Who Is Reginald Pennyfarthing?

Over the past few years, several Americans have approached me, either at my flat or via telephone, to ask if I would help this or that historical society with this or that study. As a man of distinction hardly imaginable for the average American, I always declined--politely of course, and in high style. However, as my gambling debts rose and the number of suitors for my very special, very British gift for refined cultural studies fell, I was faced with an unnerving decision: to remain in Bassetlaw, waiting for ne'er-do-wells to break my thumbs and possibly, if one particularly perturbed bookies held true to his word, sodomize me with a cricket bat; or leave my beloved England for Texas, to work on a rarely-read blog for meagre pay and my thumbs (and virgin bum) in tact.


Reluctantly, I chose Texas.


In my travels, I have seen the basest of humanity, from the barbarous natives of the Australian outback to the overpriced slags in Amsterdam, and I'm not sure either could be outdone by my colleague Mr Crisp, in either boorishness or lack of culture. Operating under the millstone of paltry wages, I have taken up quarters with Crisp, an experience that, if nothing else, has proven that there is ample practical support for every negative American stereotype out there. If not swilling beer or watching Encino Man on DVD (without doubt the worst film I have ever seen), Crisp can be found engaged in the very American practice of scratching oneself while staring blankly at the ceiling. What he lacks in savoir-faire, he makes up for in a mouth fouler than most cesspools I've come across while travelling abroad. In this vein, I'd like to halt the introduction for a moment, in lieu of a plea: if you've any mercy in your heart, you will read this wretched blog if only long enough to liberate me from this abject shabbiness.


I've noticed since my arrival the attention of more than a few curious eyes, drawn, undoubtedly, by my rarely matched sense of style, and my persistent yet understated love for all things elegant. This, again, is understandable. Since birth, I have prescribed to the lost art of dandyism, a lifestyle marked by garish fashion, flamboyant gait, and an unflappable facade of leisureliness. At the age of four I was scolded by my father, a Prometheus Pennyfarthing, Esq., for joining in a neighbourhood football match (that's "soccer," for you animals). This was a rare misstep and ever since, I have refrained from engaging in such "manly" trifles as football, hunting, and heterosexual copulation, choosing instead to devote my time to the arts, fashion, and cultivating an unmistakable air of superiority. In the spirit of familiarity, here is a short list of things I rather fancy:

• Peacock feathers, to be worn in one's hat or front pocket



• High stockings



• Brandy



• Belittling the natives



• Tea



• Moustaches, and moustache accessories (wax, combs and the like)



• Dignified travel

Here if the reader finds himself asking, "What is dignified travel?," he may cease at once, excuse himself from the screen and go watch a Friends rerun on cable, something a bit less demanding of his undoubtedly sloping brow. Travel, by definition, can be done by anyone. Gyppos, by definition, are travellers, and if I fancied myself as having a thing in common with those mealy-mouthed savages, I would summarily turn to what the Japanese call hara-kiri. The dignified traveller is almost always an Englishman, one who upholds a sense of leisurely elegance throughout his oft-trying journeys abroad. This may mean using the natives as human furniture; it may mean shooting an endangered species and chuckling about it over tea; it almost always means deriding local customs in a journal--always leather-bound, and always carried in the breast pocket.

This brings us back to my association with the woefully undignified Mr Crisp. Commissioned by Crisp, and in a leather-bound journal kept in the front breast pocket, I took to a study of the North Texas suburb of Farmers Branch. In the coming weeks, I will be delivering a concise history of the city, as well as a sort of traveler's log, detailing the good and the bad of my experiences; it will invariably lean toward the latter. Additionally, I will review movies, critique Seppo culture and take questions from the public in an attempt to educate the reader on all matter of dandyism. In hopes of avoiding banality, I'll answer in advance some of your more inevitable, and pressing questions:

1. Am I a Dandy? No, you are not.





2. How might I become a Dandy? Impossible, I'm afraid. Dandies are born, not made.





3. Can I take you out to dinner? Perhaps, (a) if you can afford it, and (b) if you are sufficiently attractive and stylish--doubtful in both cases.

To say I will look forward to acquainting myself with your social mores, fielding your questions and eating your food would be, beyond a betrayal of my gallant ways, a boldface lie. However, the fates have intervened--for reasons beyond my comprehension--to bring us together, and I will approach this latest and most trying portion of my life, as any true dandy, with an easy smile on my face.

Until then, may your stockings stay high, your locks hang low, and may your moustache curl delightfully at each end.

Cheerio,

Reginald T. Pennyfarthing