Being an Account of how a Gentleman may spend his Days, for the Edification of the Troglodytic Classes
Monday
I take a hansom cab to Westminster. On arrival, I tap the driver on the shoulder with my cane and tip him handsomely with half a shilling pence piece. The fellow utters Cockney imprecations. I retort that he is an “impudent farthing grubber” but he does not recognize the Dryden quote.
Tuesday
I employ an urchin to lick filth from the heels of my shoes – scrapers do corrode the sole, don’t you feel? – but he is taken unwell. Brought on by poor diet and ill attention to scripture, no doubt. When will the lower orders take responsibility for their health? We cannot nanny them forever. My nanny agrees.
Wednesday
I plan to assemble a team of amateur cracksmen from my cricket club and stage a robbery of gold ingots from the Treasury. It will be quite the caper. I do it not out of greed, you understand, for I do not need the money, but purely for the sport; this sets me apart, morally, from the common thief and his base desperation for food.
Thursday
Word of my plan to rob the treasury is out; it turns out a moralistic constable saw the announcement I had placed in the Times. A stormy inquest into the endeavour is set to take place in parliament today. I have a word with the Duke who agrees to muzzle the overenthusiastic Peelers until the fuss blows over.
Friday
Brexit must be delivered; it sticks in my craw that we are but the serfs of pinstriped Belgians. We are lower than Tintin’s dog. Better for the English people to die in ditches, no longer cosseted by the NHS perishing to a range of bracing mediaeval diseases – the pox, the croup, various agues – than we endure this stultifying langour a moment longer.
