words: Dr. Reginald L. Pilkington-Smythe, esq.
My friends, we live in dark times. Everywhere I look in this world of ours I see corruption, pestilence, moral turpitude, vulgarity and 'dumbing down'. Instead of letting morals and decency guide our conduct, we worship the twin pillars of wealth and power. As I look upon you subjects of our once-great Empire, I can only shake my head in disbelief. Everywhere I see young ladies gadding about the town while their beds remain unmade and their floors remain unmopped. I see insolent young boys whose behinds have never felt the whip of a willow switch. What we need, my friends, is a return to self-improvement through self-discipline. Victorian Values. My hope is that, by recounting my experiences to the morally-bankrupt readers of this publication, I can educate them in the Correct and Proper way to conduct oneself. It is a sizeable task, but as Napoleon Bonaparte once said "what the mind of man can conceive and believe… it can achieve". Though he was a scoundrel and French to boot.
Dr Reginald Pilkington Urban Gentalman
"A Curious Encounter" I remember a time when the criminally insane were thrown in a van and taken to the Asylum for treatment. Nowadays, they are left to wander the streets. Upon my perambulations the other day, I came across a man with his eyes fixed on the floor, babbling incoherently to himself. As he came closer, I heard him say something like "Yah, tell Janine to cancel my 4.30. Something's come up". I felt it my duty to intervene. "What ho, Man!" I called to him. "Have you completely taken leave of your senses?" He merely stared at me with his mouth hanging open and his eyes glazed over, as though imitating a cow. This man was clearly suffering from dementia caused by an excess of black bile. I had to act swiftly. I beat him about the face and head with my cane, then administered some chloroform I carry with me for emergencies. He quickly lost consciousness, whimpering something about a "hands-free kit". What sort of devilish invention of a diseased mind could that be, I remember thinking to myself as I applied the leeches to correct the poor fellow's imbalance of humours.
"An Obstacle to Entry" Whenever I'm in London I like to pay a visit to the Dorchester Club. I can think of no more rewarding way to spend an afternoon than lounging on a chaise longue reading Bauelaire in a gin-soaked reverie. As such, I was overjoyed to hear that Toronto has a "vibrant club scene". So one Saturday I decided to investigate. I arrived at the club to be met by a great barrel-chested oaf wearing some manner of inflatable jacket. "ID please" he grunted. I should have thrashed him there and then for his insolence, but I held my tongue and instructed my valet to give him my card. "Reginald L Pilkington-Smythe MD, PhD, LLB, esq," he read "Practitioner of Medicine, Commissioner for Oaths, Licensed to Sell Intoxicating Liquor? It doesn't even have your date of birth! Anyway, you're too casual" he added, gesturing to my carpet slippers, Aramaic dressing gown, briar pipe and fez."What the blazes?" I exclaimed. "How dare you lecture me on fashion, you unshaved simpleton! Do you even know who I am?". The doorman saw the menace in my steely glare and shrank back, leaving the way clear for my ingress.
"In The Club" As I descended the stairwell I sensed that something was amiss. Instead of delicate classical piano, my ears were assailed by an unholy cacophony of African drumming, queer mechanical noises and a woman mumbling inanities about her 'house', all at a volume quite inappropriate for civilized conversation. The chamber was filled with sweaty miscreants wearing T-shaped shirts and flailing their arms around wildly. Inwardly horrified but determined to maintain a stiff upper lip, I took out my briar pipe and packed the bowl with fine shag tobacco while I surveyed the scene. Presently the Maitre d' approached me. "I'd like a table with a view, my good man," I said "I'll start with a Pastis and some beluga caviar, followed by devilled quails in brandy with two bottles of 1937 Chateau Latour, then Calvados, a bottle of ruby Port and some stilton to finish". "Um… you can't smoke that in here" he said, looking a little flustered."Nonsense, my good man! Smoking has proven health benefits. I should know, I'm a physician" said I. This appeared to satisfy him, for he went off to use the telephone.
"Ejected by Blackguards" Presently, I noticed a tattooed man lurking near the stairwell. He beckoned me over. "Hey, buddy," he said, "You need any beans?" I enquired as to what the devil he was talking about. "Y'know, X, Garys, pills…". Then it dawned on me that this man must be a snake oil salesman peddling Improving Medicine. Now, as a man of Science I am always on the lookout for revolutionary new treatments, and it just so happened that I had been suffering from Gout recently. I instructed my man to pay the stranger and washed down the medicine with a nip of whiskey from my hip-flask. As I sat waiting for my meal to arrive, it occurred to me that perhaps this Club wasn't so bad after all. "I can certainly feel a bond with these people," I thought to myself "and the lights are so pretty". My musings were interrupted by a rough hand laid on my shoulder. Two Officers of the Law were manhandling me out of the building! "Look here, you Bobbies!" I protested "What is the meaning of all this? Don't you know who I am?". But my cries fell on deaf ears. I am to face the Magistrate on Monday morning on charges of assault and trespass. So, my friends, if you take away only one lesson from my sorry tale, let it be this: the denizens of this harsh outpost called 'Canadia' are blackguards and not to be trusted. Good night.
