God Save The Queen

A.K.A., the fascist regime

“You’re not holding out on us are you?” I thought Viscount David Linley [not shown] was approaching my table to schmooze. Nope. The English aristocrat had run out of Bolivian marching powder.

Otherwise, the custom furniture maker cum coke addict wouldn’t have given me the time of day.

Not that the erstwhile 2nd Earl of Snowdon, currently fifth in line to the throne, was bothered by anything as mundane as temporal concerns; his, mine or anyone’s.

My wife and I were hanging out, coke-less, with David Albert Charles Armstrong-Jones (yup, same guy) in the Château de Saron’s dining room.

It was just another sumptuous stop on the Moët et Chandon’s ridiculous (but not random) motorcycle tour of la belle pays.

An invite-only adventure for an assortment of aristos that included Lady Rose Flawn Thomas (above, the daughter of the Marquis of Salisbury) and Lady and Lord Strathcarron (below).

Hang on. Did I say the Mrs. and I were “hanging out” with Moët’s motley crew? The correct phrase is “barely tolerated by.” Actually, let’s go with “completely ignored.” At least until the participants ran out of blow.

The thing is, in the upper reaches of the British class system, birds of a feather flock together. The rest can flock off.

With the possible exception of a genetically sound servant (see: below), social climber or celebrity looking to enhance his or her Instagram and thus bank account.

Anyway, don’t get to thinking that Moët put up the nascent Farago family in the style to which our fellow travelers were accustomed. Can you say flea bag?

We sure did. After eating at the kid’s table, watching the Viscount and friends attempting to drown drug withdrawal with the world’s best bubbly.

We Don’t Need No Foul-Smelling Badges!

I had no idea what didn’t lie ahead at the start of the alcohol-sodden journey into the French countryside.

As our group set out from London, motorcycle-mounted members of the Met sped ahead to block every light, enabling a decidedly extra-legal speed sprint to the cross-channel ferry.

We were no more delayed by London’s incessant grid-lock than a high-value target heading to Heathrow.

Slicing through the traffic, I remember thinking I could get used to this. I also recall wondering how readers would feel about upper class bikers lording it over traffic-choked commuters.

Perfectly fine, actually.

Tattle Tale

At the time, I was a jobbing journo for Tattler.

Founded in 1709, Tattler was, is and always will be a “powerful mix of glamour, fashion, society and features.” Especially society. Aristocratic society.

In fact, Tattler puts the “sub” in “subscriber.” The glossy monthly mag remains the stroke book for readers who get off on upper class schadenfreude.

So much so it’s worth a peek at today’s scandalous post headlined…

Lady Delphi Primrose and the Belvoir Castle beater! It couple alarm bells are ringing as the Rosebery scion is reportedly dating a regular at the Duke of Rutland's estate

In case you didn’t know – why would you? – the “beater” in question has nothing to do with the aforementioned onanistic urges.

A beater is a servant who walks ahead of an upper class shooting party, beating the ground, flushing out game birds for shotgun destruction.

Speaking of digressions, I reckon “a regular” could become the politically correct term for a commoner.

If so, keep in mind that some commoners are more common than others. Including…

Dominic Inglis-Jones

Here’s the 118 500 (U.S. 411) on Lady Delphi’s prospective paramour.

A gentleman (at least to a point) whose last name was ideally suited to his soon-to-be former bird-scaring employment, double-barreled-wise.

Dominic’s father, Major Giles Vivian Inglis-Jones, served with the 1st Battalion, in The Queen’s Company, and commanded No 2 Company during a 1996 tour of Northern Ireland.

The Major was a Temporary Equerry to The Duke of Edinburgh, and went unbeaten on Stowe’s water polo team.

Inglis-Jones The Elder was a keen actor while studying at the Buckinghamshire school, playing Lenny in Of Mice and Men (no doubt his 6’8” statue was crucial in that particular casting).

Dominic seems to have followed in his father’s thespian footsteps, with a student paper praising his performance as Algernon Moncrieff in a production of The Importance of Being Earnest – Oscar Wilde’s play being somewhat more fitting practice for a season at Belvoir than Steinbeck.

English major that I am – 3rd Battalion – I’m still not sure what Tattler writer Isaac Bickerstaff meant by that catty remark.

One thing’s for sure: should the alarm bells announcing Dom’s high society arrival fail to convince the ex-beater to beat feet, Iglis-Jones is in for a rough ride.

Height and acting chops be damned; the son of the guy who looked after the Duke’s four-legged friends is no more likely to be treated with respect by the English upper class than the first Mrs. Farago and I were with the Moët mob of ‘87.

But there is an important difference…

The British Upper Class Aren’t Like You And Me

Should Lady Delphi (top of post) deign to marry DIJ, her husband will be the subject of endless whispered derision amongst her social set. As in the rest of his life. And the lives of his children. And his children’s children.

My ex-wife and I were forgotten before we even met Viscount Linley and his proverbial and literal peers. As memorable as your writer is, I have no worries about how they thought about me after. Because they didn’t. Not for a second.

All of which leads me to riff on F. Scott Fitzgerald’s observation that “the rich aren’t like you and me,” and Ernest Hemingway’s reply “Yes, they have more money.”

British aristocrats aren’t like you and me. Yes, they’re assholes.

BTW: the ponce posing for picture above was standing in front of my motorcycle.