No. 44 Fanshawe at Halloween

There’s fashionably late and unfashionably late. I think two days counts as the latter.

As is the case with most of the landed gentry, Fanshawe’s about as reliable as Gary Glitter at a school fete. Only missing the deadline by an entire day, Fanshawe, the tiresome toff, has some of his wisdom to dispense on the matter of Halloween. It would’ve been up yesterday, but Jeffman was too inebriated to open his email. Read on and consider yourselves unfortunate:

Indubitably, my good fellow! I have seen some sorry showings in my time but just what the deuce is this Halloween chicanery all about?

During my days at Fanshawe towers, Pater and I were never troubled by such an affront to our naturally easy-going natures, as we had hired a little man whose job it was to pepper anybody whom he so much as suspected of glancing at our drive with buckshot. Admittedly we never received much with regards to correspondence, but Pater had a habit of burning the post and quite often the postman in a small iron basket he kept on the drawing room table, anyway. But it kept the revolting hordes at bay, which was all that mattered.

However, since my unexpected upheaval to pastures new (Fanshawe now resides in a 1-berth caravan in a lay-by along the A361, which he rents from a Gypsy named Roland Browning. Ed) my autumn evenings are plagued by young ruffians who see fit to leave their grimy paw prints over the laminated PVC of my front door.

There I was, just last week in fact, having presently returned breathless from a quick half up the Wizards Sleeve and toasting my crumpets over the Breville sandwich toaster, when there came a horrendous hullaballoo from outside. There was banging and shouting, and all manner of commotions, so with no further ado I put my trousers back on and went to see what this most disagreeable of occurrences was.

Imagine one’s shock to find his thoroughly decent self confronted by three thoroughly indecent bad eggs. Runtish bad eggs at that! It was half past ten in the evening and these young hooligans could have been no older that nine or ten.

What on Earth goes on there, my good fellow? Should the offspring of the lower orders not be lodged up the chimneys of town gents, or down mineshafts detecting gas leaks? Is it any wonder the young hoodlums refuse to work nowadays?

I shall tell you now. One could hardly get one’s topper on.

By the deuce! They sported hoods and it wasn’t even raining! One of the scoundrels was attempting to attach a shoddily rendered skeleton mask to his piggy-eyed, clearly inbred fisog. I was later to discover that these hoods and that mask were in fact a heroically shabby excuse for a costume, the style of which is employed by the paupers of this land to terrify the elderly and infirm out of their meagre savings. It all has something to do with a Pagan/Satanic festival known as Halloween. Who the devil thought that one up?

Do we no longer thrash beggars in this county? Instead choosing to actively encourage them? Is it any wonder this Jeffman oik thinks that things are not what they used to be?

Anyway. I was greeted by these diminutive ne’er-do-wells and being as keen of mind as I am, intuitively suspected wrongdoings were afoot. Suffice to say my diagnosis was quickly substantiated when the hideous urchin sporting the low-rent mask thrust out one of his trotter-like paws and demanded in something barely more articulate than a grunt, “Tricky treat”.

Tricky treat?

As I previously stated, I was blissfully unaware of this license to demand money by menaces; I always thought that was the task set aside for sporting fellows such as myself, so I was quite literally flabbergasted by the barely intelligible miscreant and his gypsy ways.

I don’t think I need say anymore than I reached for the shotgun and gave the blighters both barrels. Quick sharp, I tell you! Sent the odious triumvirate scattering in a cloud of cordite and a shower of buckshot.

That put a swift end to their or any other of their ilk’s ‘tricky treats’. Damnable oiks. They should do well not to come around here again. Do well indeed.

For next time I shall not be so courteous. Halloween indeed!

You degenerates have all been warned!

For more of Fanshawe’s bigoted buffoonery, click hither.

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