The Edmondson Blog

Click on the title to get the background to The Chap magazine.

Sir,
I feel I should bring to your attention the horrendous level of service I received at a new lunching house in my village, which appears to be owned by one R McDonald Esq. Upon entering, no-one took my hat or cane, I was instructed to extinguish my Carey, and there was no table service. Instead, they held with a disgusting practice of ordering one's own food from an open kitchen at the rear of the premises! As it was breakfast time, I ordered a brace of kippers, four devilled kidneys, a dish of kedgeree and a pot of Darjeeling. When the pimpled knave behind the counter began to titter, I demanded to see Mr McDonald immediately. To my horror, a deranged simpleton was produced, whom they had made up to resemble a clown. I have since learned that Mr McDonald is to open another such establishment in the neighbouring village of Westgrove Belmont. Alas! And so the darkness spreads!

Brigadier Gordon Volante, Pudsey

Sir,
I recently sprained a thigh, and thus paid a visit to an establishment on the High Street named "Spangles Massage & Sauna". I explained my considerable discomfort, and was led to a private room and asked to disrobe. Presently, the door opened to reveal the person who was to administer to my ailment. It was a lady! I jumped up, apologising profusely while I fumbled for my tweeds. Roxanne, as she was named, seemed amused by my bashfulness and assured me she was a professional masseuse. Once she had begun her treatment, I began to relax, and soon the pain began to abate. It occurred to me that the ideal accompaniment to the treatment would be the comforting feel of my trusty briar. "Roxanne," I said, "is it permitted to smoke my pipe?" "Oooh," she replied, reaching for my towel, "You are a dark horse!" Twenty minutes later I stumbled out of Spangles in a state of shock. I consider myself to be a broad-minded sort of fellow, but really!

Brigadier Gordon Volante, Pudsey

Sir,
Following a recent late night, rather ill-advised and (so it would transpire), ill-fated croquet wager, I found myself dispossessed of my snuffbox in a shrubbery. I was assured that though the hour was late, there was a local retailer that would serve as an ad hoc tobacconist – Messrs Londis & Co. Once there, I discovered the establishment to be a garishly lit "super-market" and I expected that my friends were most amused at having directed me there. Nevertheless, my face had begun to twitch in a most distressing fashion and I was obliged by necessity to enter.
Having waited my turn in a queue (composed of manual labourers and drunkards who repeated the same peculiar words: “Ten Elbee") I asked the girl behind the counter (dressed in a manner more appropriate to a scullery-maid than the proprietress of a mercantile) if I could see the selection of dry fine medicated snuffs. I sensed some level of antagonism had entered the woman's demeanour, and as the hour was late decided to simply ask for Gawith Hoggarth & Co. Camphor and Menthol Fine Kendal Brown. At this, the woman began to shout aggressive colloquialisms. Dumbfounded, I could think of nothing to defuse the situation save to repeat what I had heard from the soused lackeys previous to me: "Ten Elbee?". I was presented with a plastic wrapped silver package marked Lambert & Butler, which I later discovered contained poor quality cigarettes.
I shall not be so ready to use a service revolver in lieu of a mallet again, let me assure you.
Yours,
Major-General J.B. Felton-Norton DSC

Hat tip: George (welcome home; the blog has missed you)