It is with graet pleasure and felicitations that the Board and High Council of the Grand Lodge of the United & Consolidated Chapters of the Hurley-Pugh Enthusiasts' Club, (Graet Britain, Colonies & Empire) wish all Members, their Ladies, Platonic Close Gentleman Friends and Named Servants Above Stairs all the very best of Season's Greetings.
At this time of the year, however, when Winter's Chill draws in and the challenge of cold-starting an H-P separates the Men from the Boys, and the anniversary of the Nativity and Herod's early experiments in Applied Eugenics (so admired by Old Sir John Hurley and referred to tangentially in his amusing 1932 Caligulan Society pamphlet Why We Must Slaughter The Children Of The Poor) is upon us, then we should reflect on the plight of those less fortunate than ourselves.
Yes, as we tuck into the plump Christmas goose, a vast selection of potted meats, side roasts, more than a score of appropriately over-cooked indigenous and exotic vegetables and the rest of the trimmings, all washed down with several half-dozen of a good '37 Snickelgrüber-Göebbels hock and then a rather decent '43 Chateau Vichy-Petain followed by copious brandies and Port - with the Yule log crackling merrily in the grate while the ripe young chambermaids and handsome, firm-bodied village lads serenade us from around the heavily-heriot-laden tree with seasonal ditties ("Oh Come All Ye Faithful" and "Krystal Nacht" being Pughster favourites!) - let us remember all those not lucky enough to have owned or ridden an example of the Graet Marque.
And we should even spare a moment (just after Pudding and just before Postman's Knock with a particularly precocious niece is the best moment) for those not blessed with being born Englishmen - or, in the second instance, Scotsmen, Welshmen, Ulstermen and Manxmen - and raise a glass to them.
I give you the Toast: "Damn their Alien Eyes! May They Starve in the Midst of Plenty and Rot in Hell!"
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