin frame.
However, one fears that one must decline the correspondent's request. One can only manage to produce one's triumphant and awe-inspiring erection but once every twelve months, and one must now save up one's energies for next year.
With sympathy (for many a jaw did drop at the sight, indeed),
It is a regrettable oversight on the part of the editor's of Baedecker's to have not yet included Fishampton's world renowned festival, Colonel Jambly's Annual Memoirs of the Raj Chutney Parade, in its most recent guide to England. This fantastical and surreal event truly is the harbinger of Autumn.
If I may be so bold as to suggest an alternative to Baedecker's, I believe that the the editors of "Fielding's Danger Finder: Guide to The World's Most Dangerous Places," would probably be quite willing to promote the Raj Chutney Parade in their extraordinary travel guide.
Probably in large print.
Using the type face "Salmonella."
Spot colored in "Shudder Green."
I am certain that you are already aware of this magnificent guide and it was simply an oversight on the part of your daft secretary who forgot to notify them regarding this annual event in order for it to be included in this year's edition.
Sir Charles replies:
My dear Mr. Liberty,
One is at Liberty (a little pun, there) to comment that one's secretary, the idiot boy, is indeed to fault for the utter lack of publicity for Colonel Jambly's Annual Memoirs of the Raj Chutney Parade.
Perhaps one might use the assistance of Mr. Fielding and his staff to publicise the event in subsequent years. But whatever might a danger guide be? One can think of no danger to be found in the chutney parade, save for the danger of becoming utterly addicted to the Lady Felicia's Kumquat and Pickled Pig's Foot Relish, or her exquisite Maraschino Cherry, Lemon Zest, and Anchovy Marmalade.
Or of losing one's hearing at the shrieks of anger uttered by Edna Thistle, Mrs., when the awards are all given to the Lady Felicia, of course.
Inviting the correspondent to Fishampton come next October,
Dear Sir Charles
Kindly desist. My head hurts.
Sir Charles replies:
Somewhere deep in a rubbish heap in the east side of London, beneath a layer of rancid crisps and maggot-infested curry, atop a reeking strata where a drunken Irishman went whoopsie after too many Vegemite sandwiches, are potato peelings with more intelligence and wit than you.
Desisting anyway, one remains,