Day 2 of the Virtual Launch of A Humble Companion and, as is only proper, Royalty take precedence.  A few words from Her Disputed but Nonetheless Welcome Majesty, Queen Caroline.

 

Ach, but vass kind off party is ziss?  Nussink to eat, nussink to trink! When We were Prinzess von Wales We have made many gay party with plenty Hock, plenty German sausage, but in Blackheath was not gut Society, only cattles und neighbours, very dull.  But now We are Queen!!! Now will come clambering many peoples to give respects to Us.

At ziss party vizout sausage shall be Great Writters of The Age.  We shall observe them. Whomundsoever pleases Us shall be permitted to write Astonishing True Story Off My Life. It must be manly writter. We shall like him to have black hairs und shapeful leg. He can come in Our closet and We shall be Dictator.

Mein Lady Hambleton says what if King also goes at ziss party? What if he makes tumults in Our Presence? We sink he will not und We will tell you why. Already at ziss party comes True Gentleman Pig, Ernest von Gloucester Spot. So there shall not be place for Big Fat Ugly Hanover Pig. Und if He does comes We shall blow out Our back bottoms at Him.

 For ziss party I sink I must heff new stockinks und fezzer for mein hat.

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Worried what to wear in the presence of a Royal fashionista? Sick of hearing about Pippa Middleton’s bum? Well click here if you think getting dressed is hard work in 2012. Or here if you’d like something a bit more… Regency.

 

And now, A Pig speaks.                                   

 It is a vile slander myth that pigs have bad manners. We have excellent social skills and are ideal guests at any hog wallow party. It is true that being slaves to our stomachs you’re likely to find us at the trough in the kitchen at parties, but we would always leave something for you Humans because we know which side our bread is buttered we’re well brought up animals. We understand the concept of sharing. As long as we get our share first.

We’re also chatty conversationalists, vocal and highly expressive with our jaws ears. You haven’t lived until you’ve had your leg slapped by the ears of a 42-stone boar. You’d like me if we met. And I’d like you back if you offered me some pig nuts and a quick scratch behind my front leg. I’d look you right in the swill bucket eye and you’d know you’d made a friend until the next meal for life.

 

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And they call them ‘dumb creatures.’ You can Follow Ernest on Twitter @ernestpig

Today’s final contributor is quite a catch. He won’t mind my telling you that he’s been ‘on the run’ since his escape from the pages of A Humble Companion a few weeks ago and it was touch and go whether he’d agree to appear but I’m delighted to say we persuaded him.  Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Dick Morphew.

 

Parties? Nothing but trouble, and I’ll quote you why. Expense. Havoc. And liberties being took. Myself, I’ve always worked for sober households. Mr Welche didn’t hold with parties. He’d seen enough of His Royal Nibs’s carryings on. And Mr Jack don’t have the time, on account of he’s busy catering jellies and bonbons for people with more money than sense. But I could tell you a tale or two. I’ve got my sources. You care to learn about parties, apply to me.

A person lets it be known he’s At Home, that there’s claret wine brought up from the cellar and vittles laid on the table, before he knows it the world and his wife’s pushing and shoving through his doors. He don’t know who half of them is but he dussen’t ask for fear of giving offence. In they come, ruckling up his carpets and wearing out his chairs. Glasses get broke. Good table linens get stained. And that’s only the commencement of it.

When men get puddled with drink, they’re as like as not to ruin your billiard table or take a pot shot at one of your hangcestors. Then there’s duels. Also dalliances. A good many of them’s brought on by parties. The worst of it though is The Royalties, for you see you can’t disinvite them and some of them’s holy terrors for a free feed.  So everybody’s on pins wondering if the Royalties’ll come, then if they do come everybody’s on pins till they go. And they’re light-fingered too. Any of your bits and bobs they take a fancy to, into the old Royal pocket that goes.

No, ask me, you’re better off noising it abroad that your cook’s got the Itch and your wine smells like week old cat’s pee. You can keep your parties.

 

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Well, well.

Tomorrow, more guest bloggers, including a Very Big Royal, more music, and the Quack Doctor will be in with a couple of hangover remedies, in case you’ve overdone the cat’s pee. 

Haven’t signed the Guest Book yet? Tsk, tsk.