December 24, 2001
Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum!
Or, as those garlicky Frenchies might opine, Joyeaux Knoll!
'Tis the season when Father Christmas comes to every good little boy and good little girl to fill the stockings hung at the foot of their beds with sugared plums, boiled sweets, and figs. Happy innocents, they! The bad little boys and girls, of course, are more likely to receive from their cringing parents the GameCube and the X-Box, just so that their whines and complaints will vanish for a few measly hours. There is no point to being good these days, it seems.
A simple fact that one's readers may not know (and one has it on a source whose impeccability cannot be shaken that one's readers are so many in number that were each a Christmas carol sung by a famous Jewish pop star such as Barbarous Streisand or Kneel Diamond . . . er, one was going somewhere with that point, but one has quite lost track of it): Sir Charles Grandiose keeps a list of who's naughty and who's nice.
Oh yes. And Lucious in Lancashire--you are the lucky, lucky reader who will receive a personal visit from one this very Christmas eve, once the Lady Felicia has fallen asleep after overindulging in the plum pudding. You appear to be a very, very, very naughty girl indeed.
With best wishes for the holiday and in anticipation of yet another new year, one remains,
Lord Blither writes:
Dear Sir Charles:
As an old school chum, I know you are a man of exquisite taste, eh, wot? Perhaps you can help me with a sticky little problem I face every year about this time.
My favorite part of the Christmas bird is the drumstick, but when the meat is gone, I'm left with the inevitable big bone.
How does one get rid of one's bone gracefully and without undue mess and commotion while seated at the banquet table?
Sir Charles replies:
Ah, Bunny, old bean,
One knows just the problem you describe. How frustrating it is to find oneself rising from the table after the final course with a big bone prominently displayed!
Everyone else at the table might have enjoyed polite conversation and their slice of meat, but there you are, greasy fingers grasped around a slick, rigid bone it is impossible to hide. What to do? It would be too conspicuous to hide your bone 'neath a hat. You cannot murmur to your lady wife, then and there, that she ought to do something with it. And you certainly cannot keep it beneath the table and just hope it disappears.
No, Bunny. The answer is fortunately simple. You must slip your big bone to the serving maid at the first opportunity you have of privacy. Both you and she will be grateful for it.
Bells jingling and ring-ting-tingling too, one remains,
Lady Sarah writes:
My dear Sir Charles,
I find that it is the Christmas season once again, and I am plagued with the task of purchasing gifts for friends, family, menial acquaintances. Apparently there is some ridiculous practice known as a "Secret Santa."
This obscene commercialism weighs so heavily upon my purse! Not that I don't have enough to give, mind you. It's just that I had my poor little heart set on that new Rolls Silver Corniche. (My other one is dirty.)
One hates to discuss the vulgar issue of money at any time, but I simply must ask. You are so knowledgable, so worldly. So many innocent souls turn to you in their times of need. I had it on an irreproachable authority that your readers are so many in number that were each to donate one penny to you, the ensuing fortune would be twenty-seven times greater than that William Gates fellow.
Dearest Sir Charles, just how much should one spend on gifts for one's relatives and friends? It goes without saying, of course, that they should spend a small fortune on my gift--it is intended for myself, but only because I am an impeccable lady of great stature. I feel certain all of your family and friends do the same for you.
But what of myself, Sir Charles? Must I give up my new Rolls this Yule-tide season?
Ever your humble and obediant servant,
Sir Charles replies:
One has a highly scientific method for gift shopping that cannot fail. It combines the need for a subtle command of human psychology with the inherent good will that is the duty of every noble person of birth.
One simply recycles the gifts one did not like the year before, and then places them in a supply of gift boxes from the posher shops of London. In the event that one had a 'lucky year' the previous Noel, a supply of two-shilling trinkets from the local paste jewelry store will do.
Sniffing a bit of the holly and the ivy, one remains,
And finally . . . a Sir Charles Grandiose traditional Christmas classic.
Dear Sir Charles
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says 'If you see it in Advice From Sir Charles Grandiose it's so.' Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?
Sir Charles replies:
Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been boonswoggled by watching too much 'Oprah'.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists to bring the children of the titled and the gentry copious amounts of expensive, tasteful gifts that they deserve by right of blood and class. Not believe in Santa Claus! Why, every blue-blooded youth knows that Santa Claus exists, and flourishes with every passing year!
Santa can, however, make only so many stops on his busy night, and only at the nicest manors. Judging from your address, Virginia, yours will not be among them. One suspects you will have to make do with your father in a flame-retardant red suit of unnatural fibers. One doubts he will need the extra padding.
Poetically, one remains,