The idle ramblings of a Jack of some trades, Master of none

Jul 26, 2011

Worcester? Wooster.

Recently, a letter allegedly written by Bertram Wooster was discovered in America. It was published in the Conning Tower column of the New York Tribune, and complained about the graphic nature of Grantland Rice's writings on boxing:
Grantland, Priceless Old Bea, Is Off in Florida, But He Shall Ever So Well Be Spoken To, We Mean to Say
My Dear Old Soul:
I hate to bother and all that sort of thing, but if you've a spare moment I wish you'd toddle down the passage and speak to Grantland Rice. I mean to say, all that stuff he wrote in yesterday's jolly old issue about chappies being "chopped into pink ribbons" and the blighter with the "red grin that bubbled gore." What I mean is, he doesn't seem to realize that we lads who take in the Tribune read it at breakfast, and, believe me, dear old son, when Jeeves, my man, slipped a couple of fried eggs in front of me just at what you might call the psychological moment, it was a near thing, laddie, a very near thing. Jolly old Rice, I've no doubt, is one of those healthy, hearty fellows who skip out of bed like two-year-olds and feel perfectly topping before breakfast, but in my case - well, you know how it is. I'm never much of a lad until after the morning meal. And, when it comes to having to breakfast on red grins and bubbling gore, well, I mean to say, what! I mean, you know what I mean, I mean!
Well, that's all. Cheerio and all that sort of rot! Godd-bye-ee!
Bertie Wooster
(per pro P. G. Wodehouse, Secy.)


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