Never let it be said that I, Lord Blog of the Amex, am in any way uncaring for the mass of impoverished humanity toiling at my gates. My esteemed ancestors were nothing less than magnanimous in their treatment of the paups and it has been my burden to continue this heritage of family sacrifice. My grandfather, in clearing the serfs from their hovels to make way for the new safari park, generously permitted them to groom the lions before being fed to them and my father – admittedly belatedly – granted our few remaining plantation slaves in Sussex their freedom when I sold the land they worked to build the M23 through the estate in the seventies.
As we are now prevented from making sensible use of the local hoi polloi by chaining them to the treadmills, I have graciously allowed “hardworking families”, as I understand we must now call them, to contribute to paying my energy bills by consenting to have these atrocities known, I gather, as “wind turbines” and “solar panels” erected within the grounds – though, of course, not within sight of Blog manor house itself but carefully hidden amongst the servants’ huts. Which may become a problem, I understand, when the fracking takes place directly beneath them next year. Still, I expect a few foul smells and rumbles won’t be noticed amongst that particular element of the community. If Members of Parliament – or “commoners”, as I prefer to think of them — are to have the cost of their moats and duck houses met from the public purse, and if the lower orders are to enjoy their flat screen televisions and foreign holidays on the state – as the Daily Mail regularly informs me they do – then, at the very least, a chap should be able to make a few bob from his assets.
The commies that now run the country have, unbelievably, decided that a gentleman’s property is no longer to be his to do as he pleases. Something called “open countryside access” of all things – damned cheek! It’s not for nothing that the Blog family coat of arms has, for over a thousand years, borne the words Eff Offium, Accessum Prohibitum and a herd of pit bulls ascendant on ratepayers rampant. Well, call me an old softy, but I have resolved to enter fully into the spirit this year and have opened up the family window box for the poor unwashed to enjoy for two hours at Easter, which should bring in a bit of income from the car parking and the sale of scented candles and other unwanted tat.
Blog Manor: the under butler’s exercise yard
Tightly controlled of course. You can’t have them just wandering about willy nilly, frightening the horses, and the gamekeepers have strict instructions to deal with anyone who dares step onto the grass by setting traps or pouring boiling port from the battlements. But I’m assured it will do them good and help to keep the cholera in check.
We like to offer a warm welcome to our “guests”
I gather that so-called “planning” minister Boles – or some such fellow – hopes to ingratiate himself with his betters by allowing the gentry to knock down a few old barns on the estate and put up the odd hacienda in their stead without the bloody nuisance of having to go cap in hand to the d*mn*d planners! Well, fair enough, I suppose, as far as it goes, but clearly not far enough. When a peer of the realm can demolish a peasant’s bungalow or put a wrecking ball through any “affordable housing” (I mean, just what is that?) in the vicinity and replace with a few five bed “Executive des res” without fear of being tied up in red tape and claptrap, then I might just start to believe that perhaps the country is still worth saving.
Dined out with young Grantham last week, by the way. Great improvement on his old man, if I may say so. Lot of tosh about having to stop horse-whipping the Downton servants, and something called ethnic investment and sustainable land management. Well, I’m pleased to say Grantham fils has consigned that particular load of manure to the composting bins of history and properly put his faith in the wealth makers that you can trust. I gather he’s planning to relieve whatever the collective term is for hedge fund managers and investment bankers (a charm? an avarice?) of their hard-earned bonuses by hosting a weekend house party of synchronised asset stripping and quantitative easing – new money of course, but you can’t have everything.
Lord Blog planning the first phase of his luxury golf course and spa, once the riff raff have been removed
 In tune with the straightened circumstances in which I am now obliged to live, this suffix is available for sponsorship: my bursar is currently in negotiations with both British Nuclear Fuels and Lidl. As that pinko, Cameron, has it: We are all truly in it together.