A Right Royal Knees Up

A Right Royal Knees Up

Lord Blackwing drummed his fingers on the arm of his oak parlour chair. He detested waiting. Truth be told, he detested a lot of things, but waiting was chief among them. Rather, he thought to himself, he detested being made to wait.

Duke Reginald Churchill was late. Quite how he could fathom to be so was beyond Blackwing, as Churchill had called the house not half an hour ago stating that he must visit on the most important of business.

"That lollygagger has another two minutes before I tell Cockfoster to deny him entry,” Blackwing said aloud, although there was no-one else in the room to hear him. He glanced up at the antique clock hanging from the wall. Nearly 4pm. At 4.15 the estate of Fotheringham might be looking for a new Duke."

Just as Lord Blackwing was about to give up and head out to watch the polo match, Cockfoster, his butler of 40 years opened the large oak door that led to the entrance hall of Blackwing Manor.

“Milud, Reginald Churchill, Duke of Fotheringham here for you,” the butler said, bowing low.
“Yes, yes,” Blackwing replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just send him in, will you, and fetch us some tea.”
“Your will, Milud,” Cockfoster intoned passively, by now more than used to the idiosyncrasies and moods of his master.

A moment later, apologising profusely for his tardiness, Duke Reginald entered the room as the butler departed.

“Whatever it is you have to say can't be so important or it wouldn't have taken you so bloody long to get here,” Blackwing remarked, dispensing rather abruptly with the formalities.
“I was coming straight over, Lord Blackwing, I swear,” Reggie protested, “but then I bumped in to Clara Massingley on the way down from Fotheringham Hall, and you know I've been ever so keen to get married these last couple of years...”
“Married? Why, my good Duke, I thought you were already married,” Blackwing replied, utterly uninterested in the preamble.
“Lord Blackwing, you have known me since I was born. Have you ever seen me with a woman on my arm?”
“Yes, about a decade or so ago. I merely assumed that you had married and that Lady Churchill never left Fotheringham Hall.”
“Wouldn't you have expected to have been invited to the wedding?”
“Why on earth would I want to go to your wedding, Reginald?”

At that moment Cockfoster returned carrying a silver tea service and poured the drinks. He was well accustomed to his master's requirements, but even young Reginald's needs were known to him. The fellow spent enough time here with Lord Blackwing's son, Sir Ian and their other compatriot, William Darlington. Although in truth the Duke was so eager to gain his master's favour that the real reason he knew how he liked his tea is that it was a copy of Lord Blackwing's order. The tea poured, and the French Fancies stacked exactly 2 inches apart on the cake stand, Cockfoster once again took his leave.

“Enough dalliances,” Blackwing said, picking up one of the delicate cakes and inspecting it. “Cockfoster forgot to remove the bloody wrappers. Anyway, what was so important that you felt the need to belatedly rush all the way here?”
“It's ah...It's just...” Reginald stammered.
“Spit it out, man,” Blackwing, who had wrestled one of the French Fancies out of its wrapping and mostly in to his mouth, replied.
“IWF is closing down.”
“Is it now?”
“For good.”
“So?” The question hung in the air for a second and Reginald wasn't sure how to answer. He had been certain that Lord Blackwing would relish the news, but as with everything else his reaction had been one of considered indifference. “Good riddance to the blasted place.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Duke Reginald replied obsequiously. “But there's more.”
“How,” Blackwing began, “if it is shutting down, can there be more?”
“They are having a final show. A farewell shindig of sorts. And they have put out an open invitation to current and former IWF competitors.”
“I am utterly failing to understand why this matter was firstly so important and secondly deserves any more of my valuable time and attention.” Reginald saw the look in Lord Blackwing's eyes and knew he did not have long left to convince him that this was a good idea.
“It's simple, my Lord. Our time in IWF is the only true failure of your life.”
“Unless you count my idiot son,” Blackwing interjected.
“This would be an opportunity to write that wrong. To go back there and show those peasants that our failure was a mere anomaly, and that truly the Blackwing name is the most dominant in the world.”
Blackwing leaned forward, and for a moment Reginald almost felt as though the old man was about to offer him some fatherly advice. Rather, he was about to deliver a stinging rebuke.
“Reginald, my boy, I have nothing to gain from going back to that godforsaken colony and dealing with those inbred Yankees. You waste my time with this folly, and let me remind you whose idea it was to take part in that commoner's sport in the first place. A real gentleman's place is on the polo field or the cricket pitch, or, if his family are falling on slightly harder times, in a game of rugby, not in a wrestling ring.”

As if to denote that the conversation was over, Lord Blackwing picked up his copy of the Sunday Times from the table beside his chair. Reginald felt defeated as he sat there and watched Blackwing flick through the business section. Suddenly he realised exactly what he could do to convince his Lord to give the OK to the whole endeavour.

“Of course...” he began, idly trailing off and hoping that Blackwing would take the bait.
“Of course what?” His Lordship replied, lowering the paper.
“At least one of those Irish Insurgency Army bastards will be there. In a tag team match.”
“The bloody Irish are at it?” Blackwing said, a rage boiling up within him. “I will not be upstaged by the bloody Irish.” Reginald smiled, satisfied that he had managed to stir up the ire of his mentor. Blackwing folded the paper neatly and placed it on the table, even in his rage still a considered gentleman. “Where is my useless excuse for a boy, and his friend Darlington?”
“I believe they were out playing tennis with the Melsham twins, Laura and Sadie,” Reginald said, nonchalantly inspecting his well manicured fingernails for dirt.
“What are they doing flirting at a time like this?” Blackwing roared. “COCKFOSTER!”

The butler appeared promptly, as if he had been waiting outside the room the whole time.

“Milud?”
“Fetch my son and that Darlington boy and get them here immediately.”
“Very good, Milud,” Cockfoster said, backing out of the room.
“Well, Reginald. What are you waiting for?”
“Lord Blackwing?” Reginald replied.
“To the drawing room, boy! We have plans to make!”


“One Last Stand. A final opportunity for redemption. Almost exactly four miserable years ago four true English gentleman aimed to take back the colony of America that was so rightfully theirs. But sadly results fell rather short of our expectations.

It is my greatest shame that we did not bring Her Majesty's rule of law back to the rebellious peasant on the other side of the pond. This time we will not be so careless. This time we are here to win, to show the world what the British can do. The world will know that the Empire is not dead, but alive and kicking as we bring not only the rebellious Republic, but a host of our other indignant colonies to their wretched knees.

Let me begin with Gunther and 'Bollywood' Bulk Bogan. For those of a certain standing I may dispense with the formality of explaining why one should never trust a filthy Swede as far as you can throw him. They are a caddish people, obsessed with nudity and vile acts of public lovemaking, and their royal family are a rabble of inbred fiends. Gunther is a prime, vulgar example of the disgusting nature of their kind. He exemplifies everything that is wrong with the Scandinavian peoples in general and I am sure that Reginald, Sir Ian and William will have a fine time pummelling him to the ground.

I need say little more about his compatriot, for there is little to say. Bogan is a joke. An embarrassing footnote in the history of the world. Duke Reginald has faced him before, and were it not for that filthy Irishman Connor O'Shannon, would have bested not only him but one of the Right Honourable Gentlemen's other opponents in this contest, Sean Libby.

Sean Libby bloodied the nose of one of the Gentlemen's finest, Duke Reginald Churchill. Or rather, he thinks he did. In actuality Libby wouldn't have even come close to besting old Reggie if it wasn't for his Irish colleague O'Shannon.

But, you see, this time there is no O'Shannon to save you, Libby. I'd make a hefty wager that you won't be acting so tough when your big Irish brother isn't going to come to your aid. You'll show the defining trait of your pathetic nation, cowardice, and run away and hide like a scared child.

The full force of the British Empire will come down on you, hard, and I have a feeling that when your partner, Steel Angel, sees what we have in store for you, that he doesn't care enough about your sorry behind to do anything about it. And I wouldn't blame him. If I saw such fury in the eyes of men I would take a step back myself.

Finally we come to the Thunder From Down Under. Now, I'm going to be honest, chaps. I have no idea who in God's name you are, and little more do I care. However, your epithet suggests Antipodean origins, and that suggests that you must be the descendants of filthy criminals and whores. I have little time for your kind, but rest assured my chums and I will not spare you from our empirical beating.

Subjects, beware, for the rise of the Right Honourable Gentlemen is about to begin in earnest.”