by Reginald St Smythe-Smythington Holst-Dulverton, B.A., Ph.D, M.D., J.D.

There are times when I must leave my fortified mansion in the hills of Fizzleshire and deal with the unwashed masses. Fortuitously, these times do not occur more than twice in a year’s space, but when they do rear their ugly countenance, they prey upon my mind for months at a time; in some instances, I am so shaken by the act of making eye contact with a troglodyte mother pushing her screaming progeny in a buggy that I cannot properly manage my fortunes. It is times like these when the London Stock Exchange experiences a massive dip in fortune, and the country is in peril of slinging back into the Dark Ages.

Recently, I traveled with my gibbering driver, Geoffery, into a city you may have heard of: Canterbury. I’ve been told that it is a place of some renown, a bastion of sensibility in that Mecca of slums: Kent. When we passed through the High Street (ignoring the calls for our heads as we drove down the “pedestrianised” road), I saw not affluence, but a glut of the base, common class and, dare I acknowledge it, Moslems. As the car passed by a kebab shop, I made contact with one of the dirty heathens, and fainted.

When I awoke, I was at a hospital (you wouldn’t know it, though it is responsible for keeping the Queen alive) and the doctor, one of the few Jews who have not immediately repulsed me, one Dr. Stein, suggested that, in order to rehabilitate my mind, I keep a diary of sorts.

Geoffrey is a rather diligent “lurker” of the computer box, and he suggested this site to me. After contacting the drunkard who runs it, and offering to buy him a bottle of some swill known as Manischewitz for every article I write, I procured a space for my grievances to be aired.

1. They Lack Proper Hygiene

On a typical day in the Holst-Dulverton Household, I do not speak to my wife. This is to ensure that I do not come into contact with her feminine germs, brought on by her numerous problems with her person with which I had to deal as we were attempting to procreate. After the birth of my son, I understood that I could, thenceforth, keep interactions with my wife to a minimum. It’s the smell, you see. The scent of a woman is repulsive – as, indeed, is the scent of most of humanity.

While I spend four hours in the morning grooming myself and applying various treatments proven by my private doctors to eliminate scents, and the germs that cause them, the vast majority of humanity does not. They believe that a simple application of hand soap and “shampoo” is enough, eschewing the proper alcohol dip and bleach-cleaning method that has been recommended to me. Once, I discussed hygiene with Richard Branson, who discussed a similar method he uses whenever he prepares himself to take a rocket pack out of his mansion.

Knowing full well that all people who did not attend Eton – and, indeed only the upper crust of those who attended – do not groom themselves properly, I find it night on impossible to associate with the herd. I do not feel it would be hyperbolic, or in any way an exaggeration, to state, as a fact, that 99% of homo sapiens are barely above the level of a primate in terms of their hygiene.

There are many reasons I do not touch anything outside of my mansion and my personal items, but this is one of the chief reasons.

2. They Speak at Unnecessary Volumes

I understand that, in a one room tin shack that houses two adults and their thirteen spawn, it may sometimes be a requirement to shout even the most calm of statements in order to be heard. However, what the working class does not seem to realise is that, outside of their hovels and slums, there is the small convenience of being in an area that, for all intents and purposes, is infinite in volume. There is no need to shout every miniscule detail of one’s meagre existence, as if one were the direct centre of the world.

In short, the community at large, though just as droll as the shouters, has no desire to hear how hard, or with what frequency one copulated, vomited, drank, or consumed trash passing as nourishment. And yet, each time I am forced to go past the gates of my residence, I am forced to hear of these events, as if there were things more deserving of my time than engineering the course of Great Britain (God save the Queen!).

One could say that this is none of my business – and, indeed, my progeny, Roderick, has said this several times and called me a “joyless old codger.” However, it is very well my business. A significant portion of my income is sucked away by the Government – especially the dreadful House of Commons – in order to pay for these sub-mentals’ continued existence. Sadly, my most recent attempts to threaten the new Prime Minister with physical violence lest he reverses the state of the nation have gone unheeded. I suppose I shall have to contact my cousin-thrice-removed, who is the a top officer in the RAF, to carpet bomb his residence.

3. They Do Not Listen to Music

Those of you common folk who have the ability to read might take issue with that statement. And, sadly enough, this is your right – until I have my way. You may take a contrary stance as long as you desire, and, legally, I cannot have you devoured by my hounds, Brutus and Cassius. This day shall pass, however, and when it does, you shall rue your previously-held belief that you are more than a scrap of dirt, a blight on the otherwise pristine surface of the planet Earth.

The “music” of the masses is nothing more than a cacophonous constant growl, wrecking the minds of those who listen to it for more than three minutes at a go. The case in point shall be this Lady Gaga. It should not surprise you to know that she is not of the aristocracy, and has no noble blood – and has more than a passing resemblance to a Jewess – and thus has no right to refer to herself as “Lady.” As to her surname, I cannot state anything definitely, but it does seem rather indicative of her cognitive levels.

One night, as I stalked the hallways of my mansion, kept awake by the schemes flitting through my mind dealing with propelling myself into space, I walked past Geoffery’s room and heard what I at first took to the mad howling of a rabid feline. However, it was not such a thing; Geoffery was, in fact, listening to the music of this charlatan and furiously masturbating to the moving images of a “music video.”

After nearly braining the insolent whelp for attempting to spill fluid in my household, I removed his television from his room and docked his pay by half. After which, I contacted several of my acquaintances in the House of Lords and attempted to have a bill passed through Parliament that would lead to the harlot’s quartering and her head impaled on the walls of the Tower of London. Sadly, this shrieking harpy is not a national of Great Britain (God save the Queen!), but of the moronic baboons across the Atlantic: The Americans. Leave it to them, the mass of slobbering apes, to breed in such a fashion that would lead to this painted mannequin.

If I were willing to discuss these matters with representatives of the “blue collar” folk, I would simply allow them to walk along a previously-determined path in my mansion. At the end of this path, they would enter one of the many sub-basements of my mansion, specifically the one in which I keep the string quartets chained. There, they would experience two things: The first of which would be the sublime beauty of Beethoven’s string quartets, played in their entirety, and the second would be the quick rush of bear traps closing upon their necks. Ha!

4. They Do Not Read

From time to time, my associates and I disseminate studies throughout the populace. The methods by which these studies gather information, and the forms they take, are highly confidential, having to deal with technology that may or may not have been confiscated from a group of gibbering red aliens. The results of these studies have, unanimously, and without deviation over fifty years, pointed to the conclusion that the vast, eclipsing proportion of the population of Great Britain (God save the Queen!) have not read anything beyond a brand name upon a cereal box.

I would never advocate the decadence of Shakespeare, or the Marxism of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, to anyone within my family; however, I suppose that reading even the drivel of those two would be worthwhile to the minds of this once great nation. (For posterity: Our nation lost its status as “great” with the reforms advocated by that socialist scum Charles Dickens.) It is all for naught, however: Due to the omnipresent television box, the average Briton has the memory span of a functionally retarded gnat. Within seconds, the lessons learned from any tome would be forgotten and replaced by the actions of the dandy celebrity class. Bastards.

If I were forced to recommend an author to the People, it would be GK Chesterton. The man was a God-fearing Briton who knew the place of the People (subjugated under the feet of the aristocracy) and knew the proper threat of the anarchists. Other than that luminous intellect, I suppose the works of Ayn Rand (though a Jewess by birth and possibly of Slavic origins) would suffice.

5. They Breed With The Frequency of Insects

This is perhaps the greatest threat to Great Britain (God save the Queen!) since that insufferable yogi named Ghandi. Though the numbers of our study have not yet been processed by the slaves chained to IBM thinking machines, my associates and I feel safe saying that, at the current birthrate, the lower classes shall fill the crust of the Earth with mouth-breathing imbeciles by November 6th, 2012.

Luckily, our engineers (also chained to IBM thinking machines) have created schematics for floating cities above the clouds, where we may continue to thrive, create culture and industry, and rule the lower classes without the fools even realise we are doing so. However, until that day, I suppose I shall have to continue to hire security detachments and kill squads to patrol my grounds and eliminate trespassers. It is such a shame that ammunition is so expensive.