You have to love the class system in Great Britain, it defines who you are and helps you fit into your neat little place in life.
Well, at least that is my take on it anyway…
Mind you I’m no expert on the subject, after all, coming from the Colony of New South Wales the closest I get to an insight to the lives of the upper class is watching The Real Housewives of St Kilda.
Just for a change I am not immersed deep in the Australian Outback, travelling along some dusty track in the middle-of-nowhere under a deep blue sky, or sitting beside a campfire under the Milky Way, telling a
I am entrenched deep in the Yorkshire countryside where you’ll get a few minutes under a blue sky every hour, if you’re lucky!
It is no wonder those Chelsea Housewives have got orange tans that are more fake than their boobs.
Hey, I’m sure they really do have nice personalities so let’s not get into a class war here.
Anyway, as you can see, my propensity to digress hasn’t diminished despite being on the other side of the world so let me push on otherwise it will take me another two gin and tonics to get this story finished.
Speaking of which, I was in a small bar in Bath the other day, well evening really, and strike-a-light, they had every type of gin known to mankind and that was all in a bar that measured six-by-six feet – cozy really. But hell, who designs these places?
And how good are those Country Estates they have over here, hey?
Manor Houses, where you cross the country from east to west just to get from the front gate to the front door and when you arrive there is a bloke all dolled-up in a penguin suit to greet you.
It reminds me of that television show starring Carson and the Gang down at Downton Abbey, which coincidently is set in the Yorkshire Countryside, despite being shot anywhere but near York.
But who am I to get picky, after all I’ve told one or two porkies in my time just to suit the yarn…
Hey, let me share my story of a “Call to Service”…
There I was being chauffeured through the York Countryside when we came across a sign for Harewood House, the ancestral residence of the Earl of Harewood, inviting all and sundry to come and visit.
For a fee of course.
You know what those Aristocratic Pom’s are like, never miss a chance that lot and good for them, strewth, it costs me a fortune to maintain my shed with toys, imagine how much it must cost to run a joint like that, especially with a stable full of Bentley’s!
Anyway, here was a chance to roll up the driveway and be greeted by Carson and the Gang. In reality, we were directed to a car park in a field and Janet was heard mumbling that I would indeed start looking as portly as Carson if I drank any more pints of that warm cask ale they serve over here.
Nice one Janet, but hey I’m not counting the number of cream teas you’ve had (fifteen).
Those three gin and tonics are starting to work their magic, so best I get on with this story.
What a fabulous home this was, truly Stately, and whilst we weren’t greeted by Carson, the staff were friendly and showed us around the home, which is full of artifacts and paintings collected by the Earl’s over the years.
And you oughta see the size of the bedrooms they had in this place. You needed a map and compass to get from the door to the bed and a bloke would need a rest before he mounted anything in here, especially the four-poster, which for some reason was about about ten-foot off the ground…
Now it was pointed out that the second wife of the Seventh Earl still lives in the house and occasionally one might catch a glimpse of her, rare as that might be.
Well stone the bloody crows, just as I was about to leave who should turn up but the Countess herself, who coincidently is an Australian.
Yep, a fair dinkum Aussie, all class and no
Anyway, standing at the front door in all-my splendor, wearing my usual bond’s black tee shirt, I opened the door with all the grace befitting of the occasion and welcomed Her Ladyship home…
And with all the air of the upper class she breezed by with a slight nod, but without familiarity, as it should be…!
Welcome to service Baz, where Timing is Everything, hey!
Photos: Baz – The Landy
Ps: Janet didn’t really say that I would look portly like Carson – she’s far to nice to say that!