Moved!

This site has moved to...

www.gentlemensrelish.wordpress.com

...as it looks nicer, and hopefully it might get a little more traffic.

To be honest, just some traffic would be nice.

the name has changed to avoid a clash with a band with the same name, but I've since found that Gentlemen's Relish clashes with a Billy Connolly film from 2001, an ancient condiment, as well as apparently being Victorian slang for sperm - so not exactly a success on that front.

Editorial / Debate of the Day

The Gentlemen's Club Editorial

by Harold Brandlemash.

Fortitude. Perseverance. Dignity. Three words said by my headmaster at Charterhouse when welcoming new boys to the school. He said, in a sage like manner, that these were three qualities all boys should aspire to have. It was later discovered that on the day of his first speech to the new boys he was stuck for inspiration and merely used the first three clues from that morning’s Times crossword. He tried a similar speech when welcoming back the sixth-formers the following day, but foolhardily using the new morning’s crossword. When two hundred 16 & 17 year-old are welcomed back and told by their headmaster that he expects them to show signs of (1 across) Insolence (2 down) Promiscuity and (3 across) A Tropical Disease over the coming year then they are often confused.

He had a thing about crosswords did old Mr. Herbert. He used to say life was like a crossword. Some blanks would get filled as time went by. Others might not. Some might get filled in, but may not be what one thought they should be. And of course it had it’s downs. He never really thought of anything to compare ‘across’ to – which drove him round the twist. He did think of something on his last day as a teacher there. I remember him shouting “Look boys, I know the analogy for across”, with a big beaming smile on his face as he leapt from the top of the belfry.

Unlike other schools such as Gordonstoun that believe that suffering and austerity breed character, the philosophy at Charterhouse was far more cruel. The founders noticed how one can adapt to total hardship, so they installed a regime where things were not unbearable, but are still not quite as nice as one would like them to be. A day typical would start at just before half eight, when we were woken by matron tweaking our ears. We then had to take a luke-warm shower before the 200 yard run to the breakfast room. A delicious full cooked breakfast was cooked but only one item of cutlery was allowed per boy. One rascal of a boy once bought in a spare fork and was severely punished – being given two lashes of the came across the soles of his shoes.

But those wise words from Mr Herbert have definitely put me in good stead. For now I am able to share the ideals of fortitude, perseverance and dignity through the pages of this fine magazine, for it would never have got started had I not had those three qualities. Obviously, my father being a publishing magnate helps, but let’s just be thankful that I was not a sixth-former when I first heard Mr Herbert speak, or the Gentlemen’s Club could have a rather different membership.


Debate of the Day

Welcome gentlemen, to a new feature in Gentlemen’s Club where we will endeavour to enter the intoxicating word of intellectual debate. Each month we will gather two of today’s best academic minds and thrash out one the issues of our modern society. Today we feature the burning topic of the possibility of women being given the right to vote sometime in the not too distant future.

I have with me today Mr. Archibald Wickford, emeritus professor of social history at Kings College, Cambridge and Lord Pembroke Q.C., one of the countries leading experts in societal law. Lord Pembroke, if I could start with you. Do you believe women should be given the vote?

Lord Pembroke: No.

And you professor?

Prof. Wickford: I totally agree.

Well there you have it*. Next month, should we abolish hanging - and bring in something
nastier instead.

* Some of our more liberal readers may feel this debate may have been better served had we invited a female into the discussion. We did consider this, but the rules of the Gentlemen’s Club implicitly state no woman shall be granted admittance. To compensate we allowed an embroidered cushion to state the female viewpoint. Sadly the cushion failed to contribute to the discussion at any time during the proceedings.



A thought for the Christmas season
(sponsored by Coatbridge Furnishings of Mayfair)

At this time of year it is natural for a gentleman to think of his family and the joyful times ahead. But for a moment let’s think outside of these comforting confines. Outside even our own shores, where others may not be so fortunate. I speak of our colonial cousins. I have traveled to India where some villages suffer poverty so abject that they make the slums of the East End look only a bit horrid. On seeing such poverty one cannot help but wonder if there is anything one could do. Well, there is. A charity has been set up just to help these poor people. If you were to contribute £2 to the fund then an entire village would be able to have running water, a teacher and agricultural aid to last a whole year. I know £2 is a lot of money but what else of such value could you buy with £2?

Well one thing would be.....

.....this superb luxury armchair from Coatbridge Furnishings.

It’s got arms
It’s got legs
It’s got comfy cushions
It’s got splendid looks
And above all, it’s hasn’t got room for anyone else, so you can enjoy it unfettered by others.

Only £2 from Coatbridge Furnishings of Mayfair.

Journal

Journal

I was walking through the park the other day, minding my own business, when this dog jumped up and bit me. I don't why. It's not as if I'd ever done anything to annoy it. I hadn't bitten it first or anything. I hardly ever bite animals.

It failed to ruin my mood for a dinner party later that evening though. Luckily there was a servant there who was able to ruin it properly for me. The waiter was offering canapés with what looked like a fishy topping.

"Smoked salmon Sir?" he asked.

"No." I replied. "I've never smoked salmon". That angered me. Do I look like the kind of man who goes around smoking aquatic life forms? I don't think smoking's good for you. Cigarettes killed my uncle Charlie. A crate of them fell off a shelf and broke his neck down at the docks.

Uncle Charlie spent almost all of his adult life down at the docks, on account of the fact that he could never remember where he lived. It was a condition exacerbated, some may say, if they were given to using such a word, by the fact that his wife couldn't stand him and would frequently move house in an effort to confuse him further. At one stage Aunt Maude was moving house at a rate of four times a week. It's a tragic tale.

But not as harrowing as the tale of Great Aunt Agnes and Great Uncle Hubert. They wanted a baby you see. They had been married for years and God had never seen fit to bless them with a child. Then, a whole thirty four years into their marriage, the much waited for happy day came and she gave birth to a daughter. And she was horrible.

Not like Lady Emily who I met at the huntsmen's ball. She was a lovely girl. She made me feel very chivalrous.

She was the kind of girl for whom if her clothes were to ignite I'd gladly beat out the flames with my bare hands, and I told her so. In fact I offered to set fire to her dress just so I could prove the very point, but she didn't seem keen, much to my chagrin. I followed her for weeks, playfully flicking lit matches at her undergarments as she played along, coquettishly screaming and fleeing in apparent terror. The problem with women is that they are unpredictable and hard to train - unlike animals. If I'd been given the chance to train that dog in the park he wouldn't have bitten me, I'd have trained him to bite somebody else.

You'd be amazed at what you can train animals to do. Many mortals have trained dogs to fetch the newspaper. Mine is so well trained that he not only goes out and buys it himself from the newsagent, but he also selects any other periodicals that may be of interest to me while he is there.

And it's not just in the domestic field that trained animals are useful. An entire coal-face of a pit in Barnsley is solely mined by well-trained pigeons, who may be slow but only need feeding a few bread crumbs each day.

My own pioneering work, where I trained an otherwise ill-disciplined bunch of red squirrels to run the entire Chiswick postal sorting office, has sadly come to an embarrassing end due to the entire workforce deciding to hibernate just before the busiest time of the year. Can’t win ‘em all eh?

The Taming of Kilimanjaro

The Taming of Kilimanjaro

February 19th 1896, Day 37

Supper was tense at base camp today. We have to decide whether we were going to continue our planned route to the summit or have a go at a direct assault on the North face. One of the native guides had suggested the North face alternative as a quicker route, but it was to be far more dangerous as I was to discover yesterday when I lead an advance party for preliminary reconnaissance.

The ground was much more rocky and steep. Very early on I was able to sense that this climb could be to tough for some of the weaker, less British members of the party. The loose soil was treacherous and getting a good footing was so difficult that at one stage I was nearly tipped out of my sedan chair. Hedges, my manservant, was finding his brogues to be of little use on this surface and he began to slither towards some jagged rocks. But by a stroke of luck one of those damn gallant native chappies blocked his path and was sent to a gruesome death instead. It was then that I noticed that not only was this native chap our guide - he had many of our provisions with him. This was very serious. Not only would we need to find our own trail back without a guide, we were also right out of claret.

I noted the position of the sun in the sky and realised that night, with all it’s bitter cold and other dangers, would be upon us in less than four hours. We began our precarious descent. We prayed for good fortune and, a gruelling twenty minutes later, we had covered the few hundred yards back to base camp, just in time for afternoon tea.

We are falling behind schedule. “Time is of the essence. We must not waste a second”. This was the message I tried to get to through to the rest of the party during afternoon cricket. After port and cigars we decided to abandon the North face option and proceed with plan A.

Another guide had said that some of the locals like to climb the rocks and they have created all kinds of wondrous implements that can be struck into rock to give a firm footing, or even for tying ropes or vines to which will allow vertical climbing. I rejected this heresy outright. Charles Darwin may think that man descended from the apes, but surely even he would admit that we have evolved so we no longer have to climb like them. No I say.

You may recall that on leaving England I promised Queen Victoria that not only would I scale this giant peak, I would claim my trail in the name of England and it will be fit for the Queen.

That is why I intend to scale Kilimanjaro by cutting steps out of the very rock itself. I, of course, do none of the labouring work myself. I am of more value doing behind the scenes work such as shooting any big game in the area, or writing this diary after luncheon. I have numerous coarse fellows to do that work for me. Some are natives, but I also was allowed to acquire several others on temporary release from Newgate Prison - they came as part of an attractively priced package which also allowed me use of Mr Figgers and Mr Black, who were in charge of discipline at the prison. But even with Messrs Figgers & Black motivating the workers with whips, progress is slow.

The steps themselves are coming along quite nicely but we are losing time on the banisters. We may regain some time once work on the ornamental balustrade at the start of the staircase is complete, but we are already experiencing hold-ups in trying to fit the carpet.

Whenever the good lady wife and I stroll out along the 93 yards so far completed, I try to imagine how it will look when the other eight miles is finished. It will be a lasting monument to the perseverance of the ruling classes, and I often think in a hundred year’s time how glad the world will be that Kenya is British.

To-morrow.....how I plan to be the first Englishman on the moon, using an ingenious series of pulleys and levers.

Dr Grenble's Medical Curiosities

Dr Genble’s Medical Curiosities

Dear Dr Grenble,

my son has recently been complaining of toothache. I called out the local dentist but he merely administered a creosote tincture and charged me a whole shilling! I was wondering if you had a remedy for this ailment that I could administer myself.

J.F. Witherington, Dorset

The Doctor replies : indeed I so Sir, and what is more it seems to be a long lasting cure. About two years ago my seven year old son complained bitterly of the pain a cavity was causing him. I seized the red hot poker from the fireplace and immediately began to cauterise the wound. Such an action may sound harsh, but in fact so comforting was this that after a brief few seconds of violent spasms he drifted into a peaceful comatose state next to the coal scuttle. And what is more, he has never complained of toothache since.

Dear Dr Grenble,

my wife suffers from terrible stress and seems constantly nervous and depressed. I’ve tried to beat the depression out of her but with no avail. Any ideas? I wrote to you once before and you suggested using common opium as a sedative. At first it appeared to work but now, apart from a few hours when she seems blissfully happy, she just becomes agitated again no matter how much I increase the dosage.

S.R. Penfold, Greenwich

The Doctor Replies : I sympathise Mr Penfold. It must be terrible to have your wife like this. I have taken the liberty of discussing this case with my colleagues to gather opinion on what to suggest. After much reasoned thought we suggest that you take a mistress. I’m sure you won’t regret it. Believe me, after a few weeks in the company of a younger woman you won’t even notice your wife’s ailments.

Dear Dr Grenble,

I have a, no, I have a friend, yes a friend, who has a problem. I wonder if you give me some advice, no him some advice, no give me some advice to give to him. He has, I don’t know how to put this, recently been receiving comfort from a lady who lives above one of the taverns by the docks. Although it’s obviously a complete coincidence, since about that time he has developed an unusual kind of rash, apparently, I don’t know how unusual of course not having seen it myself. This rash is on his, well obviously I don’t know where again not having seen it myself and I wouldn’t tell anyone where it was. And nor would he obviously, because he hasn’t told me where it is. And I don’t know where because he’s got it not me.

K Smith, Kensington, no not Kensington, Harrow

The Doctor replies : I can give you advice on this delicate matter, to give to your friend of course. I suggest you, or he obviously, go to your, or his, nearest hardware store and buys the coarsest sandpaper you, or he, can find. I would then suggest that you, or he, rub the effected area vigorously with the sandpaper for at least 10 minutes. When I say you or he rub, I obviously mean yourselves, not each other, although obviously it’s just him that would need to rub with the sandpaper, himbeing the one that is ill, not you. This will not necessarily cure the rash, but it will stop you, sorry him, from catching it again in a hurry.

Dear Dr Grenble,

I was wondering if you could give me some details on the causes and cures for rickets. My eldest, Jeremy, is otherwise a wonderfully lively fourteen year old and a keen player of this new fad of football. Sadly, having rickets and being a goalkeeper are not an ideal combination and poor Jeremy does worry that his condition will effect his chances of ever playing for his heroes, the Old Etonians.

P. Solby, Hackney

The Doctor replies : first let me assure you that having rickets will make no difference to your son’s chances of playing for the Old Etonians. Coming from Hackney there is no chance of your son ever being accepted into Eton, so there is equally no chance of him making the old boy’s XI with or without rickets. I hope that will put his mind at rest. But rickets are a serious issue effecting society today. Some people suggest that this condition may be caused by lack of sunlight. What nonsense. They are just too wishy-washy liberal to accept the real truth.

Rickets are caused by unemployment. When I do my rounds it becomes all too obvious that rickets children tend to come from the poorest families, normally those with parents claiming to be too ill, or just unable to work. It’s not good enough. If they weren’t such malingerers they’d all be able to find work. Such people come to me complaining that they’ve had limbs cut off in accidents with machinery. Malingerers! That’s all they are.

One came to me saying he’d lost the lower half of his right arm up at the mill. What rubbish. You can lose your spectacles, some small change or even your pocket watch, but lose your arm - it’s ridiculous. He waved what, admittedly, did look like only half an arm at me but I repeated “You can’t lose your arm - it’s attached to your body and won’t come off however hard you tug, and so it certainly can’t come off accidentally without you knowing it “ That got him. He changed his story, now claiming that the machine had cut it off. Lost one minute, cut off the next, I ask you? Did he think I was born yesterday? I threw him out onto the street.

That’s not the worst of it. I was called the other day to call on Mr Hegson at the workhouse. He was having trouble with one of the work-shy lazy malingerers who appeared to think he did not need to carry out rock-breaking tasks in order to earn his daily gruel and lodgings. This wretched fellow had the pallid complexion of the lazy and just lay still onthe floor while poor Mr Hegson shouted at him to work. He hadn’t moved for three days apparently. Even the cat-o-nine tails wasn’t enough to stir this turgid soul into action. This man was so lazy that he couldn’t even be bothered to bleed while being whipped.

Later, another doctor came to the scene and pronounced the man dead. Typical – the lengths some people will go to to avoid work.

So back to rickets. Do I have a cure? No. But warming the bones to make them softer then hitting them with mallets, rather like an ironmonger working steel may help. On the bright side the enforced shorter posture could make him suited for working in the cramped mines around the country. That’s all. Next week I will tell you my ideas on how chest infections can be helped by the warming action of inhaling cigar smoke.

Doctor’s note: I have to make it clear that although I am prepared to make personal replies to those of you who wish for your ailments to be remain private (such as F.R. Jackson of Oxford with his hideous downstairs troubles) I do require the usual fee and an SAE.

Addendum: young Mary-Anne of Richmond, the above does not apply to you as I know your financial situation. I can assure you those growths are quite normal, but yes, perhaps it would be wise for you to keep sending the photographs and I’ll pay the postage.

Today's England

Today’s England

As we rush headlong into the 20th century sometimes I feel we should ask ourselves if we can really call ours a modern country. In the north of England there are people working and living in conditions an Englishman wouldn’t wish upon the French. I decided to travel to Blackburn in Lancashire to see for myself.

Upon arrival I made my towards the nearest mill which was turning out its workforce for the evening. Many of these workers were making their way straight from the gates to the door of the hostelry across the road. I decided that this would be the best place to start my enquiries.

I thought I was prepared for what I may have heard, but I was shocked as soon as they spoke. Such is their deprivation that they know nothing of elocution. It took several minutes to realise they were even speaking English. Some were becoming uneasy. My helpful correcting of their pronunciation was for some strange reason not appreciated.

Despite my station as Chairman of the Wealdstone Temperance Society, I knew that if I was to gain their trust I’d have to join them in quaffing equal quantities of the beverage known in these parts as ‘Bitter’. As I drank with them they told me various tales of the working practices at the mill. I locked these away in my mind ready to challenge the mill owner later. Strange as it may seem, as I drank and the evening wore on, I began to regard these uncouth ruffians with unfamiliar affection.

After a mere five hours of drinking with some complete strangers I felt oddly moved enough to embrace one of them around the neck and publicly declare that he was ‘my best chum ever’ (no hard feelings Charlie).

But enough of this revelry. It was time to confront the mill owner. He must have been warned of my approach as he seemed to employ some amazing device which made the very ground itself move beneath my feet and I fell several times. His front door also made use of a bizarre conjuring trick whereby the brass knocker appeared as a double image which moved around before my eyes.

Then it became really shocking. A force unseen to me, a henchman with a cosh no doubt, rendered me unconscious and I awoke to find myself in a police cell under the trumped-up charge of being drunk and disorderly. It just goes to show that for those rich enough to have friends in high places, corruption knows no limits.

The Letters of Gentlemen

Dear GC,

I was recently at the country home of Sir Enborne ‘blaster’ Smythe, a gentleman no doubt well known to many readers of GC, especially those who enjoy the odd spot of shooting or those with a ‘nose’ for a good brandy.

While enjoying the most wonderful sport bagging a few of ‘blaster’s renowned grouse I observed the man himself put away an entire decanter of the finest V.S.O.P. as if it were sherry. As I stood silently amazed at his fortitude and strength of character, ‘blaster’ ran across the field with a remarkable weaving motion giving anything that moved a rousing hello with both barrels of his new 12-bore. What a jolly fine chap he is, he even managed to wound me just below the knee, though even as I fell down into a pool of my own blood it was all I could do not to roar with laughter.

A day to remember, especially as I managed to bag several grouse. This however pales into insignificance against ‘blaster’s marvellous tally: 2 grouse, 3 pheasants, Rover (a damn fine gun-dog), 4 cows, 18 sheep and old Rodgers the gamekeeper who unfortunately took one in the lower torso.

Keep up the good work (and that’s an order you blighters!)

General Sir ‘Alfie’ Mainwaring-Barton

(retired)

Dear GC,

(Content of this letter has been censored)

Yours, worried of Gloucester

Editor’s reply: I can assure you my dear fellow that the sickening rumours you have heard are not true. Children are a blessing from God to married couples. I should know - I have three healthy children myself and I have certainly never done any of those things with my good lady wife. I do have some experience of the vile and beastly acts of which you speak. During my time with the navy we were required to commit a necessary amount of indecency with the fallen women who frequented the docks - apparently it was a very effective form of aversion therapy for them. It never ceased to amaze me how satisfying helping others can be.

Dear GC,

I never believed that the more risqué letters to your publication were true until an event happened that changed my entire life. During an invigorating debate on the benefits of hanging for the non-payers of window tax at my local hostelry, I began to converse with a fine looking lady who had the unusual gift of being able to speak without embarrassing herself or her companions. After a long courtship we married and now, only three years later, she occasionally allows me to glimpse her in her night clothes. I will keep you posted for any further developments

(Name withheld by request)

Editor’s reply. May I remind our readers that although this is a publication for adult gentlemen, we do have standards of decency to maintain. Had this letter not been written by an old teacher of mine I would have had no hesitation in sending it straight to the police, and I certainly wouldn’t have upheld the request from old Mr. Crawford to protect his identity.