I have noticed of late that the club has been singled out by the nosy media as being an establishment where too much drinking takes place. Who is to say what is too much and what is not? The criticism is especially rich coming from so-called social commentators, several of whom I know for a fact have not drawn a sober breath in years. Bah!
I always think I would have liked to have been alive in the early 1820s. It was essentially the end of the Romantic era, for the classic English poet.
It must have been with a deep sense of melancholy that Louis XIII of France heard from doctors on May 14, 1643, that he had less than an hour to live. The king answered: “Ah! Good news.”
Let there be no misunderstanding, I love my club (the home of homes) but once in a while I am hard pressed not to shout “Enough!”
Big news. There was a break-out last week from the Tired Fawn, or, as we like to call it, the Last Roundup. This is where families commit their loved ones when they can no longer be bothered to look after dribbling relatives.
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