Let us imagine that you, dear reader, are the owner of a vast estate not unlike the Bloody Nib estate, though perhaps not quite as vast. Of course, any civilized person would much rather, if he can afford the upkeep and taxes and payroll to the staff, live on a vast estate with lakes, rolling green hills, a manor house and fat happy tenant farmers and their families, as well as a local pub from the Georgian era with tobacco darkened rafters and locally brew ale, than live in a city cheek by jowl with every damn body, whether rich or poor. After all, cities are Satan's petri dish while the countryside, riddled with secrets and sins better not mentioned as it is, at least has the clean air and traditional sense of yeomanry that never lets those weaknesses fester into gangrenous conditions.
Now let us further (or is it farther) consider that over the years some of one's staff have left the employ of the estate for some reason (death, shame, going to the City to try to be the next Lily Langtry, or impressed by the Navy) and one finds one's self having to hire new help for several positions. In a moment of madness, which is not unusual for the nobility, one decides to hire help from not only outside the county, but outside the country; one may have the opportunity to to learn a foreign language (that is the madness of the idea; why learn another language when one knows English) and, besides, foreigners can be colorful in their own odd way. So one hires several staff from an un-named foreign country. And they do well. One is happy with their work. They respect the rules and traditions of the estate. They are learning English. They are almost about to become Protestants; Anglicans in fact.
Then one morning one awakes on a Monday morning feeling a bit worse for wear after a night spent with a little too much Latakia pipe tobacco, port and trying to read a translation of Marcel Proust, and one stumbles into the kitchen and staff area only to find that there are many more people there than you remembered being there last year. And they all look and speak like the people one has hired within the last year. Confused, as one usually is in one's most sober moments, one asks, "Who are these people? Where did they come from. Why are they here?" And the most new hires, holding their hands clasped together and looking at one as if they were cocker spaniels that had been beaten with saps, say, "They are our cousins. They need work. They are very poor." To which one replies, "I'm sorry to hear that, but I cannot afford to employ these people. I'm barely able to employ you." To which the new hires say, "Our cousins will work for other people. Please let them live here for a while." By this time one has a thundering headache and just wants everyone to shut up. Instead of answering the plea one just turns away and staggers up to the library for a brandy and soda and the comfort of reading the Naval Register.
A month later, after recovering from a day of fox hunting (age plays Hell with one) one goes down to the breakfast room to find one's ladywife and one's dear children sitting at the table giving the hairy eyeball to what a a previously unknown servant has put before them. When one looks at the offering one sees something that looks like sheep lungs, an unidentifiable vegetable, sauce that is more like motor oil than Marmite, and a chutney made of something instead of proper marmalade for one's bread, which, coincidentally is not proper bread, but a form of flatbread. When one quizzes the servant about what is going on the servant replies, "It's what we eat for breakfast in our country, my lord (or lady, as the case may be)." To which one replies, "I don't give a damn what you eat in your country. You are here. You are at the Manor. I want a proper Manor breakfast, demmit!" Upon which said footman slinks away and goes to the kitchen. Then a few minutes later the cook comes up breathing fire and damnation. But the problem is that one doesn't recognize the cook as the cook that one has known. Tillie had been the cook at the Manor for over twenty years and now one was faced with a woman one had never seen before named a name that one cannot pronounce, but she said to call her "Debbie". And said "Debbie" declares that the only proper breakfast is the plate of offal that one finds one's self facing on the Wedgewood and that anything else is poison for both the body and the soul. To which one, stands up and tells Debbie that a proper breakfast is eggs, ham, bacon or salmon, pancakes or waffles, toast or biscuits with plenty of marmalade and Marmite. To which "Debbie" stomps down back to the kitchen and makes the worst Manor type breakfast ever experienced since the Norman Invasion when the first Lord Nib had to eat a half boiled piece of beef before being defeating at Scarborough Bridge; a case of the trots prevented him from being beheaded by a Norman knight.
Another month goes by. One comes back from a meeting of the House of Lords and Dudes only to find that all the Louis XIV furniture has been replaced by cheap American Southwestern furniture, dusty carpets and cushions and items that look like they were bought at a Middle Eastern bizarre. When one asks one's ladywife what has happened she says that she doesn't know. It was something that just happened in the blink of an eye. And, to tell the worst, she states that not only have the original group of staff stopped attending St. Gizmo's Church, they have established several other houses of worship ranging from Papist to pagan. When one calls the butler for an explanation the butler says, "This is their way, M'lord (or M'lady, as the case may be), and the vicar says that we should conform to their ways instead of them conform to our way." To which one replies, "Well, the vicar is an idiot and everyone knows that he is an idiot. His job is to say the Liturgy and Morning Prayer. Not have opinions. For the love of God, Bunter! He's the third son! Please call all the staff to assemble before the Manor."
So Bunter calls the staff to assemble before the Manor and one finds that while one's staff, at the best of times, had been eight people working between the Manor house and the grounds, now one found one's self faced with a staff of eighty; 90% whom one did not know and who were not of the Manor, the county or the nation. And co-incidentally, the idiot vicar shows up on his bicycle and says, "Isn't it a wonderful thing, M'lord (or M'lady as case may be). The world before us. We are the world!" To which you reply, being the sensible person that you reply, " You must be joking, vicar." And then said idiot vicar says, "Not at all, M'lord. Father McGuffin at Saints Peter and Paul and pastor Gawith at the Church of What's Happening Now both agree with me. As do the Commons." To which one can only answer, "You must all be as idiotic as your younger brother, who is a drooling creature who spends his time masturbating to photographs of Miley Cyrus' tongue." And he answers, offendedly, "You, sir, are not a Christian and not a gentleman." And one can only reply, "This bunch of louts are living on my land and off my money. They are not living at your church or your friend's churches and you are not paying for their upkeep. I herewith urge my unwanted employees to go live with you and your cohorts. I'm tired of eating offal, I'm tired of sitting in crappy chairs and couches. I'm tired of not drinking a martini in the evening in fear of offending a savage. This crowd is heading your way. Put away your port and Communion wine, vicar. It's all on you." To which said vicar replies, "That is not fair, M'lord." And one can only reply, "Life isn't fair, vicar. You can try to make it fair. But my job is to look after me and my own and preserve a sense of Western Euopean for the good of my family, staff and tenant farmers. Good luck, dude."
But, of course, the latter half of the last paragraph will not happen in either the U.S., Great Britain or in Europe.
Ain't life great? Just one damn adventure after another.
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