To: Lord Boyling
From: Lord Ponkleton
Message:
back in venice STOP urgent question regarding whiskers STOP require answer asap STOP which shaving strategy do you employ and why STOP will explain relevance when you come here for new year’s STOP happy christmas STOP no more space and have to STOP
What-ho, Boyling!
First of all, I apologise for the tardiness of my reply. Alas, I have been rather preoccupied at the university, where I’ve taken it upon myself to enlighten some of the natives with my talent and savoir faire. Despite the immense pleasure I take in teaching at the academia, it has proven to be quite time consuming, wherefore I have had all but ample opportunity to engage in personal correspondence.You were right, the exploits of your cousin Morris and his intervention in the affairs of that nasty lump of a man, Humphrey Mabbit, reached even the Italian journals and I have, on my front, been reading all about that sordid business with great delight. I’m very happy for you, Boyling. Thank Heavens you managed to pry Cieco from that ruffian’s bony digits to have all to yourself.
Oh, and you mentioned Morocco… Indeed, if I ever stood a chance at a political career, that chance was certainly whisked away in that Moroccan office like a layer of dust from a bust of ol’ Roddy by the grime defying hands of Tacito. You wanted to know how I got out of that predicament. Well, let’s just say our olden days with the ‘Dragon’s Loins Theatre Company’ came in handy when the authorities demanded an explanation from me, and that should I ever choose to return to Morocco, then I will be forced to do so under a different assumed name than the one I was travelling under at the time. Speaking of Oxford, my recent trip there was marvellous and on more than one occasion brought a twinkle of nostalgia to mine eyes. I had dinner and a few pints at Tolkien’s and our old watering hole, The Eagle and Child, and rounded off the evening with another few pints at our usual table at the Grapes’ Pub!
When I dashed off to London the very next day to meet with Lord Richard, I was treated to even more nostalgic revelry. We literally painted the West End red. To such an extent, in fact, that the value of red paint reached an all-time high on the market the following morning. Richard is doing well for himself, I must say, and I look forward to being able to tell you more about his imminent career in political analysis in future epistolary updates.
Tomorrow, I will be doing some more travelling. That’s right, old bean, I’m making a short stopover in Stockholm to meet with family and friends. Should you be in the vicinity, I would greatly enjoy meeting you for food, drink and a chat about life’s splendour. Telegraph me about the chances of such an encounter being realised.Lastly, I fear you may have been right about the whole “New World issue”. I’m not entirely sure what’s going on, to be frank, but I certainly hope that you’re more fortunate in that regard than I am.
This is where I stop for now. Hopefully, we can continue this conversation in person sometime in the next few days.
Be well, old friend. Carpe Diem and all that stuff.
Toodle-pip,
Ponkleton
Ponkleton, dear friend
Thank you for your swift reply. I see your sense of urgency and your compassionate inclinations haven’t escaped you, even though one might at first glance think otherwise, as you give strangers the evil eye and, while intoxicated, mock the poor in the streets. Perhaps there is still hope for your political career, in spite of that ghastly incident in Morocco, which by all means should have made that an absolute improbability (how did you get out of that authority pickle, by the way?).
Anyhow, as soon as I read your previous letter, I instantly sent a telegram to London to request a correspondence with Cieco. Unfortunately, to my outmost distress, it came to light that he was in fact already employed by none other than my old rival! Yes, you remember him – Humphrey Mabbitt! It’s funny you should mention Oxford, because you might just recall how Humphrey and his pack of distasteful hoodlums used to pester our student days, what with their tasteless remarks and tomfoolery. I almost thought I had gotten rid of him for good by now. After all, having enlisted him in the navy, seeing his frigate leave for India and setting him up as the mastermind behind a full-blown mutiny, one could at least hope he’d have the decency to stay off the British Isles. But no, not Humphrey!
So even though I could have given up on ever hiring Cieco at that point, the mere thought of agitating old Humphrey only further encouraged me! I picked up my telephone and gave my dear cousin Morris a ring. As you know, there is no one better than Morris when it comes to dealing with problems of this nature and after a few persuasive – and decidedly empty – promises on my behalf, he issued a plan that was very much to my liking.
Now, I could ramble for several pages about what you have already read in the papers – for instance, just how Morris managed to swap Mrs. Mabbitt with a poodle – but I am certain that my account of the events would only belittle the achievement of my dear cousin. Anyhow, long story short, Cieco is now under my employment and my old butler, rest assured, is long gone. And I say, Ponkleton, the man is remarkable! Even though he has a significantly reduced field of vision, he can spot a loose button from across the garden. I have never seen anything quite like it!
I would love to write more to you, but the weather is dreadfully fine today so I feel it is my obligation to go and have a stroll in the park. I hope all is well with you, dear friend, and that your visit to Oxford was a particularly pleasing one. Tell me all about it!
Sincerely insincere,
Boyling
Ahoy there, Boyling!
It is I, Ponkleton. I read your letter only moments ago and it manifested in me such a flood of sympathy for your plight that I could not put off replying to it even until I’ll have returned from this afternoon’s cricket game. That’s right, I’m giving the natives a run for their money.
You want for a trusty butler, ey? Fret not, for I have just the chap for you, but before I tell you about him, I shall tell you how I know of him and how I went about procuring a sturdy adjutant for myself here in Venice.
When I settled into Ca’Ponkelino I was in the presence of, though not aided by, my then butler, Furbo. Oh, what a dreadful individual he was, Boyling, not to mention a few slices short of a plum cake. He couldn’t have been less inclined to lift even a finger to my benefit, had someone cut off his hands! So as soon as I had carried myself up the stairs to my study – Imagine the disgrace! – I planted myself behind my desk and wrote an urgent letter to a Venetian contact of mine. Within two days, Furbo was no longer eating my food, neglecting the silverware or even consorting with known harlots on the premises. Instead, I am now aided by the most trustworthy and helpful butler on this wonderful island. His name is Sordo and I’m sure you’ll be flabbergasted to hear that he is a brother of ol’ Tacito, Roddy’s toungeless butler! Like his brother, Sordo is always ready to extend a helping hand, always takes initiative when required and leaves it up to me instead when it is not. He’s missing his right ear, but then again nobody’s perfect, and despite this minor asymmetry, I couldn’t be more pleased with him.
And so we come to your predicament, Boyling. As you may recall, Tacito comes from a long and proud line of butlers. He was the oldest of three brothers, and Roderick picked him solely for his lack of a tounge and consequential inability to talk back at him. Now, of the two younger twin brothers, I chose Sordo as he came highly recommended, but also because he happened to still be living in the vicinity. Sordo’s twin, Cieco, however, (who’s missing an eyeball, if I’m not mistaken) is in your neck of the woods. If I were you, I would see if perhaps he’s available, for despite his ocular handicap, he is most accurate in his work.
On a different note, you mentioned your shock at hearing about my consorting with an “americana”. I know exactly how you feel, Boyling. The way they wage war against, and debauch, our beautiful phonology, I could scarcely imagine ever developing even the ability, let alone the inclination, to forgive them, but I feel this may be the wrong forum to relay my feelings on the subject to you in. Let’s leave that until our next opportunity to use that telephonic apparatus again. Suffice to say, this specimen has her benefits, despite her linguistic heritage.
Oh, and I spoke to Lord Jamés today. He’s doing fine, though apparently Bosie has been sending him sonnets lately. Also, he told me, and I quote, that “his food intake doesn’t even account for half of his **** output”. No, no, Jamés hasn’t changed at all. I’m going to Oxford tomorrow morning for a stroll on the ol’ campus, and to London the day after to meet with Jamés’ brother, Lord Richard, among others. I shall be sure to tell you all about it when I get back.
By then, I hope you’ll have managed to resolve your situation. I certainly hope the abovementioned anecdote and advice are helpful.
Either way, be well, Boyling!
Toodle-pip
/Ponkleton
Ponkleton, you reckless buffoon!
How good it is to see your wonderful, albeit juvenile, handwriting again! In fact, I was just thinking of you the other day, and now I sit here with your letter in my hand! How odd! But let’s not contemplate the remarkable twists and turns of fate, for I see you direct a rather interesting question at me. Modern art, you say. Well, as you know, I am quite familiar with the subject, but I’m afraid that I must agree with you: the objects these so-called contemporary or “modern” artists present these days are utterly dull and uninspiring. It’s as if they don’t even care to hone their skills anymore, but sink to only wake such predictable responses as shock and aggravation. In fact, I’m yawning here just thinking about it!
As for why unattractive people may procreate. Well, let’s just say that I’m a firm believer that the only exception to
But on a much happier note, I must tell you of my own escapades! It turns out that the cultural life here in this seemingly peaceful part of the country absolutely bubbles in terms of musical and theatrical events! I suspect this is due to its proximity to the continent, for why else would these renowned musicians and thespians bless this place with their presence? Surely not the weather! Just the other day, as I walked out of a bookshop, I almost drowned as a horizontal gush of rain struck me. Luckily I had brought my old trusted umbrella, so the Grim Reaper will have to wait a moment longer! But you must understand that this awful weather makes it particularly pleasant to sit indoors in a comfortable seat watching a magnificent piece of drama.
Anyhow, it’s great to hear that you haven’t lost your libido, but American! You jest! Imagine the legendary Lord Ponkleton fraternising with a woman from across the sea! I guess the French blood makes it forgivable, but still, it is rather unnerving! Personally, I am quite occupied with an astonishing English woman, who just so happens to be both cultured and dignified. I know, it sounds very unlike me, but I suppose that since moving here I have perhaps grown and matured a bit. I find our many visits to the various coffee houses here in the city surprisingly pleasant, and our literary discussions are very fulfilling. But perhaps it’s just the season. Autumns do tend to calm you down, wouldn’t you say, ol’ chap? I remember your own darker days, when you spent weeks upon weeks indoors, painting nothing but dark and sombre paintings in the studio. But lighten up! I’m positive that come summer time, we will both be an endangerment to the female sex again. Even the boldest and burliest of bears must hibernate at one point!
Oh, how I ramble! But it is good to hear from you! I am glad that you have settled so well, and that you’ve found a place to reside in. I myself have found an adequate residence, but it is awfully difficult to find some proper servants in these parts! How is
Now I hear that he’s broken one of mother’s old vases whilst attempting to clean the place with his ham fists. I must be off to minimise the damage.
Toodles,
Lord Boyling
What ho, Lord Boyling!
Ponkleton here – that’s right, the one and only! Let’s dispense with the obligatory pleasantries first, shall we? Thus, I hope this letter finds you in good health and enjoying life in all its glory. On a less effeminate note, I might add that I hope you haven’t lost your way with the Ladies and that – since I saw you last – you haven’t managed to produce a menagerie of illegitimate offspring who might come to haunt you in your elder days when you’re busy competing in bridge tournaments and have better things to waste your money on than them… Right, that ought to be enough of that for now.
Boyling, the vita certainly is rather dolce over here. Having arduously and nearly interminably toiled under the strict rule of ol’ Roddy, Venice was a sight for my sore eyes, and I immediately immersed myself in the local culture. This is after all where the legendary Casanova was spawned to frolic to his loins’ content.
My plans of quantity over quality underwent a drastic revision, however, in that, having probed the depths of a female journalist from Norway approximately one week into my stay here, I soon encountered a young noblewoman from the New World, though of French descent, who’s been sweeping me off my feet ever since, or has it been the other way around, I’m confused…
In any event, the nights are full of laughter and Spritz, and the days are no different. Immediately preceding the aforementioned Scandinavian conquest, I had established myself in what is now Ca’ Ponkelino, the Ponk Plaza of Italy, where I have also accommodated some of the more interesting and sympathetic indigenous specimens for linguistic practice and easy access to their opium. I have, however, taken the edifying tour and paid a visit to the Biennale as well. Let me tell you, it’s well worth one’s time to go there! Never in my life have I encountered such a mesmerising and dazzling potpourri of wondrous artistic genius and complete and utter twaddle.
While the French pavilion, for example, lifted me up from the gutters of modern day banalities to appreciate the heights and mounds of creative excellence, there were others that made me wonder what manner of devilry, malignancy or addiction could have brought about their existence in the first place. But who am I to criticise modern art, when I can scarcely claim to grasp even the fundamental concept that signifies what most would identify as a pile of garbage (for that was what I witnessed in one pavilion) as something worthy of my attention… What is your opinion on the subject, Boyling? When is “modern art” more “art” and less “modern”? Is beauty truly in the eye of the beholder? And is that perchance the reason why unattractive people may still have someone to hold hands with?
At this juncture I leave you for now. The Lady awaits and I must pursue my duties as a gentleman and have someone ready my gondola.
A presto, dear friend, and be well.
Felicitous regards,
Lord L.T. Ponkleton