A Wodehouse Restorative
Well. At least that’s over. Yeah, I’m a humbug. I freely admit to feeling insufferably meh about this entire season, starting from the first signs of it (getting earlier and earlier every year) to the last, frenzied, materialistic hurrah! I feel like I have been assaulted through my eyes and ears enough already and I am delighted that it is now officially over and I can get back to simply surviving the darkness, cold, and dirty snow of winter. I am, however, feeling the need for a restorative. And nothing is more bracing than the antics of upper-class English nitwits. Let’s call it A Wodehouse Restorative.
A slight throbbing about the temples told me that this discussion had reached saturation point.
Am taking legal advice to ascertain whether strangling an idiot nephew counts as murder. If it doesn’t look out for yourself. Consider your conduct frozen limit. What do you mean by planting your loathsome friends on me like t his? Do you think Brinkley Court is a leper colony or what is it? Who is this Spink-Bottle? Love. Traver.
It’s only about once in a lifetime that anything sensational ever happens to one, and when it does, you don’t want people taking all the colour out of it. I remember at school having to read that stuff where that chap, Othello, tells the girl what a hell of a time he’d been having among the cannibals and what not. Well, imagine his feelings if, after he had described some particularly sticky passage with a cannibal chief and was waiting for the awestruck “Oh-h!Not really” ?, she had said that the whole thing had no doubt been greatly exaggerated and that the man had probably really been a prominent local vegetarian.
– Right Ho, Jeeves
She choked. His lordship, a young man with a shrinking horror of the deeper emotions, whether exhibited in woman or man, writhed silently. That was the worst of the American!
I am strongly of the opinion that, after the age of twenty-one, a man ought not to be out of bed and awake at four in the morning. The hour breeds thought. At twenty-one, life being all future, it may be examined with impunity. But, at thirty, having become and uncomfortable mixture of future and past, it is a thing to be looked at only when the sun is high and the world is full of warmth and optimism.
-The Little Nugget
‘I’ve changed my name. I call myself George Wilson.’
‘Why on earth?’
‘Well, you try calling yourself Augustus Mannering-Phipps over here, and see how it strikes you. You feel a perfect ass. I don’t know what it is about America, but the broad fact is that it’s not a place where you can call yourself Augustus Mannering Phipps…’
Constable Plimmer did not reply. He was busy silently hating the milkman. He knew him – one of those good-looking blighters; one of those oiled and curled perishers; one of those blooming fascinators who go about the world making things hard for ugly, honest men with loving hearts. Oh, yes, he knew the milkman.
-The Man with Two Left Feet and Other Stories
Mrs. Pett, like most other people, subconsciously held the view that the ruder a person is the more efficient he must be. It is but rarely that any one is found who is not dazzled by the glamour of incivility.
I felt rather like Lot’s friends must have done when they dropped in for a quiet chat and their genial host began to criticise the Cities of the Plain. I had no idea old Rocky could be so eloquent.
I’m not absolutely certain of my facts, but I rather fancy it’s Shakespeare – or, if not, it’s some equally brainy lad – who says that it’s always just when a chappie is feeling particularly top-hole, and more than usually braced with things in general that Fate sneaks up behind him with a bit of lead piping. There’s no doubt the man’s right.
-My Man Jeeves
‘If you try it, I shall infallibly bust you on the jaw.’
For years Belpher oysters had been the mainstay of gay supper parties at the Savoy, the Carlton and Romano’s . . .And then, in an evil hour, somebody discovered that what made the Belpher Oyster so particularly plump and succulent was the fact that it breakfasted, lunched and dined almost entirely on the local sewage. There is but a thin line ever between popular homage and execration.
‘Americans are the civillest coves I ever struck. I remember asking the way of a chappie at Baltimore a couple of years ago when I was there in my yacht, and he followed me for miles, shrieking advice and encouragement. I thought is deuced civil of him.’
‘Just at present my sense of humour is rather dormant.’
– A Damsel in Distress