The Master

This is a very public spirited blog and in the short time that it has existed we have been struck by the appalling level of English comprehension, grammar and spelling that seems to persist in the blogosphere. We disapprove and can do no better than to refer potential commentators to that master of English prose, Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse. We therefore quote an extract below, wherein Ronald Eustace Psmith pays a call on the mother of an old school friend.

"A small maid-of-all work appeared in answer to the bell, and stood transfixed as the visitor, producing a monocle, placed it in his right eye and inspected her through it.

“A warm afternoon,” he said cordially.

“Yes, sir.”

“But pleasant,” urged the young man. “Tell me, is Mrs. Jackson at home?”

“No, sir.”

“Not at home?”

“No, sir.”

The young man sighed.

“Ah, well,” he said, “we must always remember that these disappointments are sent to us for some good purpose. No doubt they make us more spiritual. Will you inform her that I called. The name is Psmith. P-smith.”

“Peasmith, sir?”

“No, no. P-s-m-i-t-h. I should explain to you that I started life without the initial letter, and my father always clung ruggedly to the plain Smith. But it seemed to me that there were so many Smiths in the world that a little variety might well be introduced. Smythe I look on as a cowardly evasion, nor do I approve of the too prevalent custom of tacking another name on in front by means of a hyphen. So I decided to adopt the Psmith. The p, I should add for your guidance, is silent, as in phthisis, psychic, and ptarmigan. You follow me?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“You don’t think,” he said anxiously, “that I did wrong in pursuing this course?”

“N-no, sir.”

Splendid!” said the young man, flicking a speck of dust from his sleeve. “Splendid! Splendid!”

We would urge all of those readers anxious to make their views known to ourselves to study the works of the immortal Wodehouse with great care. Otherwise you are going to get fucking crucified.