Jeeves and Wooster
::as requested by katie__pillar::
I’m quite a jolly chap, you know. Everyone says so down at the Drones, and you won’t meet a finer bunch of men. Oh, everyone knows old Oofy can’t bear to part with the moolah, and Boko… well, dashed fond of the chap and all that, but you can’t deny he’s a fairly hopeless specimen most of the time. But over all and generally speaking, a sterling collection. Men you would be proud to have at your shoulder, lance in hand, when you get into a spot of bother with the natives.
So when I am hailed as a jolly chap, I tend to listen. I soak up their advice and counsel, and pay heed. But a sad day has dawned in the Wooster world. As much as it grieves me to say, the Drones have got it wrong. Young Bertram Wilberforce is not jolly. There’s a jaunty couplet Jeeves trotted out the other day about wasting years and tears over a woman, and by Jove he’s got it right.
You may well ask, not being completely up to date with the Wooster happenings, what has happened since last I bared my all to you. And I shall tell you. I fell in love. Much in the same way in which Bingo Little is prone to do but with much less in the way of discretion. I told Jeeves the story of my love, ending on the triumphant finale of my plans to propose to the lady in question, which in any self-respecting warm-blooded Englishman would have warmed the cockles of the heart, when Jeeves raised his eyebrow the regulation eighth-of-an-inch, and regretted to inform me that if that were the case, he would perforce tender his resignation!
Well, I mean to say, dash it! The man is a tyrant, I’ve often said it. Bother of the thing is, he has… what do you call it? Leveret? No, that’s something else. Leverage, that’s it! He has leverage. That’s the thing about Jeeves, you see. The man’s a marvel, and I dashed well can’t do without him. Hence the long f. No, when it comes down to a choice between Jeeves and a golden curl and shapely ankle, Jeeves wins the race by a length.