The Gentleman answers your questions.

Hello there,

A friend asked me a poignant question the other day, he said “Brixley, I was wondering if you could give me some advice of the gentlemanly nature?”.  Of course I obliged him and now he knows the proper etiquette when meeting the Belorussian Prime Minister.

Sean Connery and Michael Caine demonstrate the correct protocol for meeting the Belorussian Prime Minister.

This got Griffith and I thinking that we should make our expansive gentlemanly knowledge accessible to our finely dressed readers by answering their questions with regards to any gentlemanly pursuit, fact or opinion they can think of.

Sean Connery and Michael Caine show the correct way to play Paper, Scissors, Rock whilst smoking cigars. Notice the moderator in the middle making sure it'a a fair game.

Therefore we beseech you to stick a piece of paper into your typewriter, dictate a letter, or perhaps just ask us a question in the comments section at the bottom of this article and we will do our best to answer it.  You can also send your question to our twitter @thegentlemanblg or via the Facebook were you can ‘like’ us (links for these can be found at the bottom of the page).

Hemingway sits in his office whilst typing up a question for The Gentleman.

So there you have it.

G.O. Brixley

H.L. Griffith

Improved York

Ha!

Brixley at your service.  Readers, you will be pleasured to hear that I was able to submit my paper to J.R. Bingham and it shall be publicated in the next issue of Pty. Ltd. magazine.  I had to send the paper to J.R. Bingham via carrier pigeon from Tunis (when I say paper I mean numerous cocktail napkins and when I say pigeon I mean albatross) which reached his publishing house just outside Lyon in a mere 3 days.

This week I had to fly to New York to see what’s left of Dave Brubeck playing his seminal jazz album Time Out on a piano accordion.  Unfortunately I left my jazz tuxedo in Portugal and had to wear my safari tuxedo which still smelt like zebra.  However Roget (the typical henchman of Oxford and Webster) had somehow managed to pick up my trail, odor and scent, probably due to my overpowering musk and I was forcibly made to exeunt stage left as it were.

Luckily for me I pulled what is known as an Indiana Jones and procured the services of an oriental child taxi driver to make my timely getaway.  Until next timeness.

Good old Georgey boy

G.O. Brixley

Monkeytini

Salutations

Brixley here.  Well the week of celebtratoriums are over at last and it’s back to the grind.   The grind of course being trying to get out of this jungle with most of the foreign diplomats intact.  The Belarussian Ambassador was found although he had lost 3 toes to a turtle  (a little price to pay to Particus the patron saint of soirees).  Unfortunately I was unable to recover my cocktail shaker that was given to me by S.J. Penn but I was able to replace it with the skull of the monkey that stole it in the first place (talk about retribution), and I can happily report that it shakes a mean Martini.

I have one week to get out of this jungle and submit my paper on ‘the effects on diplomatic relations in North-East Europe post 1978 due to inflated infrastructure maintenance costs’ to my publisher, J.R. Bingham for the next issue of Pty. Ltd. magazine.  This should be easier than having to attend the triennial Save the Monkey’s cocktail evening.  It could get ugly if I am asked to mix any martinis. Maybe I should contact S.J. Penn and ask him if he has any spare bar paraphernalia.  Until soon.

G.O. Brixley

Little help.

Aloha,

Brixley again, and again.  Just a little side note to my last postlog.  The party has been partying deep in the forest for an incalculable number of hours since I lost my Rolex to the Prince of Switzerland in a game of Jungle Poker.  The Belarussian Ambassador was last seen riding his zebra (used in our Polo match) westwards (I say riding but it was more holding on for dear life).  We also attempted a reinactmentcital of the animal football match from ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks’ however it failed when Lord Paddington shot the lion who in turn scored an own-goal.  Besides we didn’t have a kangaroo (why there was a kangaroo in Africa only Disney will ever know).

One more thing.  I dropped my martini shaker in the Zambezi so if anyone downstream could have a look for it, it would be much appreciated.

G.O. Brixley

Safariism

Hai

Brixley hear.  Well.  This week readers, I have been in the deepest, darkest parts of Africa on a Safari.  Why you say? In celebratorium of the 3rd anniversation of the British Ambassadors famed Safari Party.  Therefore how should we celebrate? By going on a Safari. Logication at it’s best.

Most of the foreign diplomats are here along with a couple of the usual Monarchs.  However horrorium struck on the third night when we ran out of cocktail olives.  Luckily I came through with my diverse knowledge and undergraduate degree of African berries and soon we were having tropical cocktails aplenty.

During the fourth day on elephant-back the Korean Ambassador had his toupee stolen by a baboon and all four hundred of us had to scour the surrounding scrub for it.  We never found it but I did take a pictograph of a particularly hirsute Baboon.

Tonight we have reached our destination and will set up camp for of this seasons most anticipated shindigs.

In the mean time, remember the golden rule: women first.

G.O. Brixley

Back in Back

Bonjour

Brixley here, that’s write, I’m back writing.  I has been some months since my last weblog but I’m finale back at the computypewriter and with a new menu of delicious stories about my galavantravels abroad. Firstly one should knote that it is a new year.  So happy etc. Secondous to that is the fact that Oxford and Webster have both brought out new volumes of their infamous dictionaries.  Luckily for me I stole all Oxford’s nude portraits of Queen Victoria and now have some leverage to bargain with.  No more shall my wordsmithing be in vain.  Webster on the secondhand may be harder to sway.  Something has come to my attention also, and that is the increasing decrease of manners in the public arena.  I shall be addressing this problem in subsequent postages.

Tip of the day: If you can’t find any single malt scotch at a party, scold your mouth on a particularly hot appetiser and drink a blend.

Make sure your Scotch is labelled.

G.O. Brixley

Diarist 2

Of course,

Brixley here, once again my fine feathered friendlinarians I shall be leaving you with a short excerpt from one of my earliest diaries, Moe.  Never fear howeverly since I shall be updaltering you on the post-math of the Disco Tent. Enjoy.

Dear Moe 23/5.3/33

My manuscript for Wilhelm Doomtron and the Robot Spacebot has once again been rejected.  I don’t see why the editor couldn’t understand Wilhelm’s motivation behind purchasing such vast quantities of cheese.  They must be anti-dairy or communist.

In other news, I have my first job for the paper.  I have to write an article on the benefits of Pythagoras Theorem in life, so far I’m drawing blanks although maybe my pen needs refilling.  J.R. Bingham has agreed to proof my work for an Old Fashioned which I have decided to give him after proofing, since he can’t hold his drink.

I have been invited to a soiree at the town hall on Thursday so I better go and purchase a nice tuxedo for the occasion.  Until then.

G.O. Brixley

Ah, I remember that first tuxedo like it was yesterday.

G.O. Brixley

Disco-Tent

Ha!

Brixley here, correct.  Dear readistines, the Disco Tent went by without a hitch.  Wait, what am I saying? It was hitched alright.  Hitched like a Vegas drunk. Now then, the party started off like any other Eastern European cocktail party for the megarich, with explosions and champagne poured into golden goblets by ninjas on elephant back.  However after this I spy Roget looking sly, suspicious and dubious.  Now was my chance readers, my chance to infiltrate Webster and Oxford’s syndicate of words.  With a quick strike to the head with a poker Roget was down, out and unconscious.  I switched into his Thesarian dinner suit and slipped on his pencil moustache. Pity Oxford and Webster were not in attendance and so I had no option but to proceed knocking people out and changing into their clothes for the rest of the festivities.

I leave you with a picture of me playing ‘spin the bottle’ with a calculator and an umbrella.

G.O. Brixley

Updalterations

Indeed,

Brixley here.  Well loyal readers (and the disloyal ones), for the past 2 months I have been incognito.  Let me fill in some gaps for you; Oxford did not die from his train carriage plunge (bastard), Webster has been hotmost on my tail with the now horribly disfigured Oxford, I beat them in the karaoke competition and I had to hide out in a monastery in rural Italy guised as a monk until the heat was off.

Unfotunatarily I had chosen the wrong attire (a Cardinal’s garb) and whilst mingling at a wine and cheese tasting I was sprung by one of Oxford and Webster’s cronies, Roget.  He attacked yours truly with force, might and effort but I was able to impediment his onslaught with a wheel of Stilton and make my timely escapedom.  I was able to acquire passage to the Austro-Hungarian Empire by way of steam vessel and have since been invited to a pre-winter cocktail/disco party hosted by the Archduke.  On the invite is says “Now is the winter of our Disco-Tent”.  I have donned my tuxedo so wish me luck, and let’s hope Roget has not tracked me thus farmost.

G.O. Brixley

Diarist

Good,

Brixley hear? Yes I can.  A sackful of apologies readers as I have been AWOL for some time, or perhaps AWOB where the word ‘leave’ has been replaces by the word ‘blog’. Anyway whilst I am not at liberty to disclose my current location or  porpoise I will leave you with an extract from one of my earliest diaries; Larry.

Dear Larry 1/23/12

I am at a crossroad in the novella I am writing.  My protagonist, Wilhelm Doomtron can go in either one of two directionists.  Either he could take his small bookbinding racket to the big time in Dodge city where the women are as numerous as hot dinners or he could take a sojourn to southern Italy where his uncle Philip runs a fishing operation that is controlled by aliens who live at the center of the earth.  I think I shall have to consult my next-door neighbour J.R. Bingham.

G.O. Brixley

Until later,

G.O. Brixley