No. 28 Fanshawe Reveals All

By Jingo! That awful little man sporting the trilby and lording about this here hoo-hah as though he owns the place has requested that I write some sort of profile. He thinks it would be a jolly good way of introducing myself to the scruffy shower of ruffians he imagines can actually read, and don’t just come here to gurgle in wonder at the pretty colours.

The oik has handed me a questionnaire of sorts, although completing it was quite the endeavour in itself; what with the childish, illiterate scrawl he seems to believe qualifies as legible writing in this day and age. But hey ho, old bean. Needs must and all that guff.

So if one wishes to interlope on a sporting fellow’s business, then interlope away.

Full name:
Lord Thackery Fotheringay-Fanshawe the 33rd.

Occupation:
Toff. Sporting fellow. Gadabout town. Gent. Professional roisterer.

Qualifications:
Two gold stars from the Duke of Edinburgh for services to prole-baiting  and peasant shooting.

Schools attended:
Eton. Lower Gornal Comprehensive.

Loves:
Abusing the poor. Prole-baiting. Peasant shooting.

Hates:
Proles. Peasants. The poor. Women. Bounders. Oiks. The working classes and their like. Union Johnnies. Women… (Edited due to repetition of women, proles, and peasants) … By Thunder!

Hobbies:
Abusing the poor. Cottaging. Tripping women over in the street. The occasional bit of rough. Peasant shooting. Pushing the wheelchair-bound down steep inclines. Kicking proles. Clay peasant shooting.

Favourite hangouts:
???

Places you frequent:
The Wizard’s Sleeve public house. Communial lavatories. Local beauty spots beneath the cover of darkness.

Your most prized possession:
My Topper! What else??? Oh, my twelve-bore shotgun.

What would be the one thing you’d save should your home spontaneously combust:
My Topper, of course. A chap should never be seen out without a suitable item of headwear. The taller, the better.

Who are your heroes:

Her Majesty, the Queen. She would make a splendid chap.

Dame Margaret Thatcher. Another first-rate, jolly good egg. Would make a spiffing chap, what? I refuse to believe one jot the poppycock regarding her being sired by a lowly greengrocer. Such a pathological hatred of the ghastly proles can only be nurtured through exemplary breeding, such as my good self.

Adolf Hitler. Great Uncle Fortescue met him in person, you know. Prior to the reds declaring hostilities upon the poor fellow. Splendid chap by all accounts. What he lacked in the moustache department, he made up for in uniform. Could teach the idle layabouts of today a thing or two.  Who else can claim to have annexed Poland by the age of 50? Great Uncle Fortescue also confirmed that the rumours regarding his deficiency in the testicular department were completely unfounded.

Great Uncle Fortescue. A stout fellow and a roisterer of the highest order. Of course, the poor old stick spent the war years at His Majesty’s pleasure. Accused of being a fifth communist [sic] of all things. How dare they suggest the Fotheringay-Fanshawe name would get mixed up in any red shenanigans. Especially when we were down on record as being fervent contributors to the Nazi party fund. It is just not cricket, old chap.

What  is the one quality you think you would bring to the job:
Job? What the deuce is one of those? You speak in tongues, sir.

Are there any questions you’d like to ask us:
Is there a sporting chance you could see yourself to lending a chap five of the Queen’s pounds until his giro allowance comes through? Awfully decent if you could, old bean.

Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.

More Fanshawe nonsense:

No. 25 Fanshawe Joins the Fold
No. 24 A Sporting Fellow’s Jollies
No. 16 The Working Classes and their Like

Fanshawe is coming to a layby near you. You have been warned.

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