What disapproving item
should a lady of means, who is predisposed to thoughts of social
justice, send to a supporter of Gamergate?
In
her ongoing column – The
Parson's Hassock - Lady Margaret Seacombe is compelled to
forgo a formal nine-course dinner at Kensington Palace, and must
instead meet the terms of her community service order by answering
the interminable inquiries of the common folk on matters of etiquette
in the 21st century.
“Lady
Seacombe successfully removed a rootkit from my ageing PC using
nothing more than good manners, a half-spent tin of Beecharms
Furniture Polish and the family duster that my distant ancestor
captured from the French in 1083AD. I am forever in her debt and
have awarded her five stars and the freedom of Cambridgeshire.”
-
Lord Julius Anderton.
Dear Lady Margaret
Seacombe
I write you this letter
having reached the end of my wits, for I am beset with a most vexing
problem:
Recently a gentlemen - a
Lord no less - by the name of Milo
Yiannopoulos has taken residence in the
stately home at Netherfeld Park. He is very much enamoured by the
social opportunities his new domicile affords him and has, along with
his numerous male companions, become a regular attendee at the dances
that are held by families of note in the area.
Lord Yiannopoulos
is, on the surface at least, a most
eligible bachelor. All of the women who are of age, including some
already in wedlock, swoon at his passing and squabble in a most
unbecoming manner for his attentions when his back is turned. I find
myself alone in regarding the aforementioned gentleman as wearisome
and disagreeable in terms of his aspect and demeanour.
While quartered at Lucus
Lodge during inclement weather I stumbled by accident into the
servants' chambers where I overheard a whispered conversation between
a pair of scullery maids concerning Lord Yiannopoulos,
the scandalous details of which I will now relay: One party in the
exchange made it known that the high born women were wasting their
efforts in the pursuit of the newly arrived gentleman who is “an
enthusiastic participant in Gamergate and will therefore likely
foster no great interest in the activities of the fairer sex.”
Having undertaken further
research on this matter it is now my firm belief that Lord
Yiannopoulos
and his co-conspirators intend to banish the female gender en-masse
from the spirited games of Whist that are currently partaken in by
both sexes. Thereafter this pleasurable activity shall become the
exclusive province of gentlemen, who (again according to the
participants in the overheard conversation) “favour as an appetiser
thick meaty sausages in preference over dainty oysters.”
As an expression of my
disgust I began to anonymously send Lord Yiannopoulos
small tokens of my displeasure.
I embarked upon this
course of action with a delivery comprising 90 bales of high quality
toilet paper to the gates of Netherfield Park, having first taken
care to remove our family crest from the seal of each roll. The
hidden meaning of such a gift was barely-veiled so as to be
immediately obvious to all save the dullest of wits: “Sir, it is my
dearest hope that you will soon succumb to dysentery.”
When this offering went
unacknowledged I dispatched a further offering whose meaning was no
less transparent that that which had proceeded it: A hypodermic
syringe containing a concoction of rosewater. The intended symbolism:
Even the most fragrant of roses (myself) may be in possession of the
sharpest of thorns (the needle point).
As before, the arrival of
the package was passed over without comment. In the face of such
heedlessness I felt no recourse other than to stoop to the basest of
the insults within my repertoire: I instructed one of the groundsmen
at Longbourn to kill a small rodent of their choosing and have it
dispatched immediately under cover of darkness to Netherfield Park.
It was with this token
that I hoped to convey that the women of Hertfordshire are untroubled
by the activities of mice. In preference over clambering 'pon the
nearest chair and wailing for help, we instead duly summon our
servant staff to dispatch such bothersome creatures.
Alas this most brazen of
gestures stirred not a mote of a reaction in the impassive
countenance of Lord Yiannopoulos
who remains steadfast at Netherfield Park where, by the hour, his
very presence continues to grow ever more incommodious to me.
What must I do to drive
this most odious man back to his family residence of Pemberley never
to return to our fair rural idyll?
Yours
fretfully
Elizabeth
Bennett (Longbourn, Hertfordshire)
Dear Miss Bennett,
The gentlemen of whom you
speak is clearly a person of great resolve. He will not be easily
shaken.
I propose a trio of
'gifts' to be dispatched a few days apart. If Lord Yiannopoulos
is as you describe him these tokens will serve to crumble his
intent to remain at Netherfield Park. As before, the objects must be
sent anonymously and without commentary.
In describing the first
gift I must undertake a brief detour into French history with
assurances that what I relay henceforth bears strong relevance to
your present predicament:
In 1710 a grand ball was
held in honour of the 60th
birthday of Charles-Auguste de Limoges - the 16th
Duke of Limousin. Members of noted
aristocratic families from across Europe were in attendance. Among
the guests was the Countess Anna De Foix of Brittany.
De Foix, who was five
years De Limoges' senior, had been his childhood companion and had
routinely tormented the boy. Her favoured mode of torture was to
imprison her playmate inside the armoire in his bedroom. It was while
confined within this darkened space that the terrified child had on
occasion relinquished control of both bladder and bowels.
The cruelty did not end
there, for after laying eyes upon her distressed and sullied victim,
the malicious De Foix would venomously christen him with spiteful
nicknames: Soggy knees (Genoux
détrempées), Piss baby (Bébé
pisse) and Shit Lord (Merde seigneur).
De Limoges was deeply
ashamed of these incidents and told no-one. It was only following his
death in 1712 that his diaries were discovered and the truth finally
known.
Though the pair had not
laid eyes upon each other for decades De Foix's malice spanned
decades. By far the most extravagant of the gifts presented to the
Duke on his 60th birthday was an exquisite handmade
armoire fashioned from seven different woods and inlaid with gold and
ivory. Above the doors a scrolled banner rendered in mahogany and
held aloft by carved woodpeckers bore the motto “Genoux
détrempées, Bébé pisse, Merde
Seigneur”
Upon sighting of this
offering De Limoges stormed from the hall. Afterwards he was seldom
seen in public and died two years later.
It is my suggestion that
you commission a replica of this armoire. A woman of good breeding
such as yourself will surely have sketches of the original contained
within the volumes in her library. A passable reproduction of this
item of furniture should cost no more than a trifling £100,000.
Upon delivery of the piece
Lord Yiannopoulos (who will have
been well-schooled in the biographies of the continental aristocracy)
will fully understand its true meaning and bearing grievous insult
will subsequently ponder his future at Netherfield Park.
Now that you have knocked
some of the pride from the man you must sow seeds of doubt so that he
comes to regard himself unworthy of his station:
You will be aware that the
finest chocolates in the world are hand-crafted by Gartman's of
Zurich, Switzerland. Each of these unsurpassed flawless baubles of
delight takes three days to create and retails for the equivalent of
£700 a piece. In a neighbouring street you will find Gartman's
inferior rival - Riniker. Here the chocolates that would be regarded
as peerless in any other locale retail for a mere £400 each, or
£2200 for a box of six.
Contact Riniker and
request that a half-dozen of their finest truffles be dispatched to
Netherfield Park posthaste. Upon taking receipt of this gift Lord
Yiannopoulos will recognise
the barbed compliment – that his peers deem him worthy only of
second-rate chocolates. Reflecting upon this he will again doubt his
future in Hertfordshire and contemplate a return to Pemberley.
The final item you must
send is a bespoke necklace, fashioned in gold, with prominent
lettering that spells the word: 'Gaylord'.
The lords of England have
traditionally adopted a stern and autocratic bearing befitting their
station. In branding the gentleman a lord of gaiety (and consequently
in possession of vassals and property in keeping with this
light-hearted disposition) you will cast a shadow on his character.
This slur will likely end the prospect of him marrying a woman of
note and climbing above his present social station, for there are few
fathers who would consider as a suitor for their daughter one who
openly ridicules the solemn duties of Lordship, and, in doing so,
mocks the empire of England itself.
My child: Follow these
instructions to the letter dispensing first the armoire, followed by
the inferior Swiss chocolates, while saving as final insult the
libellous necklace.
I assure you that the
displeasing gentleman's humiliation will be complete and that soon
after he will become but a figment of your past.
Yours
Lady
Margaret Seacombe
No comments:
Post a Comment