As always, I’m deeply sorry for the tardy reply and so forth. Life does have a peculiar tendency to get in the way, don’t you agree? Especially when life’s so immensely wonderful and lush that one can’t help but drink its sweet and potent nectar! It’s good to hear that you’re getting comfortable in Oxford. I’m absolutely positive that you’re going to have a smashing time there, even if exams swallow up the majority of your time. But don’t think you’re fooling anyone with that gown – I’ve already heard quite a number of tales of your shindigs and jamborees! Your new home seems to be the talk of the town these days!

Ah! Speaking of new homes – yes, I have indeed moved to better venues and there is a young woman with me! Now before you choke on the brandy, fret not, there is an explanation which I will divulge at once.

It seems that my cautious investments in the flute industry weren’t as cautious as I was led to believe. No, the recent financial predicament reached even my assets, and having gone through the family fortune and all the bank papers, my accountant ultimately gave me two choices: get married or join the French Foreign Legion.

Naturally I chose the latter, so I packed my valise and went off to spend nearly two weeks in the company of soldiers and mercenaries in Algeria. It wasn’t half bad, even if the lack of cutlery and spirits was quite distressing at first. I could very well have stayed a good while longer, but I just so happened to run into this stunningly beautiful woman in a watering hole in Sidi-Bel-Abbès. Even though I’m normally immune to the tricks of the female persuasion, this sly and cunning foxette managed to lure me into the deeper end of the pool using equal parts English graciousness and Swedish… je ne sais quai. No honestly, I have no idea what it was but it seems to have had quite an impact on my libido, which is why I was more than happy to say goodbye to my days of soldiering!

We departed the following morning, leaving the blazing heat of Algeria behind and taking the time to get to know each other on the train ride back to her estate in Malmö. That’s right, she lived here all along, and to be honest, her manor really puts my old home to shame! We’d barely stepped off the train before we jumped into a car and called for all my belongings to be transported to what would be my new habitat. This proved to not only include my precious golf clubs and tweed suits, but also my dear old butler Cieco who had been waiting in the vicinity for my return! Oh how I missed his kind and caring support in Algeria, even though he would’ve been a worthless spotter on the front line – the man has no depth perception after all! Perfectly useless!

So now that the economic crisis is final being brought to a standstill, I can at last rest and resume my pleasures of guilt and immaturity. I have already seen to it to invest in a capable cinematography device which I’m sure will serve well in future screenings of your noble endeavours as a film maker. Though I think I never got around seeing that last masterpiece of yours, whatever it was called… I should be very happy to at least read a short synopsis of the plot! Bosie keeps writing me about it, which leads me to believe that it somehow involves a certain Lord Jamés.

Anyhow, I think I’m running out of ink, paper and topics here. I hope to visit you sometime this spring, given that your exams are easy enough to skip and that there’s enough port in your cellar.

Tata,

Boyling

Dear Boyling,

I can not apologise enough for my epistolary silence of late, so I shall not even bother to try. A tidal wave of moral imperatives pertaining to logistics, academia and inebriety had taken custody of my time and attention. There, that’s my apologia.

I have now transferred my existence and most of my interim belongings to the wonderful metropolis of Oxford, and have found it to be just as tremendously charming a place as I’m sure you recall that it was when we first met that scoundrel Humphrey Mabbitt. How ironic that we first laid eyes on him under the Oxonian replica of the bridge of sighs… But no matter!

Boyling, old bean, I have news for you that will shatter the very foundation of your existence. Forget your work, however stimulating! Forget whatever sordid romance you’re indulging in at the moment! For I have found a restaurant in the vicinity of Ponkleton Manor (as I have chosen to dub the local Ponk Plaza) that produces a curry of so outrageously high quality, that it almost certainly can give the heart of any sophisticated gentleman the viscosity of baked beans! Surely you can imagine my excitement. To be fair, I rather enjoy retaining my sophistication at all times, but denouncing it only for the course of a meal – pun intended – is too tempting in its profane vulgarity not to attempt and even repeat. It is true, I delighted in the culinary magnificence of Veneto for a year, overcompensating as it were, since I was all too familiar with Blighty’s cuisine, but I have now discovered that not only can one find excellent food here (that comes from Bangladesh), but also that the traditional English kitchen is the greatest in the world. It forgoes such trivialities as aesthetics and taste and focuses in their stead on what is important in life, namely, sustaining it with discerning desperation. I am currently in the process of housebreaking my one-eared manservant Sordo in this respect, but he still insists on preparing Italian food every once in a while. I have chosen not to discipline him too ferociously yet, however, as I find it much more rewarding to accumulate several, if not many, reasons for reprimands and then deliver them all at once with apparent overindulgence and excess.

What else? Oh, yes, my new quarters. Rather small compared to what I’m used to, but one needs to make do for the time being. I’m only here for a year, after all. But my bedchamber has a certain charm to it, I must say. Slowly but surely, I am saturating my burgundy silk tapestries with the sweet perfume of Lady Nicotine. My current bed is also far more spacious and comfortable than the glorified cot that Sordo procured for my chambers in Ca’ Ponkelino. (I swear to God, he must have found it in the stables.) One dreams much nicer dreams in it. Last night I dreamed a nostalgic little thing about that lumbering zeppelin of a man, Engelbert Fitzpatrick, and how you and I taught him a lesson on that breezy autumn afternoon in Hyde Park. The night before, I had a far more, shall we say, risqué dream about lips and, hrmm… lace… but more about that when we next chinwag by means of the telephonic apparatus that Sordo is now monophonically installing in the drawing room with little success. I can see him from here. He’s actually testing the receiver with his ear-less side. That scoundrel is probably spying on me. He knows I always read what I write out loud in real-time. That’s right, you asymmetric bastard, I’m on to you! Hah, he just left. I knew it!

In any event, I hope that you are well. I heard some rumours regarding you possibly embarking on some sort of cohabitation safari. Do tell! 

In the meantime, stay well and convey my salutations to any mutual acquaintance of ours that you might stumble upon.

Toodle-Pip,

Ponkleton

I have finally returned to the stillness of the manor from a seemingly endless series of debaucheries in Dublin. I just finished reading both of your two letters, which Cieco was so kind to put on my writing table (actually, he misplaced them on the floor right next to the writing table, but who can blame a half-blind man, really?). First off, what a remarkable thing! Lord Jamés married! I suppose this means I owe you some money, seeing that I countered your bet with the presumption that we would indeed see airborne pigs before Jamés ever carried one of those rings. However, I am not at all surprised to hear that Bosie is taking it hard. After all, when has Bosie ever not taken anything hard? I think it’s about time old Bosie settled down with one of those stout, short-haired women he seems to surround himself with.

And speaking of women, I completely agree that ladies are not courted as well these days as they used to be. We are a dying breed, you and I, and I am deeply ashamed of the depravity that can be observed amongst today’s young men. The gentleman is a vanishing phenomenon and I fear that the world we leave our children will be one bereft of taste and style. A man could drink himself to death for less…

But let’s not delve all too deep in such sombre thoughts. I must tell you of my trip to Dublin! I knew that the news story would find its way into the Corriere, and you will understand why very soon. You see, aside of taking strolls around Trinity College and having delightful meals with the city’s intellectuals, I did happen to end up in a brothel – against my will! I had just finished a rather tasteful pint of bitter at The Duke when I was suddenly intercepted by none other than my old rival, Humphrey Mabbitt!

Being a gentleman who would never insult his enemies by not offering him courtesies, I greeted Humphrey upon his arrival by withdrawing the bar stool from under his bottom. This proved to only to fuel his anger further…

THE FOLLOWING PAGE WAS REGRETFULLY LOST IN TRANSIT

IF YOU WANT AN ESTIMATION OF THE LOST CONTENT, PLEASE CONTACT ROYAL MAIL

…so you see, the young lord in the Corriere headlines was not me but rather grumpy old Humphrey Mabbitt! And while everything seemed to solve itself in the end – for me in particular! – I do suspect the Italian journalist was very surprised when he found the nun’s robes inside his very own luggage!

Now, you must pardon me for not sharing any further thoughts, but I do have an appointment with a delightful lady and some canvas, even though I expect my hands to tend the lady more than the canvas.

Stay healthy and insultingly creative.

Toodles,

Lord Boyling

I have an appointment to beat the dastardly locals at a “friendly” game of cricket this afternoon, so I’m afraid I must keep this brief. (The little German inside of you will appreciate that last sentence, I’m sure.)

You will never believe what has happened. Yesterday Lord Jamés got married! We all knew that this day would come, but that it would arrive so soon makes one feel rather old, does it not? I am nowhere near even pondering to relinquish the liberties of bachelordom and I can scarcely imagine such a drastic change in my persona taking place any time soon. Lord Jamés, however, I am pleased to announce, is now married to the great love of his life - Lady Bea (now Lady Bea-Jamés, hyphenated) - and they have already begun enjoying the rest of their lives together.

This blissful undertaking has not been without its casualties, though. This morning I was awoken by a heartbroken Bosie. No, he did not summon me on the telephonic apparatus in my drawing-room, nor did he dispatch a messenger to break down my door. That’s right, he came here in person. Lord knows how young Giddy-Gaylord managed to transport his well-dressed self all the way to Venice in so short a time, but there he was, standing in a corner of my room and biting his manicured nails as though it would somehow numb the pain in his soul. I’m sure you can imagine my despair as I woke up and covered my naked private parts with the closest thing at hand (in this case, the equally naked young lady beside me). I cringe at the thought of him standing there. Who knows how long he had been there before I awoke?!

In any event, he confirmed what I already knew. Lord Jamés was no longer available, not even on the faintest of metaphysical plains. I really hate seeing Bosie in such a state. He even sobbed all through my morning cup of tea. Reading the paper, as I am prone to do during my breakfast, was nearly impossible with all the noises he was emitting. Don’t worry, Boyling. It pleases me to tell you that I at least caught this morning’s main headlines.

But how I digress… As you know, Bosie has been bombarding Lord Jamés with sonnets the past handful of years, much to the dismay of the Lord in question. I can now officially report that this compulsion has finally come to an end. In fact, Bosie was even reluctant to send his final sonnet to the County of NewNose, as he had spent all night writing it in the salty ink of his woes. Instead, he gave it to me and made me swear not to show it to anyone. Boyling, you must promise me not to tell him that I have attached a copy of it for your anxious eyes in this very envelope…

Now I must be off to demonstrate the true use of pitch and wickets.

In the meantime, let us rejoice for Lord and Lady Jamés! May they live happily ever after!

Write me back soon and tell me of your exploits.

Pip-Pip,

Ponkleton

Boyling, you incredible philanderer!

How and where are you? My nerves are momentarily in shambles and I have had no other choice but to forgo this afternoon’s cricket game against the locals in order to dispatch to you the elegant calligraphy of my refined hand and customised ink. This morning I was awoken by a spastic Tacito, flapping his arms about my chambers and throwing the Corriere in my naked lap. At first I was irate, while the young lady beside me, equally exposed, was mostly flabbergasted and desperately tried to cover her naughty bits from the gaze of my monophonic manservant with whatever object she could find. This happened to be the petite monogrammed handkerchief I keep on my bedside table in case I awake in the middle of the night from a particularly emotionally riveting incubus and should find myself in need of it. (It comes in handy whenever I wake up with a sniffle as well.) Needless to say, I sent both Tacito and my hanky to the cleaners. However, not until I had perused the front page of the gazette did I understand his folly. There it was, in bold lettering, “YOUNG LORD IMPLICATED IN DUBLIN BROTHEL SCANDAL” (here translated from Italian, you understand) and before I regale you with my own exploits I pose the expected question: What on Earth were you up to over there?

Now, as for my life, there are two things I would like to tell you. First of all, that I am perfectly fine. Life is splendid and the drinks a-flowing. Secondly, that concurrently I am severely disillusioned by my presence here. While I live to adore the culture in which I have immersed myself, my greatest disappointment is directly – and solely – related to the indigenous population, a great part of its younger male specimens in particular.

Having come here, dreaming of learning the Italian art of courting, carrying the diary of esteemed libertine G. Casanova in my pocket at all times (a happy burden, Boyling!), and believing myself able to relate to them, and them to me, on the basis of what I dare say the two of us might have in common in terms of living up to this stereotype, I was appalled to find that this is a mere misconception, as far from the truth as any other.

These unkempt, greasy, half-breed oafs’ idea of courtship entails bluntly leaning into a woman’s way, or rather into her face, as to kiss her, regardless of whether she might be likewise inclined or not. I have even found that my presence will not deter the natives from brutally practicing the abovementioned ritual on the Lady whose arm is entwined in mine! Swine! Pardon my harsh language, Boyling, but their blatant lack of respect for women and, more importantly, for gentlemen is a tremendous shock to me. At these instances I was so shocked, in fact, that ere I had managed to produce a glove to challengingly slap across their faces, the perpetrators not only realised that my lady-friend was spoken for (which they did not seem to mind) but also that I was spoken for (by her), and promptly absconded. I no longer remember, Boyling. Were you and I the only ones to court young ladies in a gentlemanly manner? Are our virtues of an era long passed? Am I being naïve and is my disillusionment unjustified? What do you suggest I do?

Ever your friend,

L. T. Ponkleton

P.S.: I shall be paying a visit to the University of Stockholm in a couple of weeks’ time and hope to see you then. More about that over that horrendous telephonic gadget people insist on using nowadays.

P.S. 2: Codename TAT has now moved to The Jamés Estate in NewNose Harbour and I hear he clings to Lord Jamés’ arm like his life depended upon it. Also, Lord Jamés informed me that Mr. Giddy-Gaylord has recommenced his courtship and is once again sending him sonnets. I applaud the gesture. The locals could stand to learn a thing or two from young Bosie…

How good it is to hear that you survived the spectacle in Venice! I am not at all surprised that you tried to avoid the streets, as I read a rather incriminating article about it in the Post. I believe the writer summed it up rather fittingly as “an event that represents all the ugly desires and virtues of the common man but disguises it as something graceful and intellectual”. I hope that you found your way to more respectable locales, where people at least have the decency to pardon themselves before they empty their stomach on the floor.

I am also very happy to hear that you have managed to rendezvous with Lord Jamés, even though I have no idea what this TAT business is. I presume it has nothing to do with the rise of the new feminist organization in London, Tense Women Against Top Hats (TWAT)? Nevertheless, I would much enjoy to see a photograph from your escapades, if it is allowed to be mailed.

But speaking of old Britannia, have you heard that I will be going to Dublin later this month, to visit our good friend Mr. Wilde and the rest of the fellows from Trinity College? Yes indeed, I am expecting a complete revival of our old student manners, when our only obligation besides writing plays was drinking our bodyweight in whiskey! But it was a requirement, as I am sure you will agree, to draw our inspiration from the crevices of our studious brains. After all, was it not George Bernard Shaw who said that “alcohol is a very necessary article” that “enables Parliament to do things at eleven at night that no sane person would do at eleven in the morning”.

Hopefully, once I return, I will have an array of anecdotes for you when we next hear from one another, but until then I hope that you continue to enjoy the bloody hell out of that city of yours! But don’t drink the water!

Tally-ho,

Boyling

Boyling!

How are you? What on God’s green Earth are you up to nowadays?

My sincerest apologies for the horrendous tardiness of this my latest dispatch, ol’ chum, but as you shall soon see I have had other things on my mind lately besides catching up with my correspondence.

I would like to commence, however, with a far more mundane topic, if I may. In your last letter you made two enquiries that I would like to address. First off, the Carnevale… What an amazing spectacle it was. You experienced some of the madness and mayhem that Venice has to offer when you came to visit me, and I am so very pleased that you chose to. We certainly accumulated a mound of anecdotes to share with our future spawn, not to mention a plethora of memories that we had better not. Like that night in the Calle dei Fabbri with the triplets from Barcelona… But I’m digressing! What I meant to say was that the hoopla you bore witness to during the New Year’s celebrations was nothing compared to the hullabaloo of the carnival. It seemed as though the entire world had chosen to disembark in this heavenly port to soil it with their corrosive lack of finesse and sub-human absence of mind. No, I found that beatitude and jocularity were best pursued elsewhere than on the streets alongside the local peasantry and commoners from across the sea – although I did partake in quite an assortment of public festivities apart from the obvious and obligatory ‘limited access’ engagements I was invited to. In short, the carnival was a tremendous success and dressing up in the confection and manner of Louis XIV was simply marvelous. (I have no doubt that you shall gawp in express awe when you see the photographs I had Sordo take of me.)

Your second question, I intend to answer in haste. What is a merry theme for a festive occasion? Five words, my friend: Bacchantic Underwater Circus Grape Orgy!

In conclusion, my excuse… Shortly after your departure from my hospitable embrace and your return to the murky cold of the North, I was summoned by one of His Majesty’s contacts here on the island, a direct descendent of the last doge of Venice, mind, who told me of a mission of great importance. I can’t go into detail at this point, but it sounded like a challenge to me, so I accepted the responsibility of safeguarding our beloved Blighty – and indeed in some far-fetched way the balance between good and evil – and ventured to (you won’t believe your eyes when you read this) NewNose Harbour. That’s right, to the estate of Lord Jamés. He, too, had been summoned by H.M.’s local contact, codenamed “TAT”, an acronym of some sort, to partake in the mission on his front, and I was given the possibility to confer with Tat at painstaking length and detail, once sitting down for over eight hours to incorporate his views into my own! In any event, I left Lord Jamés in NewNose Harbour and returned to Venice, taking with me a particular black leather satchel and Tat, too. He is now a guest at Ca’ Ponkelino, as once you were. For obvious reasons I must keep this brief. But rest assured, my fellow libertine, further details will follow as the mission progresses, perchance even a letter sometime very soon, when all is done and I might forgo all this dreadful cloak-and-dagger banter…

A Presto and Pip-Pip!

Your friend,

Ponkleton

Dreadfully sorry for this tardy letter, but I am afraid that I have not been able to regain my wits until now. This is of course entirely due to the incredible hangover I got from those homemade cubini we so devotedly digested. In the past couple of weeks I have skulked around in the halls of Boyling Manor in a mind state that could only be compared to a fever in the desert. It’s been absolutely marvellous! I must say, Ponkleton, that my respect and outright love for rum has reached even greater heights. I have even gone so far as to order a couple of barrels of this wonderful beverage, so that it can easily be retrieved whenever I need it.

But enough about that! Tell me how the new year is treating you, old friend! I know the carnival is around the corner, but what have you prepared for this excellent festivity? I myself have thought about hosting a get-together of sorts here at Boyling Manor, but I have not yet decided on the theme of the occasion. Perhaps you could advise me on whatever is fashionable down there on the continent?

Now I must be off to go fox hunting on the grounds. Nothing like killing defenceless animals when you’re feeling a bit down, eh? I even have a brand new rifle that I cannot wait to try on one of those little pests!

Stay excitingly degenerate, dear friend, and give my love to the chaps at the club (even though they don’t deserve it).

Cheerio,

Boyling

PS. I seem to recall losing my shoes on a vaporetto during one of our more reckless nights. If you find them, please let me know! I love them most dearly!

I was heartily listening to a vinyl recording of Mr. Johann Sebastian Bach with my trusty manservant Sordo, when he, the latter that is, notified me of the imminent arrival of the postman, promptly stood up and left the room. I so wanted him to hear the final passages, but as the recording was of the “stereo” variety, he could scarcely comprehend, let alone appreciate, its full glory. Poor bastard.

Before leaving, however, he even revealed that in the postman’s satchel was your reply to my urgent telegram below. I can not say for sure how he does it, Boyling, as I with my two ears could not even hear the man approach, and so I am left to assume that the cause and method employed by Sordo deals somehow with an elevation of his olfactory senses. You carve your calligraphy only on your own particular blend of scented silk paper, after all. Almonds, nectarines and patchouli, is it?

You are scheduled to arrive here in Venice tomorrow, wherefore to my great dismay and yours, too, you will not have an opportunity to glance at this epistle until after your return to the North, but your letter left in me such a tumultuous orgy of emotions and I am also so very glad to see you again so soon, that I could not hesitate to tell you so any longer. I have even, you will note, chosen to forgo this afternoon’s cricket game against the locals.

First of all, thank you very much for your swift response. Your anecdote and advice were much appreciated and my whiskers practically radiate a sense of joy with all the attention that I have since paid them.

Also, I would like to assure you that the predicament at Ca’ Ponkelino, of which I spoke to you on the telephone before, has resolved itself. As you already know, I perceived that I was to spend this Christmas on my own in my palazzo, as the indigenous specimen I keep on the grounds had established plans of a sort to ferment with their relatives in various villages, secreted every here and there along the Italian boot “like salmon stains on a cobblestone path,” like Monty used to phrase it as elegantly as managed only he. However, one male specimen remained after a quarrel with his better half, who subsequently left for her hometown on her own, and I did not have the heart to send him out into the cold. In any event, it transpired that the chap had gone thoroughly bonkers, venting his frustrations at pieces of furniture, the vegetable stand at the local market and his missus, in her absence. However, I am inclined to add, though I was unable to go about my business in my own particular way (cooking for myself naked in the vast emptiness of the kitchen and so forth) this Christmas was not without a certain aspect of novelty and curiosum. In fact, it has been a quite memorable and amicable experience, a point I shall seek to elaborate on upon your arrival.

Oh, how I look forward to guiding you through the joys and hazards of this pulchritudinous and cosmopolitan conurbation.

A presto, dear friend.

Toodle-pip,

Ponkleton

I received your telegram just as I was about to nibble on another one of my exquisite afternoon biscuits (or exquiscuits, as I like to call them), but your request gave me no other choice but to ask Cieco to serve them to the hounds. If there ever was a man who knows the importance of a man’s whiskers, it is I, so I will gladly attempt to help you any way I can.

Just like most gentlemen in this country, I spent the first years of adulthood mending my fine hairs with regretfully rudimentary shaving equipment at home. It took years until I found a reasonable barber to do the work for me, which as you well know caused quite a sensation at Monty’s party that year! But that was entirely due to the splendid and precise hand of the late Albertoni, barber. You might recall he died in a very unfortunate shaving accident, the one with the high-speed motorbike, cream tabby exotic and pair of left-hand scissors on the cliffs of Napoli (dreadful business, that). I was utterly crushed when I heard of his demise, as I knew it could very well mean the ruin of my (and my moustache’s) flawless reputation. For days I remained indoors and hid my whiskers from the public. But a modest, and highly implausible, proposal from the Dalai Lama quickly rejuvenated me, so I packed my bags and moved to Tibet to learn the true art of shaving from the Buddhist monks.

I entered the temple a young and naïve man, convinced that I knew the ways and hazards of the world, but it only took me moments to realize that there are places a gentleman’s mind cannot possibly reach unless he fully opens himself to the will and spirit of his moustache. For several months I sat in meditation, listening carefully to whatever I could grasp from the depths of my moustache chakra. And on the seventh day of the seventh month, sitting in deep meditation beneath a fig tree, I finally understood the very meaning of life, the universe and the art of maintaining one’s proudest hairs. To my regret, I somehow managed to forget the first two insights, but I do have a small memory of it somehow involving a smallish blue-coloured rodent inside a pot of jam…

Anyhow, I returned to England a changed man, not only knowledgeable in the culture of Tibet and various martial arts, but I had also become a guru, learned in the ways of how to achieve full moustache potential. It’s quite simple, really. Just use a nice pair of scissors, some decent organic wax and a large dose of patience. With good faith, you’ll have a moustache right under your nose before you even know it!

Good luck and kah-leh phe,

Boyling