Major Henry Snuffington-Smith
 

Welcome to the World of Major Henry Snuffington-Smith
Major Henry is is a truly distinguished blue blooded English Gentleman with impeccable manners.
 A true man about town, raconteur, playboy, bon viveur & social commentator.

 

Good day to you all and firstly let me say a very big thank you to all the chaps at The New Site of the Weird for giving me this online presence to express my views on this glorious nation. I believe they call this blogging or some such thing, dammed if I know the correct term for it, I'm writing this on my trusty typewriter as computers were never one's thing, too busy with the fillies for all that nonsense.
 

March 2008
A warm welcome

The Chaps on this site wanted to know what my first journal entry would be about, well, never one for holding back on my views I've decided to write about a problem that's really getting on one's goat at the moment - Scumbags or Chavs as I believe there're more commonly known. This bunch of total cretins should all be sterilised at birth, drowning is too good for them let me tell you!.

I had the grave misfortune to bump into a couple of these young miscreants as I was out shopping for cigars and cologne some while ago. One of them had the audacity to call me a wanker. Well let me tell you I am certainly not!. I have a lady who does if you know what I mean!

A swift whack in the family jewels with my trusty walking cane was all it took to bring the blighter to his tracksuit wearing knees, I can tell you. The chav's girlfriend tried to make her escape while he lay in a pool of blood clutching what was left of his right testicle. Of course I was having none of this and made chase, I eventually had her cornered in an alleyway next to my cigar shop where I gave her an almighty crack over the head with my cane, or should I now call it my chav suppressor? - ha ha what fun!

Well, that's it for my first journal entry - until next time happy filly hunting and God save the Queen
 


April 2008
A big thank you


Hello and welcome again to my second journal entry. Firstly I'd like to say a very big thank you to all the readers of this page for supporting my views on chavs. It seems as though most of you agree with me that they should all be obliterated from our glorious nation.
 


March 2009
On Her Majestyís Pleasure


Well itís been quite a while since my last blog entry. Been away you see at Her Majestyís pleasure. The money would have been mine eventually so I donít know what all the fuss was about. Only taking what I would have inherited anyway and saved the family a fortune in inheritance tax. Had the last laugh anyway as part of the money Iíd already stashed offshore, ha, so I can still finance my lavish lifestyle!

My time was put to good use though. Managed to find myself a new business partner whilst inside. Going to set ourselves up as a security firm for the affluent. Got to look after our own type I tell you and stop those scumbags from pillaging what is ours.

Must dash, got to write my business plan. Think I should leave out details of our Ďunique selling pointí. Whatís that I hear you say? Well itís mustard gas and sheer brutality for any miscreants that are caught, ha, that will teach them!

 


Whatís it all about, Alfie?!

Hello Snuffington-Smith here again, what-oh!

What is this country coming to I ask you? Iím disgusted to call myself British.

Children having children; itís an absolute disgrace. Yes, Iím talking about that Alfie child, fathering a child at the age of 13. Have you seen the little scroat? He doesnít even look 13; more like 8. No way is that little bastard his as I doubt heís even reached puberty, or even able to get it up. Do you honestly think heís firing anything? I doubt if heís even able to pleasure himself, let alone a girl. No, itís all a set-up to make money. By all accounts it could be half the male population. Theyíre coming out of the woodwork, claiming theyíve all been there. Who would want to lay claim to that, I ask you? If it was me Iíd want to keep that one quiet, by gosh. Just looking at that pig face of hers would make any male deflated immediately. Sheís like the back end of a bus. They should use pictures of munters like her to promote safe sex.

The Snuffington-Smith theory is that the boyís father is the father, or even her own father or uncle; you know what itís like in these types of communities. Incest and promiscuity is rife. Anybody can have them for a fag and bottle of
WKD. Back in my day we were just happy with a grope behind the cricket pavilion with a filly; finger licking good, eh!

Just imagine it; if Alfie is the father and history repeats itself he could be a grandfather at the age of 26 and a great-grandfather at 39. To cap it all when interviewed he didnít even know what finance was. He doesnít even get pocket money so canít afford nappies.

The kid will grow up just the same, pushing out a bastard as soon as possible and then demanding hand-outs to finance more bastards, velour lounge suits and a slum with a load of junk in the front garden. It just doesnít bear thinking about and makes me so outraged I want to batter any scumbag I see. Theyíre taking over and bleeding this once mighty nation dry. Nippon the lot. Bring back the workhouse and National Service, that will sort them out.

Hitler had the right idea. Mass sterilisation. That would stop this drain on society. If I could get my hands on this crowd Iíd sterilise them myself. Iíd chop the boyís knob off with a very blunt knife. Iíd then tie binder cord around his peanut-sized bollocks and pull him along the road in my Jag until they became detached from his pre-pubescent, scrawny body. He could then give them to the little slapper as earrings. Knowing her sheíd then sell them on Ebay!

I must go as Iím seething and my blood is boiling. Off to find myself a little filly myself to show her what a Ďreal maní can do - Ding Dong!. I shall wear a condom of course; you donít know what these ferrells have been up to in the playground, but at least they will do anything you ask, not like upper-class fillies. Theyíre a damned lot cheaper too and you wonít have some father knocking on your door demanding you marry them, because most donít know who their father is.

 


Whatís become of the Working-Class?

Snuffington-Smith here again, what-oh!

The working-class of today I ask you. They donít know what an honest dayís work is. Going around in their scruffy chav clothes, slouching and grunting, theyíre surely not human are they? Back in my day the working class thought they were honoured to have a job, especially on my estate. They would doff their caps as I passed and were grateful for the pittance I paid them. Now they just donít give a damn and all they want to bleat on about is rights, equalities and a fair wage. They turn up late, their appearance is an absolute disgrace and all they want to do is this texting and twittering lark to their mates. Whatís all this nonsense about I ask? Donít they know the Queenís English? I wouldnít employ any of them.
 

Dame Valerie Snuffinton-Smith
My beloved Aunt, Dame Dorothy
Snuffington-Smith

I had one young miscreant come for an interview with me the other day. He turned up with his jeans halfway down his backside, trainers far too big for his feet, baseball cap and tattoos all up his arms in what I believe they call Ďsleevesí. Had to take him on as he was the only one the blasted Job Centre said was suitable, and I needed someone to clean up after me. He only lasted one day as I caught him behind the potting shed pleasuring himself over my auntís picture. Her a 93 year old Dame too, how dare he. Didnít take too kindly to me taking my cane to his privates and battering the hell out of him. He had the audacity to call me an upper class masochist peodo. Now Iím up before the courts on a charge of unfair dismissal and child abuse.

Bring back corporal punishment I tell you. Never did me any harm. I can still remember the sting of that cane over my buttocks and the look of sheer enjoyment on the house masterís face. However, that may have just been because he liked to see us boys stripped from the waist down bending over his desk, but thatís a story for another day.

Until then, remember, the aristocracy is what puts the great in Great Britain, not the working class and any good person should take it as their duty to keep the working classes down where they belong in their ghettos. Cheery-pop!
 


June 2009
A chip off the old block

Good day to you all and let me start this entry by thanking you all for your letters of support over the last few Months. It's very uplifting for me to realise most of you agree with my thoughts on this glorious nation of ours.

I had some very unexpected but most welcome news this week when I was reunited with my son Barrington. I shall describe how I became reacquainted with him soon, but in the meantime here's a picture of him



A chip off the old block - My beloved Son Barrington


May 2010
On Her Majestyís Pleasure (again)

Good day to you all and let me start by apologising for the lack of blog entries over the past months,

Been away at her majesty's pleasure again you see. I'll let you know all the details soon but in the mean time here's a picture of my new dog. I don't have a name for him yet so maybe my loyal readers could come up with a name for him. Please electronically mail your suggestion here


September 2011
Felchem Hall Opens to the Public

Welcome to my latest update. Iím sorry itís been a long wait but Iíve been having a spot of bother at my ancestral home of Felchem Hall. 

Due to financial constraints Iíve made the bold step of opening up the old family home to the masses. Not what I wanted to do I can assure you, as I didnít want hordes of chavs walking all over the place ruining the carpets with their grubby trainers, school parties of disobedient illegitimate children running amok and obese old slags sullying the antique flooring with their stiletto shoes. Still, needs must, so Iíll just have to make do with the situation and hopefully watch the money roll in.

Felchem Hall opens to the public

Iíve recently converted the stables into a charming tearoom where Iím hoping to make a killing selling hideously overpriced beverages, cakes, light lunches and sandwiches to the gullible public. One of my employees gets all the basics range food at the local supermarket and then decants the crap into packets with our own ĎHomemade at Felchem Hallí branded packaging  - money for old rope. Ha ha! 

Things have been going swimmingly at the old place, well, except for one rather unsavoury incident. I managed to get into a scuffle with one idiotic old pensioner who took it upon himself to pick a fight with me over the fact that I charged him £12 for a cup of tea and scone. He said I was ripping him off and tried punching me in the face; I was having none of it and struck him rather hard across his jaw with my trusty walking cane. Itís not my fault he didnít see the price list, even if it is rather small and obscured by a painting of my great aunt. Suffice to say that deed landed me in some rather hot water with the authorities, thus explaining my lack of updates recently. 

Iíll let you know how things are shaping up at Felchem Hall in my next update. Tally ho for now and God save the Queen.
 


November 2012
A Spot of Bother

Hello to you all and welcome to my latest blog post. I can only apologise for my severe lack of updates as the past months have been a whirlwind of events for me.  

You may remember that I mentioned in my last post that I had a rather heated exchange with an old age pensioner in my newly opened tea shop at Felchem Hall. The silly old duffer didnít like the fact that I charged him £12 (now £15) for a cream tea and I got into a rather ghastly argument with him that culminated in a violent act involving my walking cane and his face. The courts took a rather dim view of this and ordered me to attend an anger management course. I suppose I can count myself lucky really as I escaped without yet another custodial sentence. 

At my first and as I it happens last anger management meeting things didnít exactly go swimmingly, I didnít like the attitude of the therapist one little bit. A horrible little man I can tell you, he had the audacity to tell me that I was, and I quote Ė Ďan upper class homophobic twit with an extremely violent streak to my personalityí. Utter balderdash I tell you, I canít help the fact utter cretins tend to pick fights with me for no reason other than their total ignorance of pretty much everything. Not only that, but how could he have the impudence to imply Iím homophobic? I did go to Public school after all.

Sadly things went from bad to worse as the dispute between us got rather heated very quickly. Iím not proud to admit that indirectly I contributed to his demise. How did this calamity happen? I hear you ask, well, itís not my fault that as I tried to strike him about the face with my walking cane he toppled backwards tripping over a book heíd left on the floor and fell to his death from an open window. Fortunately I managed to wriggle out of any blame to this rather unfortunate incident as the Chief Constable investigating the case happens to be a good friend of mine.

Hugo Mongrelstrop
My Therapist - The late Hugo Mongrelstrop

Many people have since asked me what Iíve learnt from this rather unpleasant episode, well itís easy - itís not what you know itís who you know!

Tally ho for now and God save the Queen.


November 2012
My New Gift Shop Opens

Well, Thanks to my fine friend the chief constable, Iíve been able to crack on with the next stage of my money making scheme at Felchem Hall. As you know Iíve successfully converted the stables at the old domicile into a successful tearoom, selling homemade, organic produce made by little old ladies in white lacy aprons. Of course this couldnít be further from the truth though as in reality its basics range supermarket shit in fancy packaging. We donít even have a coffee maker; the sounds of a coffee machine are played through speakers to fool the customers, and the staff blow through straws into the coffee to make them look frothy. The stuff we actually serve is bloody diabolical. The tearoom business has been going so well I thought the next logical step would be to open a gift shop next door.

Of course you didnít expect me to sale quality items did you? My assistant buys container loads of complete tat from china, most likely made by five year old kiddies. We then re-package the rubbish in Ďquality gifts from Felchem Hallí gift boxes and sell them to the credulous public as hand crafted exquisite gifts at vastly extravagant prices. To make even more profit some of the sealed Ďnot to be opened before Christmasí gift boxes only contain sawdust. Shown below are a few pictures of the junk we sell.


'Waiting for Jimmy' and 'Down in one' - Two of the more tasteful gifts we sell


Unfortunately things havenít exactly gone swimmingly the whole way through this latest money making scheme as I managed to get myself into yet another altercation with a rather obnoxious little old lady who had the audacity to question the quality and price of the gifts we have for sale in the shop. The meddlesome old witch said that I was trying to rip her off as I charged her £100 for a Ďsolid silverí after-dinner mint gun carriage (see picture) one of the more tasteful items we sell. I must admit it's not silver but silver coloured plastic, but she wasn't to know this.

after-dinner mint gun carriage

She put me in a rather embarrassing situation in front of a coach load of old coffin dodgers who were perusing the merchandise on offer. I had to shut her up somehow as she was making a right scene in the shop and I didnít want her scaring off potential customers. I managed to manhandle her behind a display cabinet containing Felchem Hall carriage clocks and tried putting my hands over her mouth to muffle the screams; but this did not have the desired effect, so I had no option but to give her a tremendous wallop about the face with my walking cane. Luckily for me, the rather unsavoury sight of one of my assistants dragging the unconscious old mare across the floor by her ankles and hiding her outside behind the bins wasnít witnessed by any of the old buggers in the shop; otherwise I could have been in a whole lot of bother I can tell you.

Cheery-pop for now
 


November 2012
My New Health Spa Opens (Just)

Good day to you all and welcome to my latest update. Iíve been able to crack on with the next stage of my money making scheme at Felchem Hall. After the success of the tearoom and gift shop I thought the next big thing in my grand expansion plan would be to convert the last remaining stable block into a health spa. Of course I knew this wasnít going to be cheap so I thought Iíd get some quotes from some of the local builders. These quotes varied in price enormously, so rather foolishly I decided to go for the cheapest option. After taking legal advice I have been informed in no way must I say or write anything defamatory about the builders I employed to construct my Health Spa. Well, never one for convention Iím going to write what I bloody well like about the two complete chavs

The best and rather unbelievably cheap price I was quoted for was by a firm of builders that in my humble opinion are probably the worst in the world. Of course by the time the contracts had been signed there was no bloody way I could get out of it legally so I had no option but to employ the utterly appalling building firm of  T. Wankmangle & Son. 

2 cunts -Terry Wankmangle and his cretin of a son Dwain
The gruesome twosome - Terry Wankmangle and his cretin of a son Dwain

Terry Wankmangle and his cretin of a son Dwain are two of the most ghastly people it has ever been my displeasure to meet. To call themselves builders is an insult to the already badly tarnished reputation the industry has. I donít know where to start describing the bloody mess these two pricks made of the whole thing. For a start the quality of the Ďcraftsmanshipí was a disgrace; badly fitting or non existent doors, leaking roof, tiles falling off a newly fitted hot-tub. The list of ghastly errors goes on and on. Things finally came to a head when I caught Dwain Wankmangle in a rather uncompromising position with his step-sister Chardonnay in the still unfinished hot-tub. Thatís a sight I can never get out of my mind I can tell you! 

Chav Scum - Chardonnay Wankmangle
Chav Scum - Chardonnay Wankmangle

The day I had to reluctantly open the spa, a little old lady by the name of Doris Mooseknuckle wanted to use the new sauna. Unbeknown to me the incompetent twats had fitted a child lock onto the sauna door the wrong way round, so the poor old lady could get into the sauna but not get out. The ambulance crew who finally managed to hack their way though the sauna door estimate the old dear; who apparently by this time looked like an over-cooked lobster had been boiling away in there for about five hours before anyone had noticed. They found her body next to an empty water bucket and ladle. They surmised that she had probably drank the contents to try and re-hydrate herself, but to no avail. Sadly she died in hospital the next day. Fortunately for me, her family are not suing as the coroner investigating the unpleasant incident happens to be a good friend of mine. 

Avoid this building company at all costs
Avoid this building company at all costs

Itís not all bad news in this whole sorry episode though as I finally managed to get my revenge on the Wankmangles. Terry is now languishing in hospital with a broken jaw and a severely inflamed pair of testicles and his demented son Dwain has Ďmysteriously disappearedí

Tally ho for now and God save the Queen.
 


December 2012
My Christmas Update

Good day to you all and welcome to my Christmas update. Well, Iíve finally got things running smoothly at Felchem Hall after the past tribulations of setting up the Tearoom, Gift shop and that bloody Health Spa, what a headache that was!

Iíve been contemplating what I could offer you, the good people of Britain as a lovely gift to bestow upon your loved ones this Christmas. After many hours of thought, experimentation and getting on the phone to my suppliers in china I came up with the perfect solution to my dilemma. Celebrity endorsed fragrances seem to be all the rage at the moment so I thought why not create one my own, and so my new aftershave was born. Hereís the official blurb for it:

SS is a completely new menís fragrance with the delicious heady aroma of sandalwood, oak, exotic spices and ginger with top notes of equine and caprine sophistication. It conveys strength, sensuality and purity of man in a single bottle; it is, in essence the mark of a true gentleman. I personally guarantee youíll be fighting the fillies off when they get a whiff of this stuff. Available now from the Felchem Hall gift shop for only £49.99 per bottle.

SS Aftershave by Snuffington-Smith - The mark of a true Gentleman
SS Aftershave by Snuffington-Smith - The mark of a true Gentleman

Of course the above narrative isnít precisely accurate, where it describes: Ďequine and caprine sophisticationí what this actually means is that it contains a solution of concentrated horse and goat urine and other, well, shall we say added ingredients. The farm on the Felchem Hall estate produces a lot of animal waste so I thought this would be an excellent way of recycling this by-product. Plus when itís mixed up in a big vat with a few leaves and grass cuttings (exotic spices) it doesnít smell too bad. Waste not want not Ė thatís my motto! It certainly smells better than this bloody stuff that's for sure!  I also realised the connotation of the SS name could be misinterpreted, but by this time the bloody labels had been printed and shipped over from china already stuck to the bottles.

After the anguish of my Annus horribilis I would like to take this opportunity to wish you and your families (not Chavs) a very happy Christmas and a prosperous new year. 

As a footnote, I would also like to say that I hope Terry Wankmangle dies in Hospital, preferably on Christmas day.

 


January 2013
New Year update
 

Good day to you all and welcome to my fist update of 2013. I do hope you and your families (not Chavs) had a very merry Christmas and happy New Year.

You may remember that in my last update I mentioned that I hoped Terry Wankmangle would die in hospital, preferably on Christmas day. Well, as luck would have it, he did, although sadly not on Christmas day and luck didnít really have much to do with it. So how did he come to meet his maker? I hear you all ask.

Sadly, my Aunt, Dame Dorothy was taken ill on Boxing Day after choking on a fish bone at a Dinner Party. Ever the dutiful nephew I decided to visit her in hospital the next day bearing flowers, chocolates and a bottle of gin. As I was wondering around the corridors of the hospital I walked past a small room containing a person on a bed connected to what looked lie a life-support machine. Upon entering the room I was astonished to realise that the figure languishing on the bed was none other than Terry Wankmangle.

I know that I gave him one hell of a bashing on that fateful day after he'd supposedly finished my Health Spa, but I had no idea that he was so badly injured, especially as I intended to kill him!. I had to think quickly as this was now my perfect opportunity to finish this cretin off completely. As I bent down to unplug his life-support machine the bloody idiot started to regain consciousness. Just my luck I thought, so thinking quickly I shot out of the room, as I remembered on my way in seeing a cleaner's cupboard just down the corridor. I had a frantic search in the cupboard and managed to find a bottle of industrial drain cleaner. I ran back to the room, hastily fashioned a funnel from a plastic urinal bottle and promptly poured the entire contents down Terry Wankmangle's throat. He made some rather dreadful gurgling and snorting noises and started to convulse ferociously, I think he must have also soiled himself as the smell emanating from his body was horrendous. After what seemed an eternity he took his last desperate breath and died.

As you can imagine this wasn't the end of this rather unpleasant episode as there were some rather embarrassing and awkward questions asked of the hospital as to why and how an incident such as this happened. Luckily I managed to wriggle out of any blame as I gave a statement to the police saying that I witnessed a nurse "pouring some sort of liquid down his throat while I was at the hospital visiting my dear Aunt" I have since learned that the accused nurse has committed suicide, something I take no blame for as that was her choice after all.

Luckily this whole sorry affair has had a happy ending as my beloved Aunt has now made a full recovery. 

Many people have since asked me what the moral of this story is; well, that's easy - Always keep your cleaning cupboard locked.

 


February 2013
A website for Felchem Hall
 

Good day to you all and welcome to a very special update. It is with great pleasure that I today announce the grand unveiling of the Felchem Hall website. I thought it was about time that I got into the 21st. Century and kept up to date with modern day technology. The good people at The New Site of the Weird very kindly offered to take care of the construction of the webpage for me.

 Felchem Hall 

Hopefully with this new advertising medium, the public will be visiting my grand old house by the hundreds and spending lots of their hard earned cash in the many onsite attractions. You may remember if you're a regular reader of my blog that I had many inconveniences getting the various construction projects completed on time for the grand opening of the house, not least by the sheer incompetence of the Wankmangle family. Well, not one for giving up and with a stiff upper lip I've decided to open a children's petting zoo in the grounds of the house. Hopefully this new attraction will be open in the summer of 2013. As usual I'll keep you updated on its progress in my blog. 

Cheery pop for now 

 


February 2013
The good old days

I've been having a bit of a clear out recently getting everything spick & span for the opening of the hall. When sorting through some  documents I found an old magazine featuring my good self. In the late 1970's I did a bit a bit modelling work for some mail order catalogues and a magazine called Hot Man (see picture below) I must say I'd forgotten how dashing I looked in those days and boy did the fillies love a man of means and a hairy chest!  I was fighting the ladies off in those days I can tell you.

SNUFFINGTON-SMITH

Well that's all for now as I'm being kept very busy and the moment trying to get the petting zoo up and running at Felchem Hall. I'll let you know how it's shaping up in my next update.

Cheery pop for now 
 


February 2013
My latest visitor Attraction Opens

Welcome to my latest blog update. Well, it's been all go at Felchem Hall as the new Children's petting zoo I've had built in the grounds of the house opened to the public. Of course, as usual things didn't quite go to plan. As ever I had no end of problems getting the bloody thing built and acquiring animals to fill it. The problems started with, yes you've guessed it: getting a reliable and reputable firm of builders to construct the site in the first place. 

Yet again I made the stupid mistake of choosing the building firm with the lowest estimate, as I thought no company could be anywhere near as bad as the atrocious Wankmangle family. The building firm I chose (whom I cannot name for legal reasons) were only slightly more competent than the Wankmangle's. They made a right balls-up of practically everything they touched. The final straw came when one day they turned up late for work as usual with a new employee. Who was this new member of staff? I hear you ask, Well, to my horror it turned out to be none other than Dwain Wankmangle!. As I stood looking at him in disbelief, he walked over to me, looked me straight in the eye and said "I'm here to avenge the death of my Father" well, that's not strictly true, what he actually said was, and you'll have to pardon my French, is: "You're that posh cunt what killed my Dad"

As you can imagine I was extremely temped to strike the little miscreant across his stupid little face with my trusty walking cane there and then, but I thought better of it. No, not this time I thought to myself, I've got a better plan up my sleeve for this little scoundrel. Yes, I said with a rather sarcastic look on my face. "I hear that your poor old father had a rather nasty run-in with a wayward nurse whilst in hospital, but to blame me for his sad demise is rather upsetting and totally slanderous". Of course, the demented little prick didn't have a clue what I was talking about as I'd guess his IQ to be about the same as an ashtray.

It would have been far too easy for me to beat the little rogue about the face and teach him a lesson once and for all, if it hadn't been for the fact that there were far too many witnesses around or the realisation that I'd suddenly come up with a quite brilliant plan for his demise.

Bunty Forbes-Grainger
My good friend & old school chum, Bunty Forbes-Grainger

A good school chum of mine by the name of Bunty Forbes-Grainger had telephoned me a few weeks earlier as he'd heard about my impending plans to build a Petting Zoo. He said he could get his hands on some exotic animals for the zoo, not just the usual things like rabbits, goats, donkeys and guinea pigs. This sounds great I thought, if I could get my hands on something out of the ordinary it would get the crowds flocking in. To my utter amazement Bunty told me he could acquire a gorilla if I was interested. Apparently a friend of his owned a zoo that was going bust and he wanted to get rid of the beast ASAP.  

A few days later the said creature was delivered to Felchem Hall in a large wooden crate on the back of a truck. With the help of my employees the huge silverback gorilla was transferred into his new home; a small wooden enclosure that had originally been built to house a rather decrepit old cart horse. Not the most suitable dwelling for a large male gorilla I'll be the first to admit, but needs must. I must have cut a dash that day, standing there in my safari suit and pith helmet overseeing the delivery of my new visitor attraction. It brought back fond memories of my grandfather's tales of his time in India, bravely shooting tigers.

The next day I decided to have the grand opening of the children's petting zoo, with the new gorilla being the main attraction. I was delighted with the turnout for the opening; I'd even invited the incompetent builders and their useless employee Dwain Wankmangle to my prestigious event. I know what you must all be thinking, but the reason for inviting mad little Dwain was all part of my master plan for revenge. I made sure the builders of the zoo and Dwain had access to plenty of alcohol that day as I wanted to keep them all placated.

The Children's Petting Zoo gorilla tucks in to yet another banana
The Children's Petting Zoo gorilla tucks in to yet another banana

After declaring the children's zoo open and doing the rounds of small-talk with the local dignitaries I managed to get, the now very drunk Dwain Wankmangle alone. I made the pretence of telling him I wanted to give him a personal tour of the site as I had been so pleased with his work over the past few weeks. This couldn't be further from the truth however as the mad idiot was an utterly lazy little weasel who had done virtually no work whatsoever. 

As we passed the Gorilla's enclosure, I told him to take a closer look at the hairy primate inside; a resemblance not too dissimilar to his own late father I suspect. As he looked at the creature within with drunken amazement I quickly opened the door and pushed him inside. Quick as a flash the enormous hairy creature grabbed him and started to toss him around like a ragdoll. The beast then proceeded to trap the now terrified Dwain in a corner, rip off his trousers and undergarments, grab him from behind and brutally sodomise him. Judging by the way the hairy brute was pumping away at the youth's backside I suspect it hadn't had any sexual gratification for a very long time. As the helpless Dwain screamed with a dreadful combination of pain and horror, this just seemed to antagonise the angry looking gorilla even more. The randy ape finished having his sordid pleasure with him, gave a huge roar and then pulled one of Dwain's arms off as if it were simply a twig. I could look on no more, as things were starting to get rather grisly and by this stage I was starting to feel rather bilious, plus, I had to make a quick getaway back to the opening ceremony before anyone had noticed my absence.


What a waste of money. These car window stickers cost me a bloody fortune.

randy ape
Some newspaper publicity I could have well done without.

As you can imagine, the discovery the next day of a man's hideously mutilated naked body in a Gorilla's enclosure at a children's petting zoo didn't go down too well with the police or the animal rights people for that matter. I had a lot of explaining to do I can tell you. It turns out the sex-starved simian had a reputation of being mentally unstable, violent and bit of a sexual deviant, all facts I can confirm. No wonder the zoo I'd purchased it from wanted to get rid of the bloody thing! Sadly, the next day the creature was shot dead; this was upsetting for me as it would have brought in thousands of pounds as big visitor attraction, plus I'd only just recently taken delivery of 10,000 Gorilla car window stickers too. Oh well, the bloody thing was costing me a small fortune in bananas anyway!

Tally ho for now and God save the Queen.
 


March 2013
Mad Minge March

Movember has been a huge success with gentlemen up and down the country, growing moustaches for charity to raise awareness of Men's heath issues.

My good friend Bunty Forbes-Grainger came up with the brilliant idea of doing something similar but with the Fillies in mind rather than men. Together we came up with the idea of Mad Minge March. This simple idea lets Ladies Grow their Minge hair as long as possible throughout March thus raising awareness of Women's nasty 'down below' diseases and to raise much needed funds for The Betty Hubbard Clinic to do research in this area.

Electronically mail us your Mad Minge March pictures and we will show them on our online hirsute growler gallery. Here are some pictures we've already been sent.

So come on Ladies, let's get those growlers growing for charity and make lots of money for The Betty Hubbard Clinic and good causes all over the Country.

 


April 2013
More goings-on at the Petting Zoo.

Welcome to my blog update for April. It's been a busy time here at Felchem Hall as my staff and I prepare for the summer season. As I mentioned in my February update I am now the proud owner of a website. This has helped tremendously with visitor numbers, plus the fact that the Children's petting zoo is now up and running too. Speaking of the zoo, you may remember that in my February update I pointed out that I managed to acquire a gorilla as the main visitor attraction. What a rather ghastly experience that whole debacle was, especially as the gorilla ended up being rather unceremoniously shot through the head. 

I thought the death of my beloved primate would be the end of my main visitor highlight and money spinner, but I then came up with a rather cunning plan to get the punters coming to see him after his somewhat premature demise. My good friend Bunty Forbes-Grainger who supplied me with the hairy beast, telephoned me as he'd seen in the media that the gorilla had to be 'humanely put to sleep' as it was a danger to the public (bloody health and safety nonsense if you ask me, but there you go) I wouldn't say that a farmer firing a 12 bore shotgun into the head of a gorilla a humane death but I didn't want to spend a fortune, to have a vet carry out the death sentence. Those people charge a bloody fortune for services like that, whereas it only cost me a couple of pints in the local pub for a farmer to give the animal both barrels. Anyhow, Bunty told me that a good friend of his happened to be a taxidermist and why didn't I get the dead gorilla stuffed so I could still use him as a selling point for the petting zoo. Brilliant I thought, why let this sad fatality be the end when he could live on forever in people's memories at Felchem Hall. 

The newly stuffed ape now takes pride of place in the petting zoo, enthralling children young and old alike. Well, that's not strictly true; we've had a number of complaints from visitors, who feel cheated because they've paid out good money, expecting to see what they believe is a live gorilla. If only they read the damn website properly they would realise, that in fact, what they were actually coming to visit was a stuffed gorilla with a prosthetic forehead.

chav scum
Some unwelcome guests pose in the grounds of Felchem Hall.

I had a rather unpleasant confrontation with a father of child that was in tears after travelling for what the father alleged was over a two hundred mile trip to see a live gorilla. Of course, I tried explaining to the dim-witted dad that if he'd only read our terms and conditions on the website properly he would realise what he was splashing his so-called hard earned cash out for. The illiterate Neanderthal turned round to me and said "We couldn't see that shit cause we aint got no computer cause we can't read and that" How eloquently put I thought to myself with a rather sarcastic look on my face. I also questioned his eligibility to be there in the first place as both parents had obviously been drinking, plus, he was wearing a tracksuit and his appalling wife was clothed from head to toe in the most repellent pink outfit that would have made a gypsy look well-dressed. My comments just seemed to enrage the cretin even more and he made the grave error of trying to punch me. Of course I was having none of this and gave the uneducated thug an almighty wallop about the face with my trusty walking cane. I also gave the child a kick in the 'family jewels' too as the little scoundrel would not stop crying and was upsetting other children nearby whose parents were spending large amounts of money in the gift shop. 

Thankfully altercations of this type are a rare occurrence here; as I've made it abundantly clear on the website the terms of entry into Felchem Hall. 

On a lighter note, thank you all for your Mad Minge March entries. Thanks to your generosity Bunty Forbes-Grainger and I managed to raise £16.47 for good causes. Hereís the breakdown of the funds raised. Total money received £3000 administration costs £2983.53.

 


May 2013
Felchem Hall wins top award

It is with great pleasure that I today announce that Felchem hall is the winner of a prestigious award. I myself have known about this for several weeks but have been sworn to secrecy whilst the final decision was being made. I am proud to Say that the Felchem Hall Petting Zoo was chosen as the best outdoor children's visitor attraction 2013 by the Best in Britain Awards. The judges were impressed with the range of animals at the zoo and the fact that we have a gorilla, albeit a stuffed one. Winning this award has made me very happy, especially as the kudos of winning a title such as this will get the punters flocking to the house to hopefully spend vast sums of money.

 

I suppose at this point I should clarify a few things. Firstly when I say I won this award what I suppose I should have really said is that I bought the right to use the title. My good friend and old school chum Bunty Forbes-Grainger happens to be one of the board members at the Best in Britain Awards Foundation. He asked me if I would be interested in 'winning' a major award for Felchem Hall. Of course I jumped at the chance, although Bunty informed me that his fee to orchestrate this would be £2900  

This is where I come to my second point. You may remember that in my last update I informed you all of the fact that Bunty and I, managed with your help to raise £3000 for the Mad Minge March charity. Thanks to some creative accounting I managed to 'win' the award and still donate some money to good causes, so nobody has lost out. 

I hope that if you kindly made a donation to Mad Minge March, you will be pleased that your hard earned cash has been well spent.

 


October 2013
No Turkish Delight

Welcome back to another of my blog updates. Sorry it has been a while but I've been away on holiday you see. I thought I'd take the plunge, so to speak and book one of those package holidays for myself. As the old house has been raking the money in due to my past efforts opening up the place to the public, I thought a well deserved break would do me the world of good.

I thought long and hard as to where I could go for my well earned holiday; my first thought was Spain, but there are too many British chavs there for my liking. After doing some basic research looking at brochures, I came to the decision that Turkey would be my best choice.

So, two days later, bags packed I set off to the airport. This is where it all started to go wrong, My transport to the airport was scheduled to pick me at 8am sharp, I should have realised the driver would be late. When the dishevelled little old runt finally arrived he came up with some feeble excuse about being held up in traffic. Not only was he late, but the 'executive limo' he turned up in was a clapped-out twenty three year old Skoda. Great I thought, this is a fantastic start to my holiday as we headed to the airport with white smoke billowing out the back of the taxi. If only I'd realised at the time; that this was just the start of many disasters to come, I would have demanded the terrible driver did a u-turn and drove me home there and then.
 

My driver, 85 year old Percy Wilkins. This old git shouldn't be on the road.
My driver, 85 year old Percy Wilkins. This old git shouldn't be on the road.


Unbelievably, I actually made it to the airport on time. After a harrowing four hour drive at speeds reaching a mindboggling 80mph at some points, the driver unloaded my trunk and cases from the rusting 'executive limo', stood in front of me with his hand stretched out and said "tip please gov". Of course I was having none of this and told him to, well, shall we say, go away and procreate with himself.

As I haven't travelled abroad for many years, my disappointment of the check-in and security process at the airport was shall we say, not the greatest experience of my life. For a start I didn't appreciate having to stand in a queue filled with noisy chavs all shouting at the top of their voices in excited anticipation of their shitty little holidays. When I finally got to the front of the check-in desk, another problem surfaced. It turns you are no longer allowed to take firearms onto a flight. All I wanted to do was take my shotgun away with me as a good friend of mine; Bunty Forbes-Grainger informed me that Turkey has some excellent sporting shoots. I was really looking forward to blasting a few animals, but sadly the gun was confiscated, but not without one hell of and argument from me I hasten to add. The girl behind the desk was in tears by the time I'd had my say, plus the long line of arrogant passengers stood behind me were not in the least bit patient either. I certainly didn't appreciate being called a 'posh twat'

Five hours after my arrival at the airport we were in the sky heading for the sun. Now, I don't know if you've flown abroad lately but I was shocked how people are crammed into aircraft these days, plus their behaviour was appalling too. The lady (and I say lady in its loosest sense) sat beside me thought it was a good idea to change her illegitimate baby's nappy right there on her seat bedside me. The awful smell of the child's liquid effluent left me feeling somewhat bilious to say the least. If that were not enough to put a negative on the whole flight experience, the entire aircraft seemed to be full of screaming brats and their even louder, drunk parents. The last time I flew abroad, albeit a long time ago I was treated to a five course meal. Sadly not this time though, all I was offered on this flight was an extortionately priced, stale cheese sandwich and a packet of charred animal flesh I presume was meant to be pork scratchings.

Four and a half hours later we made our somewhat bumpy landing in Turkey. From reading what's in the papers these days I wouldn't be surprised if the pilot was drunk. Anyhow, I made it there in one piece. After a somewhat fraught process of collecting my luggage we were cleared by customs and on our way to the hotel, another three hour journey by road in a knackered old minibus with no air conditioning, that looked as if it had just come back from a war zone.

On arriving at the alleged five star hotel, (that I cannot name for legal reasons) I tried to check in to my room. I should have realised that this part of the holiday wouldn't go smoothly. The arrogant women on reception had no record of my booking, she said; in some sort of broken English that luckily they had one room left in the hotel but I'd have to pay extra. Brilliant, I thought to myself, this holiday is going really smoothly. After an argument that lasted in the region of half an hour the hotel manager made an appearance and begrudgingly found me a room in his dubiously awarded five star hotel. When I eventually found my room in the rather grubby establishment I was shocked to discover the state of the place. The bed sheets were covered with human hairs and stains that looked suspiciously like urine or semen, but probably both. The bathroom was another story; there was a disgusting smell of raw sewage, the floor was swarming with ants and the bath had shit stains in it. To make matters worse when I explored my 'deluxe' room further, I found a used condom and several dead cockroaches in the mini-bar fridge.


Just look at the state of my bed. Are those urine or semen stains?

The next day after eating something the hotel staff ambitiously described as breakfast, I went back to reception to complain about the state of my room. I spoke to the hotel manager who assured me that there were no rats in his hotel. Rats I thought to myself, I didn't even mention seeing a rat. Mind you, he probably had a point, looking at the state of the place; no self-respecting rat would be seen dead in his establishment.
 


my 'luxury' bathroom - disgusting.

Later that morning I thought I'd investigate the hotel facilities. The hotel brochure describes the place as having a 'luxury pool and bar area'. I changed into my safari suit and headed down to investigate. I can confirm that yes, the hotel does indeed have a pool and bar area, but luxury is not a word I'd use to describe it, especially after I looked into the murky waters of the pool and saw a used condom floating on the surface; no doubt a waste product of a scumbag's late night encounter. The pool area was crammed full of noisy tattooed chavs most of whom were drunk and this was just after ten in the morning. I had some really rude looks and comments from people as I walked around the pool area in my safari suit looking for a vacant sun lounger, some people can be so unpleasant. Now don't get me wrong, I appreciate a well rounded breast like any heterosexual man, but some of the sights around the pool were hideous. I felt bad enough from enduring breakfast, but seeing women who were severely overweight and clearly in their seventies squeezed into tiny bikinis was just too much for my delicate stomach to bear.
 


My bath - complete with shit stains.

After enduring the sights and sounds of the pool area for a few hours, I decided enough was enough and retired to my room. Later that evening I changed into my dinner suit and headed down to the restaurant for my evening meal. I must admit I was in a state of shock when I entered the restaurant as I was brought up to always dress for dinner. Now I realise that a grubby hotel restaurant full of greedy chavs probably wouldn't be dressed for dinner, but at least they could have made some sort of effort. Most of these people were still dressed in swimwear for goodness sake. To make matters even worse, some of these cretins were openly laughing at me just because I could be bothered to make the effort to dress in the appropriate manner.

After sitting at my table for about twenty minutes waiting for the waiter to arrive and take my order, it suddenly dawned on me that this was a buffet style restaurant. Now I don't know if you've ever experienced dinning like this before but I couldn't help but notice that the chefs are always hanging around the food areas fishing for compliments about their dubious looking dishes from easily impressed guests, whose idea of fine dining is eating chicken nuggets with a knife and fork.

I walked along the rows of terrible looking food to try and find something edible. I thought I'd give the starter a miss as it looked like some sort of revolting white gloop masquerading as soup. When one of the smug looking chefs informed me this was a delicacy in his country and I should try it, I polity told him that in my country we don't eat something that looks as though it's been ejaculated by a horse. So, starter avoided, I thought I'd see what other gastronomic delights awaited me. Now, what to try as a main course I thought to myself. The first dish in the long row of unappetising looking offerings looked like some sort invertebrate languishing in its own juices. I can only assume it was some sort of boiled octopus on a bed of noodles or some such nonsense. My next, and as it turns out only other choice of main meal looked like some sort of animal's limb in what I can only assume was meant to be gravy. I beckoned the chef over to ask him what exactly this rather dubious looking offering was made from. "Meat" he said with a proud look on his face. "Yes, I'm perfectly aware that this is supposedly meat, but what sort of meat is it" I asked. "Animal meat" he said. By this time I really couldn't be bothered to find out exactly what it was, so I took the dreadful looking meal back to my table. As you can imagine, I didn't eat much of it. Seeing people walking around that restaurant with their plates piled high with food I'm not surprised so many people are obese these days. Their table manners are non-existent too; I've never seen so many chicken nuggets, crammed into so many fat faces, so quickly.

Some sort of octopus soup. Absolutely disgusting.
Some sort of octopus soup. Absolutely disgusting.

This was the best dish on offer at dinner. Some sort of unidentifiable meat dish.
This was the best meal on offer for dinner, and lunch as it happens. Some sort of unidentifiable meat dish.


The next morning I awoke early with terrible stomach pains. I rushed to the bathroom and had a bout of explosive diarrhoea of a magnitude like nothing I've experienced before. Whatever was in that meal I had the night before definitely didn't agree with me. I thought about complaining to the hotel manager about the inevitable state of the rat infested kitchen, but this would have course fallen on deaf ears.

In what seemed like the longest week of my life, my disastrous and expensive holiday finally came to an end. It wasn't all bad news though, as I did manage to have my way with a couple of fillies and the hotel chambermaid. Please don't let reading this put you off going to Turkey for your holiday, as I'm sure there are some great hotels to be found there. I just happened to make a rather ghastly choice.

Cheery pop for now 
 


March 2014
Is that wedding bells I hear? 

Welcome to my latest blog update. Things have been going relatively well at Felchem Hall lately. Iíve finally got over the disappointment of my bloody dismal holiday and my petting zoo and other on-site attractions have been raking in lots of money in for me. 

Regular readers may have noticed that, although I am probably one of the most eligible bachelors in the country, I have never married. Yes, Iíve had my fair share of fillies in the past, thatís for sure. I must have bedded literally thousands of lucky ladies over the years, but have never bitten the bullet, so to speak and tied the knot. Things could be set to change though as I have met a beautiful, veracious, and not to mention very wealthy woman - Lady Henrietta Sydenham - de Nork. I suppose at my time of life I should really settle down and get married as Iím not getting any younger, plus I have many debts and Henrietta is bloody loaded. 

Lady Henrietta Sydenham - de Nork
Lady Henrietta Sydenham - de Nork

Iíll be the first to admit that sheís no oil painting or spring chicken for that matter, she is 89 after all, well, they do say that love is blind. We met at the recent annual Felchem Hall Ball. I suppose that I should really say that our eyes met across a crowded dance floor, but Iím afraid Iíd be lying. No, my good chum Bunty ForbesĖGrainger tipped me off that she had recently been widowed; apparently her late husband was killed in a horrifying skiing accident. What on earth a 98 year old man was doing skiing down the side of a steep mountain in Switzerland is anybodyís guess, but there you go. Due to his rather grizzly demise (I hear he was decapitated after hitting a tree) Lady Henrietta was looking for a new wealthy husband.

I made my advances, gave her the old Snuffington-Smith charm, had a romantic dance with her and proposed to her there and then. To my amazement she accepted my proposal immediately; the old magic is still there I thought to myself. The next morning it suddenly dawned on me that the daft old bitch must have assumed that as I was hosting the ball at Felchem Hall, that I must be very rich and therefore a perfect match for her. Unfortunately looks can be deceptive, Iím up to my bloody eyeballs in debt, as turning the house and gardens into a tourist attraction didnít come cheap. I wasnít planning to marry her for her good looks and youthful joie de vivre thatís for sure. No, Iím not ashamed to admit that this wedding was not made in heaven, but was purely a money making exercise. Iím hoping that the decrepit old dear will pop her clogs very soon, if not, Iíll have to do something about, if you know what I mean? 


April 2014
At last I tie the knot

I am delighted to announce that Lady Sydenham - de Nork has taken my hand in matrimony. We were married last week in low-key ceremony at Felchem Hall and my best man was of course my old chum and confidant Bunty Forbes-Grainger. With the main formalities done and dusted and vast quantities of champagne and canapťs consumed the eventful day came to an end. It was at this point in the proceedings that Bunty reminded me of my other marital responsibilities. He tried to tell me in a rather inebriated whisper that instead came out of his intoxicated mouth as a pissed toff shouting at the top of his voice in front of other guests and dignitaries that the marriage had to be consummated that very evening. Dam it! I thought to myself Iíd completely forgotten that Iíd have to actually have sex with the old dear. Oh well, I thought, a woman of her age wouldnít be the least bit interested in anything like that at her age and instead would just like to settle down for an early night tucked up in bed with a cup of coco and a Barbara Cartland novel. How wrong could I be? Iíve never know anything like it, the daft old coffin dodger practically raped me. I had no idea that a woman of her age could have such a strong sex drive. Now, I donít know if youíve ever tried to prise open and eat a week old tuna sandwich youíve found in the back of your refrigerator, but thatís the closest thing I can think of to describe having oral sex with her. I donít want to dwell too much on our sex life, as it makes me feel rather bilious to say the least, but suffice to say, the next morning I found something in my moustache that looked suspiciously like dandruff mixed with earwax.

 
The 'happy' couple. Our wedding day

Iíve been very busy since my wedding day trying to come up with a cunning plan to bump my darling wife off and inherit her vast fortune. Poison? a nasty fall down the stairs?,  or maybe a Skiing holiday. The first thing I need to do, is persuade her to change her will, Iíll have to turn on the charm for that one thatís for sure. Iíll let you know how I get on in my next update.
 


June 2015
A rather nasty 'accident'

Regular readers of my blog will notice that in my last update I became a married man for the first time. Lady Henrietta Sydenham - de Nork became my wife in a low-key ceremony held at Felchem Hall last April. It soon became very apparent that she had made the assumption that as I live in a vast house, surrounded by acres of ground containing a petting zoo, health spa and gift shop that I would be extremely wealthy and would therefore be a good catch. This could not be further from the truth however as I have mentioned on this blog on numerous occasions that running an estate of this size does not come cheap.

Unfortunately, soon after we were married things started to go downhill very rapidly. I made the bold assumption that she would be extremely wealthy, and as it turns out she also had the same idea about me. Our relationship was doomed from the start; Iíd rather not dwell too much on her insatiable sexual demands, but suffice to say, just thinking about keeping her satisfied in the bedroom department makes me feel rather bilious to say the least. Her Sexual appetite was voracious, seeing her dressed in lingerie was an unbearable sight. On one occasion she staggered into the bedroom with a glass of champagne in one hand and a whip in the other. Her vain attempt to look seductive backfired disastrously, as the ghastly sight of a pissed, half naked ninety year old woman with varicose veins sticking out from her stockings that looked like an octopus stuck in a fishing net, didnít exactly get me in the mood for a night of sexual pleasure I can tell you.

Our excruciating sex life aside, my main concern regarding our doomed marriage was the fact that she was spending my money like it was going out of bloody fashion. Iíve never known a woman buy so many designer clothes, shoes, handbags and other hideously expensive accessories. I foolishly assumed that she was using her own money to buy all this overpriced rubbish, but no, it was my hard earned cash she was spending. As I am writing this blog entry, my latest credit card statement is sitting on my desk next to me. It brings tears to my eyes just looking at it I can tell you. I donít want to tell you the exact sum, but letís just to say it runs into tens of thousands of pounds. Iíd had my reservations from the start that she was after my money, but the final straw came when I found her in the library of Felchem Hall rifling through my documents with the deeds of the house in her withered little hands. I was absolutely enraged to see her sitting there with a devious look on her shrivelled old face. Iím not ashamed to say that; yes, I did strike her about the face. Iíve always said to myself that I would never hit a lady, but in her case, I think I made a rather well justified exception.

When she finally regained consciousness, I pulled her up from the floor and shoved her into a chair. I gently persuaded her (at gunpoint) to change her will, making me sole beneficiary. As you can imagine she wasnít really in a fit state to argue the point as she was obviously suffering from severe concussion, anyhow, she signed without any objections. Later that evening, after Iíd had the chance to cool down and regain my composure, I came up with a rather cunning plan for her demise.

You may remember that in a previous blog entry, I described how the Wankmangles; the appalling family of builders I appointed to construct my health spa, made a right bloody hash-up of the whole project. Of the hundreds of blunders they made, they somehow managed to fit a lock on the sauna door back to front. A mistake that to this day has not been rectified. This gave me a great idea of how I could get rid of my scheming wife forever.

A day after my brainwave I invited my darling wife to join in the spa for a romantic sexual rendezvous. Of course, the insatiable mad old bitch jumped at the chance. Iím sure the sight of her arrival at the health spa, wearing a rather revealing, lurid pink bikini covered in rhinestones, probably put a few of the regulars off their lunches, but this couldnít be helped as I needed my cunning plan to work. I handed her a bottle of chilled champagne, told her to undress and get into the sauna. As soon as she was inside I poured a bucket of water over the red-hot coals and slammed the wooden door shut. I then turned the outside temperature controller up to the maximum setting of eleven. Thankfully this was something the wankmangles had managed to fit correctly. I must admit that the sight of a naked ninety year old woman hammering on the door of a sauna, screaming at the top of her voice, desperately trying to get out was a pitiful sight. For what seemed an age she writhed around in agony, slowly boiling to death. After approximately thirty five minutes the devious old cow was dead.

Lady Henrietta Sydenham - de Nork sauna
My wife enters the sauna for the final time

A couple of minutes later it suddenly dawned on me that I would have to now get rid of the body. Thinking quickly I telephoned my old school chum and confidant Bunty Forbes-Grainger. I explained to him my rather sticky situation and luckily he came up with a rather splendid solution to my predicament. He told me, that for a fee of £1000 he could clear up the whole mess and save me a bloody fortune on an extortionate funeral to boot.

Later that evening, under the cover of darkness, Bunty turned up with a couple of dubious looking characters who proceeded to drag the boiled corpse out of the still steaming sauna and strap it onto the roof of a Land Rover. I must admit that the sight of my late wifeís dishevelled, reddened and blistered body was a pitiful sight. The heat build-up in the sauna must have been enormous as the steam had even melted her wig and welded itself onto her hideous craggy old face. Bunty beckoned me to get into the vehicle and we made our way the short distance to the estate petting zoo. I curiously asked Bunty why he had taken us and our rather unconventional cargo to the animal enclosure. At this point I realised why his shrewd plan had been so clever. As his two henchmen untied the still warm corpse from the roof of the Land Rover, Bunty explained that the only sure way to get rid of all the evidence would be to feed my dear wife to the petting zoo pigs. Yet again, my old friend was there to save my bacon so to speak. The two thugs lifted the cadaver up and rather unceremoniously tipped it into the pigsty. The ravenousness porkers tucked in immediately, the sight of half a dozen greedy pigs gnawing into my wifeís hideous body was not a pretty sight, I must admit. I could look on no longer as the sound of a pigís powerful jaws crunching through her skull was starting to make me feel rather bilious to say the least.


Lady Henrietta Sydenham - de Nork pigs
The Felchem Hall Petting Zoo pigs tuck into the remains of my dear lady wife

A few days later, her absence had started to be noticed by many friends and staff; I had to make-up some rather awkward excuses to explain her whereabouts I can tell you. Inevitably in the end the police were called and of course it was up to me to explain her rather sudden disappearance. Luckily I managed to be exonerated from any blame as the chief constable and the coroner investigating the whole messy business happen to be good friends of mine.

A few weeks after this whole nasty affair blew over I was summoned by my late wifeís solicitor to hear the reading of her will. What a bloody waste of time that was. It turns out the scheming bitch was not as wealthy as I thought. She only left me a few hundred pounds and her collection of ostentatious fake jewellery.

Many people have asked me what Iíve learned from this rather nasty ordeal, well thatís easy Ė None of those animal rights do-gooders can accuse me of feeding my pigs with a non-organic diet, plus, my darling wife got to see her 90th birthday.

Now this whole messy business is over Iím in the process of looking for a new wife. If you would like to be considered for this prestigious position, please send your application, stating your net worth and a recent photograph of yourself in a stamped addressed envelope to:

Major Henry Snuffington-Smith
Potential Spouse Material
Felchem Hall
Little Shyting
BA8 7EP

 


July 2015
The circus comes to town.

Welcome to my blog update for July. Regular followers of my blog will know that in my last update I explained all about my disastrous first marriage to Lady Henrietta Sydenham - de Nork. I wonít go into anymore detail about that calamity, but as you may know I did finish my update by saying that Iím in the process of finding a new lucky lady to take my hand in matrimony. I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of the many applicants who sent me their submissions. Many of the pictures and descriptions I received ranged from the downright strange to the totally bizarre. Shown below are a few of the weirdest mug shots I received through the post. As you may have already guessed by these peculiar photographs Iíve been sent, Iím still looking for that special woman.

Here's just a small selection of hideous candidates who thought themselves worthy of being my wife
Here's just a small selection of hideous candidates who thought themselves worthy of being my wife

Due to my late wifeís extravagant spending habits money is yet again in short supply here at Felchem Hall. The debts are again mounting up, so Iíve had to come up with ideas to get the money rolling in once more. I telephoned my old chum Bunty Forbes-Grainger to see if he had any good ideas for an event I could hold at the Hall to raise some desperately needed cash. As it turned out, he said he had contacts in the entertainment industry and knew of a travelling circus that would be in the local area over the summer. Brilliant I thought to myself; the circus - The smell of the greasepaint and candyfloss, the smiles on childrenís faces as they are enthralled by clowns, performing animals and acrobats in the big top. I told Bunty to get this sorted for me immediately. He explained that for a fee of £1000 he could get it organised for me and get the necessary contracts signed etc. So, later that week the circus arrived at Felchem Hall.

It quickly dawned on me that my romantic notion of the circus was an ill-conceived one. Iíve never seen anything like it; the circus has definitely changed a lot since I was a child thatís for sure. What a strange, dishevelled bunch of misfits that tuned up that day, Iíve never witnessed anything like it to be honest. At first I thought the estate had been invaded by hordes of gypsies, as the convoy of scruffy caravans and trailers full of foul-smelling animals that piled into the grounds, towed by vans emitting thick black smoke was a down heartening sight. It wasnít just the unhealthy looking animals crammed into cages on the back of rusting old trailers that stank. The human element of the whole ensemble werenít exactly sweet-smelling I can tell you.

The circus rolls into the grounds of Felchem Hall
The circus rolls into the grounds of Felchem Hall

As yet another wreck of a truck raced onto the estate and tore up the manicured lawns. The driver of the badly maintained looking vehicle climbed out from behind the steering wheel, slammed the rusty door shut, wiped his sweaty brow with an oily rag and sauntered over to introduce himself whilst swigging a can of beer. As I shook his filthy hand he told me his name was Chodbin Rankcock, owner of the circus and ringmaster. The first thing that struck me, apart from the awful smell, was his rather unusual name. I enquired as to how his name came about. ďItís an old gypsy name guv, the Rankcocks have been in the circus business for hundreds of yearsĒ I might have bloody guessed! - Gypsies!. ďWell yes, that explains a lotĒ I told him with a rather sarcastic look on my face. What on earth have I got myself into here I thought as Mr Rankcock proceeded to relieve himself in a nearby bush.

Chodbin Rankcock, owner of the circus and ringmaster
Chodbin Rankcock, owner of the circus and ringmaster

A few hours after their unforgettable arrival, the circus troupe started to get everything setup. The big top was erected and the hordes of noisy stinking animals were decanted from their cramped cages on the trucks to a cramped enclosure on the circus field. The whole event very nearly came to an abrupt halt though as an irate farmer from an adjacent farm had seen this lot of undesirable oddballs turn up and proceeded to fire shots at the caravans with his shotgun, as he thought the area had been invaded by gypsies. As it turned out, he wasnít too far off the mark. I had a lot of explaining to do to I can tell you, as the situation very nearly spiralled out of control. It seems the circus people were also well armed and only too eager to shoot back. The farmer, Cyril Kringe and his son Jethro are not the sort of inbred morons you mess with. The skirmish lasted for about half an hour before the police turned up and put an end to proceedings. How nobody was killed or badly injured in the resulting shootout Iíll never know. Luckily the only damage done was a few of the caravan windows were shot out in the gunfight. Well, Iím guessing thatís what happened as the bloody things were in such a state to start off with, it was difficult to tell. I was being interviewed about the circus by a local radio station at the time and they managed to pick up the sounds of the gun battle. You can hear an extract from their recording below.

 

Irate farmer Cyril Kringe
Irate farmer Cyril Kringe wasn't too pleased to see the arrival of the circus

 The Rankcock's Circus Big Top.
The Rankcock Circus Big Top.

The next day the circus was fully completed and ready for the first performance that evening. I must admit I was extremely pleased at the turnout for the first show. The posters that were pinned up all over the adjacent villages, advertising the circus had certainly done the trick. It was a very satisfying spectacle to see the sell-out crowd taking their seats. Great, I thought to myself, if I can get an audience like this in every night for the next week, my money worries will be well and truly over. I took my seat in the packed big top tent and waited eagerly for the show to start.

The ghastly bunch of circus individuals make themselves at home
The ghastly bunch of circus individuals make themselves at home

A few minutes later, the spotlights shone down on the circus ring and a voice boomed out from the ringmaster - Chodbin Rankcock ďWelcome ladies and gentleman, boys and girls to the most unusual circus show on earthĒ moments later a large curtain swung to one side at the back of the ring and the entire circus troupe complete with all their animals paraded around the edge of the ring. Clowns, jugglers, tigers, elephants, lions, scantily clad ladies on horseback, acrobats, fire-eating dwarfs and strangely even a topless belly dancer carrying a python snake. Iíve never seen anything like it in my life and judging by the shocked expressions on many of the audience members' faces, neither had they. As deafening music pumped out from the huge PA system and the procession continued to parade round the ring, the ringmaster continued to give his introductions as the combination of the stench of the animals, heat and thick black smoke from the fire-eaters almost brought tears to my eyes. By this point I was starting to feel rather nervous, as the amount of people that were apparently leaving in disgust was growing by the minute. It seems that these days, endangered animals and topless belly dancers are not a welcome sight in a family show.

Thankfully, an hour and a half later, the rather unconventional circus show came to an end. For legal reasons I canít really describe what I saw in the show, but what I can say is that Iíve never been so shocked or disgusted in my life, and I was a major in the army for many years too. If you really want to know more about the show a link to the circus website is here. I had to placate an awful lot of people that night as many of the audience members' either complained to me directly or demanded refunds from the ticket office. I got into a rather heated exchange with one childís father who blamed me directly for the content of the show. I tried explaining to him that it had nothing to do with me and I was only allowing the circus on my land. Luckily it was rather dark in that tent so nobody witnessed me giving him a swift kick in the balls. I must admit that Iíve never seen so many children leave an event in tears. It was certainly not what I expected from a family show, thatís for sure. As it turned out, this was just the beginning of my troubles regarding this ill-fated event.

As the week went on the ticket sales dwindled to such an extent that by only the third and as it turns out, last day, only a handful of people had bought tickets for the show. For the last performance things really started to go wrong in a very big way. Apparently halfway through the proceedings a lion or a tiger escaped from the enclosure at the back of the big top, ran into the ring, then jumped into the audience seating area and savaged a child to death. Iím glad I wasnít there to witness the attack, as apparently it was a rather grisly sight. Of course the parents of the child were deeply shocked by his death and held me directly responsible for his demise. I was left out of pocket as I had to pay for the bloody funeral. The flowers I sent didnít go down well with the grieving parents either. I was only trying to send my condolences and thought they would be a nice touch.


The funeral flowers I sent to the grieving parents.

If this incident were not horrific enough, to add insult to injury an old lady was brutally raped by one of the circus dwarfs. It seems as though she got disoriented by the big cat attack and at the end of the show, lost her way and wandered off backstage thinking it was the exit. The poor old dear only wanted a day out from her care home, but ended up being viciously sodomised and needing hospital treatment for a severely engorged anus. Staff at her care home say the lady is so traumatised that sheís still not able to speak or sit down. I had a phone call from a furious manager demanding answers. I told her it wasnít my fault, as there is no way on earth that I could be held responsible for the actions of a demented midget.

demented midget
Here's a picture of the prime rape suspect. Just look at the evil little devil.

Thankfully the bunch of ghastly circus individuals have left the grounds of Felchem Hall, and good riddance to them too. They didnít leave peacefully however; I had one hell of a job getting rid of the unwashed bunch of hooligans I can tell you. For days after the last circus performance, I was kept awake at night by their drunken parties and wild ways. Many of the animals from my petting zoo mysteriously went missing, no doubt eaten by their mangy circus animals. There were piles of rubbish, shit and used condoms everywhere; the grounds were in one hell of a state and the clean-up bill alone ran into thousands of pounds. Iíve also had to put the localís fears to rest, as since the circus has upped and left there have been numerous big cat sightings in the surrounding villages. Iím guessing that when that tiger or lion or whatever it was attacked and killed that poor child that those idiots released it into the wild to get rid of the evidence so to speak. Iíve instructed my staff to lay traps for it and hopefully, when it is caught it will make a rather splendid addition to the petting zoo.

Just look at the bloody state those dirty Bastards left the grounds of Felchem Hall in.
Just look at the bloody state those dirty bastards left the grounds of Felchem Hall in.

I managed to get my own back on that awful Chodbin fellow though. Iím pretty sure he wonít be able to carry on the Rankcock name after he left my estate with a severely engorged and inflamed pair of distended testicles and a black eye.

Cheery pop for now 
 


September 2015
All in a good cause.

Welcome to my blog update for September. Regular readers of my blog will know that in my last update I explained all about my disastrous money making scheme to host a circus in the grounds of Felchem Hall. That whole fiasco not only left me thousands of pounds out of pocket, but also badly damaged my reputation. So, ever the entrepreneur I had to very quickly think of a new money spinner to get the cash rolling in once more.

As ever, my old school chum Bunty Forbes-Grainger was there to save the day. After speaking to Bunty on the telephone for what seemed like hours, he came up with a rather brilliant plan for me to make a lot of cash in a rather simply devilish way. He explained that for a fee of £1000 he could arrange for a rather dubious sounding software company to host an online charity for me on my website. Iím very pleased to say that my new venture is called: The Snuffington-Smith Gorilla Charity Foundation.

So far, the number of people that have signed up to the charity has been very impressive. In the short time itís been online, Iíve had nearly a thousand subscribers and the numbers are growing daily. There are obviously more gullible animal lovers out there than I thought.

Hereís how the scheme works. Firstly subscribers are asked to make a modest donation of only £3 per month to help the endangered gorillas of Africa. Bunty came up with the brilliant plan to use gorillas as the featured animal, as we have our very own one here at Felchem Hall, our star attraction at the petting zoo. What the naive new subscriber doesnít realise is that their seemingly small donation of £3 is actually charged on their credit card per day and not as advertised per month. They are also tied to an 18 month contract that they canít legally get out of and an interest rate of 29.89% is charged on top of that too. The poor old hairy beasts do get some funding though as one penny from every £3 raised goes to an African wildlife sanctuary. The remaining £2.99 is siphoned off to an offshore company my accountant setup for me called SSHF (Snuffington-Smith Holiday Fund) There is also an initial charge of £18.49 to cover the cost of credit card charges and the fluffy toy gorilla, the rubbish that is supplied as a welcome Ďgiftí. The toy gorilla they receive is a complete load of old tat that I import from china, and the personalised gorilla adoption certificate and fact sheet is, to be honest an embarrassment. I bought them from a printers that was going bust and Iím not surprised looking at the badly printed sheet full of spelling mistakes and glaring errors. Since when has a gorilla been a monkey that lives in Asia?


 The quite frankly appalling Gorilla Factsheet.

Hopefully this will turn out to be a lovely little money spinner for me as Iíve calculated that each donor will be left about £2000 out of pocket. Iíll let you know the total raised for Ďcharityí in my next update.
 


January 2016
No wonder in this land.

Hello to you all. I do hope you had a wonderful Christmas and New Year (not chavs or gypsies). First things first, Iíd like to say a big thank you for the hundreds of emails I received congratulating me for getting rid of my awful wife. It seems as though the vast majority of my loyal devotees agree that her rather undignified Ďdisappearanceí was in everyoneís best interest. Sadly, my attempts to find another wife have so far been met with disappointment, but, ever the optimist Iím still looking for that special someone. Of course, it goes without saying; the lucky lady will have to be bloody loaded to be eligible to take my hand in matrimony.

You may remember that in my last update I explained how with the help of my old school chum, Bunty Forbes-Grainger and a dodgy software company I setup my very own wildlife Ďcharityí - The Snuffington-Smith Gorilla Charity Foundation. Things were going swimmingly at first, with literately thousands of pounds rolling in every week. I really did think that Buntyís seemingly great idea would put an end to my unrelenting money worries. Unfortunately for me, the money coming in came to an abrupt halt as several of the unwitting charity donators had started to realise that their credit card statements were alarmingly high. And so, yet another of my money making schemes came to a sticky end as I was investigated by the charity commission; prosecuted for gross misconduct and fined a huge sum. Luckily, a custodial sentence was not handed down to me as the head of the investigatory body happens to be a good friend of mine.

One day in early October I sat in my study with yet another mountain of bills at my side. I held my head in my hands and pondered how on earth I could dream-up yet another money making scheme to get me out of financial trouble. Then it hit me - Christmas. Yes, brilliant I thought to myself, with seasonal celebrations just around the corner; why not turn the whole estate into a Christmas winter wonderland event for the whole of December. I hurriedly telephoned my old pal, Bunty Forbes-Grainger to explain my great idea and get his thoughts on how to get the ball rolling so to speak. Bunty explained that for a fee of £1000 he could arrange the event for me and book all the necessary staff and attractions, and get a website and posters made to publicise the event too. I suppose I should have begun this blog entry with good news regarding my winter wonderland event, but sadly this is not the case.


My publicity image - Beneath this cool and suave exterior beats the heart of a troubled man.

Things started out splendidly with the old place looking fantastic in its albeit artificial winter appearance. Bunty had done a splendid job of organising the event as the whole of the estate was filled with marquees, a reindeer enclosure, Christmas market, a model polar bear, elf mannequins, an ice rink, miniature train, Christmas trees, fairy lights and many other seasonal items.

On the evening of 30th November, the eve before the great event was due to start, Bunty and I strolled through the estate, cigars in hand sipping gently steaming mulled wine. I was feeling rather pleased with myself as I walked through the grounds of Felchem Hall inspecting the scene that lay before me, knowing that if this event was successful my money troubles would be well and truly over. As we both became merry on mulled wine, Bunty told me that heíd come up with a yet another idea for how this event could make me even more money. He explained that he had contacts in the gambling trade and for a fee of £1000 could hastily get raffle tickets and scratch cards printed to sell at the event. And so, the next morning the gates of my great house opened to welcome the first paying guests to The Felchem Hall Winter Wonderland event.

Rather worryingly things went steeply downhill from the start of the event. Quite frankly I donít really know where to begin explaining the huge list of disasters, but Iíll give it a go as my therapist tells me that writing about my traumatic experiences can be very therapeutic. Utter balderdash if you ask me, but there you go. There was supposed to be real snow covering the site for the whole of the month-long event, but as it transpired the snow only lasted in total about two hours before it melted, as the extremely mild weather put paid to that. I thought things would be fine though as I arranged for a lorry load of fake polystyrene snow to be spread over the site. This too however had disastrous consequences as a gust of wind blew most of the Ďsnowí over a boundary hedge and onto the windscreen of an oncoming tractor. Unfortunately the vehicle lost control and careered into a ditch killing the driver. Luckily none of the public witnessed the tragic accident, so I quickly arranged for a couple of my assistants to dig a makeshift grave and bury the body in the ditch. They also cut up the tractor for scrap to hide any evidence. Itís a good job nobody saw these goings-on or I could have been in a lot more trouble I can tell you.


The reindeer enclosure. Note the lack of reindeer

When Bunty made the initial arrangements for the wonderland event there were supposed to be six real, Christmas bedecked reindeer in an enclosure for children to look at. Unfortunately only five of the mangy looking beasts turned up without any festive decorations. Four of these immediately got spooked by an elf and ran off into nearby woods and were promptly shot dead my farmer neighbour Cyril Kringe. It turns out that the mad farmer sold the reindeer meat to a group of dubious looking individuals who were running a stall at the event selling hotdogs and burgers. The deceitful bastards, who looked suspiciously like gypsies, had turned this meat into sausages and were selling them to the unsuspecting public. To add insult to injury, the last surviving reindeer bit a childís father in the balls. Its seems as though the idiot had become inebriated out of his tiny mind on the complimentary mulled wine, climbed into the animalís pen and tried to sexually abuse it. Iím not surprised the fool got smashed on the wine though, as the lethal concoction is made by my neighbour on his farm. Cyril Kringe makes the mulled Ďwineí, or rocket fuel as it is known locally from cider apples and God knows what else. The resulting brew is about 85% proof and is so strong he runs his tractor on the stuff.

awful Winter Wonderland Santa.
The awful Winter Wonderland Santa. Would you let your child sit on his knee?

Farmer Cyril Kringe prepares another batch of his infamous mulled wine
Farmer Cyril Kringe prepares another batch of his infamous mulled wine.

All of the above disasters happened on day one of my ill-fated event, by day two things had gone from bad to worse. It seems as though the mulled wine was very popular with not only the visiting parents (and some scummy looking children) but also with the on-site Christmas performers. Father Christmas got so drunk on the stuff that he punched a child in the face who had complained that his present had been padded out with sawdust to make it look bigger. His replacement was even worse; he too became intoxicated on mulled wine and exposed himself to one of the mothers who had to be treated for shock in hospital. Most of the elves were running around the site drunk and scaring children, one was caught, trousers round ankles having sex with another behind Santaís grotto. The ones that managed to remain sober were too busy selling raffle tickets and scratchcards to reach sales targets rather than help people navigate the site, much to the annoyance of many of the parents.


Some newspaper publicity I could have well done without.

On the third and as it turns out, final day of the event, things really took a turn for the worse. I was starting to feel rather worried by the previous days incidents as the number of visitors to the winter extravaganza had dwindled considerably. Obviously word had got out that the event was not exactly what it was cracked up to be. To be quite frank, the last day of the event was a complete and utter disaster. The gates had only been open for about an hour before one of the parents got so drunk on mulled wine he was found face down and unconscious with his trousers around his ankles next to an elf mannequin that had obviously been violated as its trousers had been ripped off and its backside was covered in what looked like seminal fluid. Just as a group of first aiders were about to treat the mannequin molester they were called away to help at not one but three far more harrowing incidents.


The aftermath of the miniature train accident
The aftermath of the miniature train accident

It seems as though one of the onsite contractors had electrocuted himself trying to steal electricity from the cables of an overhead electricity pylon to run the lights on his Christmas stall. Apparently his screams could be heard on the other side of the site. Other workers rushed to the scene, as they thought the smell of the burning corpse was the result of caterers cooking roast pork. From what I was told, the sight of his smoking charred remains, welded to the side of a metal framed snowman was not a pretty sight. The other incident involved a worker who fell into a snow machine and got shredded. The rescue services told me the resulting mess resembled melted raspberry ripple ice cream. By this time in proceedings I was starting to panic as the amount of children leaving the event in tears with their angry looking parents was growing by the minute. Just when I thought things couldnít get any worse I heard a loud bang and metallic scraping sound coming from the location of the miniature Santa train ride. As I rushed to the scene I started to feel rather bilious as I realised the train had somehow derailed and careered into a child, slicing off his leg. Of course the childís parents blamed me directly for this rather unfortunate accident and are now threatening to sue. I did try sending them flowers by some way of an apology but this just seemed to anger them even more.


The flowers I sent to the parents of the boy that tragically lost a leg

So, sadly my Winter Wonderland event was closed by health and safety officials after just three days. What had been ambitiously promoted as ďA spectacular and exciting Christmas experience for the whole family." had ended with the deaths of three people and a child losing a leg. I begrudgingly had to give refunds to hundreds following a barrage of complaints on social media. Iíve also had to pay various fines, so am now left about sixty thousand pounds out of pocket. On the plus side, it turns out there were no winners on the scratchcards or raffle tickets, so at least thatís one thing I didnít have to pay-out for.
 


Felchem Hall becomes a wedding venue.
May 2016

Hello to you all (not chavs or gypsies). I do hope your 2016 has been a prosperous one so far and you all had far better Christmases than the calamitous one I had. As you many have gathered if you read my last blog entry, 2015 did not end well for me as I was left approximately sixty thousand pounds out of pocket and left with my already badly tarnished reputation in tatters, due to the catastrophe that was my Winter Wonderland event.

I very quickly had to come up with a new money making scheme to get me back in my bank managerís good books, as my monthly statements were looking bleak to say the least. One morning in early March I received a phone call from my old chum Bunty Forbes-Grainger, he explained that heíd been having some thoughts about my latest financial woes and had come up with a money making idea. He explained that for a fee of £1000 he could arrange for a film company to record and distribute a DVD production documenting the history and day-to-day events at my ancestral home of Felchem Hall. Great, I thought to myself, a DVD would be a great seller in the gift shop and would really go down well with my adoring public. A few days later the production company arrived at Felchem hall and within the day the film was in the can. Bunty told me to leave the design and printing of the DVDís cover to him as he had contacts in that field. Like an idiot, I mistakenly went along with his advice, as when the six thousand finished discs turned up at the gift shop, ready to be put on the shelves, I immediately noticed a glaring error on the back cover.

Join international playboy and raconteur Major Henry Snuffington-Smith as he takes you on a guided tour of his magnificent country house - Felchem Hall, one of grandest stately homes in the country. In this beautifully produced film you will learn many fascinating facts about this Ďtreasure house of Englandí. Narrated by his old school friend and confidante Bunty Forbes-Grainger, this delightful DVD provides a unique glimpse of day-to-day life behind the scenes and meets the team responsible for handling the 10,000 visitors who visit the house, tearoom, health spa, gift shop and petting zoo each year. It also captures some of the magical moments of a year in the life of Henry Snuffington-Smith and his beautiful wife Lady Henrietta Sydenham - de Nork., for whom Felchem Hall is not only a business, it's a home.


The cover of my newly produced DVD complete with glaring error regarding my marital status.

Yes, youíve guessed it; the incompetent idiots had printed the covers with totally out of date information regarding my marital status. Where they got such inaccurate info from is anyoneís guess, but by this time I had already splashed out an additional £1000 for Bunty to get the bloody covers printed, so it was too late to do anything about it, so, the offending articles had to go on sale as they were. There was one silver lining to this rather dark cloud however. As I angrily threw a DVD across the gift shop in disgust, narrowing missing the head of a member of staff I suddenly came up with a rather brilliant idea Ė Weddings. Iíd been so preoccupied with my own disastrous marriage to Lady Henrietta Sydenham - de Nork and finding my next consort that Iíd completely ignored the fact that I could be making money from other peopleís nuptials here at Felchem Hall.

I quickly telephoned Bunty to get his invaluable business advice regarding how on earth I could get the grand house licensed as a wedding venue, as I knew getting something like this sorted out would not be easy or cheap for that matter either. Bunty explained that for a fee of £1000 he could make all the necessary arrangements and fast-track all the paperwork and legal side of things as he had a contact in the local council that deals with these complicated matters. Amazingly, only a matter of days later, my shiny new wedding venue licence landed on my doormat.

Shortly after my wedding venue seal of approval was granted I received my first booking for a wedding on the 7th of May. I had to get things organised rather hurriedly as I didnít expect to get my first reservation quite so quickly. As I hadnít had much experience in this sort of thing, I became rather flustered as to what to do next. I had to think back to my own disastrous wedding day to come up with ideas as to what would be needed for an event of this kind. First things first I thought to myself, a marquee to hold the ceremony and festivities in. After all, I didnít want hundreds of undesirables in the house, much better to keep the great unwashed in the garden, well away from valuable antiques and furniture etc.

After making numerous telephone calls to marquee hire companies, I rather foolishly chose the one with the cheapest quote. The next day a badly maintained looking truck came skidding to a halt, leaving ugly tyre tracks on the once immaculate lawn of Felchem Hall. As the scruffy looking driver stumbled out of the cab and sauntered towards me, holding a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, I was shocked to realise that his was a face I recognised. ďGot a tent for you guv, where do ya want it put up?Ē I might have bloody guessed Ė Chodbin Rankcock, circus owner and all-round rogue. My God, I thought to myself, this complete scoundrel has got a bloody nerve turning up here. I asked him if his circus business had gone bust, especially after the disastrous goings-on when I foolishly agreed to host his unspeakable show on my land last year. ďThe circus trade aint no good no more as I blame the fucking animal rights people for loss of trade and that. Thatís why Iíve diversified into the marquee hire business guvĒ What struck me most about this cretinís reply was not the bad language or the double negatives, but the use of the word Ďdiversifiedí. It seems as though gypsies have a much higher level of education than I was led to believe. A few hours later the rather rickety looking marquee that looked suspiciously like and old circus big top that had been painted white was erected and Mr Rankcock was on his way back to whatever stone heíd crawled from under, leaving a trail of black smoke behind him.

bloody awful wedding marquee
The bloody awful wedding marquee.

So, marquee erected, the next item on my wedding to-do list was to get the food and drink organised. After telephoning various outside catering companies, it quickly dawned on me that to get a few sandwiches, sausage rolls and pork pies and a bar organised by one of these firms would be hideously expensive and I didnít want this huge expenditure eating into my profit margins. So, ever the entrepreneur I came up with a much more cost-effective solution. You may remember that in my Christmas blog entry I mentioned that my farmer neighbour, Cyril Kringe makes his own alcoholic brew from cider apples that he rather ambitiously calls mulled wine. After contacting the daft old yokel he explained that he could sort me out with enough of his mulled wine and a hog roast to keep the hundred or so wedding guests entertained for a fraction of the cost of a professional catering firm.

A few days later the finishing touches had been made to the wedding marquee ready for the big day. I sent a member of staff to a local filling station to buy a few bunches of cheap flowers to brighten the inside of the tent up a bit, as it was looking rather drab with just some tables and chairs and not much else in it, well, apart from a rather large and gaudy mural of a clown sat astride an elephant. The disco had been arranged for the evening entertainment too. I gave a lad from the village a few pounds to do this, so that also saved me a small fortune.

And so, the big day arrived. At twelve oíclock precisely I proudly stood on the front lawn of Felchem hall wearing my best morning suit, pocket watch in hand eagerly awaiting the arrival of the wedding party. Half past twelve came and went, by this time I was starting to feel rather nervous and was wondering if anyone would show up at all. At preciously seventeen minutes past one the bride and groom finally turned up in what can only be described as the most hideous form of transport I have ever had the displeasure to witness; a bright pink Cinderella style coach pulled by four white horses with matching feather plumes on their heads.

hideous gypsy wedding coach
The hideous gypsy wedding coach

After the initial shock of observing probably the most tasteless thing Iíd ever seen, the full horror of the dayís events suddenly dawned on me - Gypsies! Oh my good God I thought to myself, Iíd completely forgotten to check the credentials of the couple whoíd booked their wedding here in the first place. Before I had time to regain my composure a large convoy of garish stretch limos, festooned with pink ribbons and vans towing even more garish looking caravans started to roll into the grounds of the estate. As the revoltingly dressed wedding guests started to noisily disembark from their vulgar vehicles and make their way into the marquee with their screaming children, my heart sank as I thought to myself; I just hope and pray this day goes without incident. I must admit that if an innocent bystander had witnessed the marquee filled with these poorly dressed, half-cut individuals stinking of cheap perfume and alcohol, they would have probably thought theyíd stumbled across some sort of prostitute convention.

gypsy scum couple wedding
The happy couple

I must say that I felt slightly more relieved when the actual wedding ceremony went without incident, although I found it difficult to refrain from laughing out loud when I saw the brideís mother. I can only describe her as looking like the corpse of a transsexual jimmy Savile lookalike. After the ceremony the guests were treated to the usual wedding speeches and yet again I had to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing out loud as the groom, best man and questionable father of the bride tried in vain to string a sentence together. I think there were probably more eloquent speeches made at a Neanderthalís wedding.

jimmy savile lookalike
The Mother of the Bride

gypsy scum girls
Some of the orange wedding guests

Speeches over and after the cutting of the huge ostentatious glittery princess style pink wedding cake, complete with flashing lights was done and dusted the evening entertainment started as Cyril Kringe turned up with eighty gallons of mulled wine and a hog roast on the back of his tractor. With the party in full swing, things started to get rather rowdy as the incredibly high alcohol content of the mulled wine and the deafening music started to take effect on the wedding guests. Not surprisingly early on in the proceedings a fight broke out between two young gypsy women who were pulling each otherís hair and screaming about which one of them had the best caravan or something like that. It was difficult to tell as they were both so drunk. Predictably that was not the only fight that broke out that night as the men soon started to get stuck in too. I thought I could see the ceiling of the marquee starting to bend alarmingly whilst I was in there paying Cyril Kringe for his services. I quickly made my way outside and was alarmed to see two of the gypsy men, stripped to the waist, drunkenly fighting on the roof of the marquee. As one of the morons swung a punch, the other one ducked, lost his balance and fell straight through the glass roof of the Cinderella coach that was parked underneath, killing him instantly. As you can imagine, the resulting mess was not a pretty sight and of course I didnít want the police involved, so a few of the guests wheeled the remains of the coach, complete with corpse into a nearby field where they hastily poured a few gallons of petrol over it and set it alight to hide any evidence. I can honestly say, thatís about the first and only time I was pleased to have gypsies on my land.

The hideous gypsy wedding coach goes up in smoke
The hideous gypsy wedding coach goes up in smoke.

gypsy scum girls fighting
Two of the female wedding guests get involved in a heated exchange on the steps of Felchem Hall

That was not the only disaster to occur that night though as it seems the hog roast didnít go down too well with the guests. Many of them had bouts of projectile vomiting, no doubt caused by the Cyrilís cretin of a sonís rudimentary cooking skills. Apparently, Cyril and his inbred son Jethro had to make a quick exit from proceedings as one of the guests allegedly found a pigís foreskin in their food.

It seems as though the fight atop the marquee had weakened the already unstable structure, as when the eveningís festivities were about to come to an end, the bloody thing collapsed, trapping a number of people inside. Luckily most of them were so inebriated that they hardly noticed what had just happened and crawled out from the remains of the tent and staggered back to their caravans. The only casualty from the collapse was an unconscious eighty year old lady, that I witnessed being dragged out by her ankles and dumped rather unceremoniously behind a rubbish skip.

The next morning I awoke early to inspect the inevitable damage that the previous nightís festivities had caused. As I viewed with dismay the mountain of rubbish strewn all over the place and the still smouldering Cinderella coach in the nearby field, I noticed a female figure running towards me. The hysterical woman turned out to be the bride, still dressed in her outrageous wedding dress. ďI aint not seen him all nightĒ she said with tears running down her ridiculous orange face. Apparently the marriage had not been consummated the previous night as the groom had disappeared without trace and could not be found anywhere. Just as I was reluctantly about to make a few phone calls to try and put a search party together, one of my staff members called my phone to say that heíd just been to feed the pigs in the nearby petting zoo and was shocked to find the wayward groom lying comatose in the pig sty; trousers round ankles, covered in shit with an empty bottle of champagne near his side. The bride failed to see the funny side when I said that the pig probably had a better night than she did.

gyspsy scum leave rubbish
Just some some of the mess left behind by the wedding guests

As you can probably imagine getting rid of the hordes of gypsies from my land and clearing up their mess was not an easy task as a week later the bastards were still here. Cyril Kringe came to the rescue though as he volunteered to fire a few rounds from his shotgun through the windows of their caravans. Luckily this had the desired effect and the bunch of unwanted visitors made a swift exit. On a lighter note, I canít wait to see the look on Chodbin Rankcockís face when he comes to collect the remains of his marquee. Since hosting the disastrous wedding I've had my staff erect signs all around the perimeter of Felchem Hall, so Hopefully this will deter any unwanted visitors from trespassing on my land.

no gysies notice piky scum



Will I be hosting anymore weddings here at Felchem Hall? I hear you ask. Well, not without first checking the credentials of the prospective couples thatís for sure!

A link to my wedding web page can be found here

 


Felchem Hall over 60's caravanning weekend.
September 2016

Good day to you all and welcome to my blog update for September. I suppose I should really start this journal entry by updating you all on my lavish plans to open the old place up as a grand wedding venue. As you may have read in my last blog entry, the first, and as it happens, only wedding Iíve held here at Felchem Hall didnít exactly go without incident. Yet again Iím in what can only be described as dire straits financially as the whole matrimonial venue thing has so far been an unmitigated disaster.

Hopefully this is soon set to change though as my good chum Bunty Forbes-Grainger has yet again come up with a cunning plan to get the dosh rolling in for me. Bunty contacted me several weeks ago after reading an article in the local newspaper about the hordes of unwashed gypsies that invaded the place with their, shall we say strange ideas of what a wedding should be all about and the carnage that ensued. Bunty explained that for a fee of £1000 he could arrange for a web design company to make a rather splendid website for me to promote weddings here a Felchem Hall and also offer his services as a wedding coordinator. Of course I jumped at the chance, and a few short weeks later my shiny new wedding site was built. As yet Iíve had no bookings from the site or any other source for that matter, but Iím confident someone will book their wedding here soon. So, as far as Iím concerned itís been £1000 well spent.

Buntyís other cunning plan was an idea that he came up with to use the grounds of the great hall for an over sixties caravan camping weekend. As you can probably guess if youíve read my other blog entries that the word Ďcaravaní immediately sent cold shivers of fear down my spine as the thought of more gypsies turning up here would be the last thing I wanted. Bunty immediately put my mind at ease though as he clarified that this event had absolutely nothing to do with these disagreeable scoundrels. Bunty explained that for a fee of £1000 he could arrange the whole event for me and sort out all the necessary paperwork etc.


The over 60's caravan club setup camp in my once immaculate grounds.

So, two weeks later a hundred or so pensioners started to arrive with their caravans ready for a weekend of, well, whatever pensioners usually do at these events. I rather foolishly assumed the weekend would consist of country walks in the grounds of Felchem hall, whist drives, croquet, picnics and other innocent activities. How wrong could I be? To say that I was stunned to see what these old codgers got up to was an understatement.


Just look at this monstrosity. It took a huge truck and several men just to get it onto the site.

Regular readers will know that Iím not the sort of person whom is easily shocked, but to witness what this lot of sleazy senior citizens got up to, was to put it mildly, totally sordid and disgusting. When the last of the caravans arrived and churned up the once immaculate lawn of the hall, the party took no time getting into full swing. Iíd previously made the grave error of allowing my farmer neighbour Cyril Kringe to turn up on my land to sell his now infamous Mulled Ďwineí and his inbred sonís pies. The ensemble of pensioners immediately tucked into the vile looking pies and drank as much of the mulled wine as they could and pour down their shrivelled necks. I have no idea what old man Kringe puts in his dubious looking brew, but it didnít take long before a large percentage of the group were completely smashed out of their tiny little minds. This is when sadly, things really started to get out of control.


The poster advertising the ill-fated event.

As night fell, the numbers of party goers was now approaching the two hundred mark. I was starting to feel rather anxious that yet more of these drunken ruffians were turning up in their caravans, churning up the fields and getting stuck in the mud. One of the caravans was so big that it needed a truck to pull it onto the site. As deafening music pumped out of a huge stack of speakers the revellers drunkenly danced around a huge fire as the air was filled with the intoxicating aroma of something that smelled suspiciously like marijuana. As the night went on I noticed that a line of cars had been parked in a tight group with headlights blazing and flashing. As I cautiously approached the cluster of cars to take a closer look, I noticed that nearly every car contained at least one woman and about three men or women writhing around on top of each other in a drunken orgy. If the sight of these inebriated copulating OAPís were not enough, each and every vehicle had and audience of raucous men surrounding it, trousers round ankles, furiously cheering and masturbating. I could look on no longer as the sight of thirty or so drunken perverts was starting to make me feel rather bilious to say the least.
 


One of the depraved party goers pictured in her caravan.

As I made my way back to the main festivities, hopefully without being seen, I looked on in horror as I noticed that one of the of the pissed pensioners had disconnected a huge propane gas bottle from the front of a caravan and hurled it onto the bonfire to the cheers of the crowd. It was at this point that I really started to panic as I realised that if I called the emergency services to hopefully quell the flames and put a halt to the eveningís festivities I would be in a whole lot of trouble with the local authorities and the revellers for that matter too. So, rather regrettably I had no choice but to take cover and wait for the inevitable to happen. Several agonising minutes later, the sides of the gas bottle bulged alarmingly as it made a loud hissing noise. Seconds later the gas canister exploded in an ear-splitting blast and shot off across the site like a bloody missile . As I got back onto my feet in a state of dazed confusion with the sound of the explosion still ringing in my ears, I noticed that the make-shift missile had left a huge Scorch mark all along the blackened grass leading to my gift shop, approximately fifty or so yards away. I took a closer look and saw the rather gruesome sight of the headless body of an old woman lying down in the projectile's path. If this hideous sight were not enough, it soon became apparent that the poor old dearís head had flown through the window of my gift shop, ending up on a bookshelf.

The next morning, a scene of devastation lay out before me. The grounds were strewn with empty beer and cider bottles, half eaten Kringeís pies, used condoms and gallons of effluent that had been decanted from the caravans. Luckily my house was left intact as my staff had been ordered to board up the windows of Felchem hall the previous night. It seem as though the whole Ďheadí incident had the desired effect though, as the amorous pensioners and their caravans were nowhere to be seen, well, there was one left, but my staff were soon instructed to set fire to it to destroy any evidence of the previous nightís festivities, plus they also had the rather unenviable task of clearing up the mess in the gift shop.


My staff destroy any evidence of the previous night's activities.

So yet again, my latest money making scheme has been a complete and utter disaster as the clean-up bill alone will run into thousands of pounds. Will I be hosting another caravanning weekend? I hear you ask, not bloody likely thatís for sure!

no dogging sign
I have since had this sign erected at the entrance of Felchem Hall to deter any other undesirables.
 


My Gorilla charity lives again.
April 2017

Good day to you all and welcome to my latest blog update. You may remember that in a previous blog entry I described how I was very cruelly prosecuted and fined a huge sum by the charities commission for a Ďcharityí I setup last year to help gorillas. This and other disastrous money making schemes, such as the ruinous over 60ís caravanning weekend, have left me literally hundreds of thousands of pounds out of pocket, so Iíve had to do something rather desperate to help my situation.

I recently had a telephone call from my good friend Bunty Forbes-Grainger who came up with an idea to re-launch my charity with slightly different wording in the terms and conditions to keep the charity commission lawyers at bay. Bunty informed me that for a fee of £1000 he could arrange for the same rather dodgy software company as Iíd hired before to construct an official looking contribution website for me. So, last week with some trepidation my new gorilla charity website was launched.

Henry snuffington-smith

Iím sitting here in my study, typing this entry whilst gently sipping a glass of champagne and Iím happy to report that In the short time the site has been online, the Ďdonationsí have been rolling in thick and fast. My predictions have once again been proven right as to how gullible the general public are. I do hope that this latest venture ends my money worries once and for all, as the head of the investigatory body, who investigate things like this happens to be a good friend of mine. Who knows, if this turns out to be a lovely little money spinner for me I may even soon find myself a wealthy woman to take my hand in matrimony. Iíll let you know the good news of how much money Iíve managed to raise in my next update. My Ďcharityí website can be found here

 

 


order your very own NSOTW T-Shirts, thongs, bags and stickers etc through our new online shop.

Tell a friend:

 

main page

No copyright infringement is intended. All images, audio, and video clips featured on this site are the sole property of their respective owners