Ixabert

There's something fundamentally unnatural about an aristocrat being forced to manufacture his own mystique by hand. What I want, more than anything, is the sort of "intro" sequence that appears at the beginning of a non-existent TV show about myself, but, owing to a regrettable failure on the part of civilisation, nobody has offered to manufacture one for me. Consequently, I'm reduced to the humiliating necessity of producing the dashed video myself. It's rather like being obliged to butter one's own toast: a perfectly survivable indignity, to be sure, but one which nevertheless strikes a devastating blow against the very roots of civilised existence when inflicted on a man of my peculiarly delicate temperament.

I fear i've unwittingly embarked on a career in prostitution. My landlady seems to regard the gratification of her carnal appetites as a perfectly legitimate condition of tenancy, & threatens me with immediate eviction if I should refuse to discharge my supposed conjugal duties.

I have therefore elected to regard myself as good looking. It is, you see, the more pleasant explanation, and I see no reason to burden myself with an unpleasant explanation when a more flattering one is at hand. That would be the height of folly.

If one finds oneself attracting the fascinated stares of retards, babies, & senile old geezers, one must be either exceedingly ugly or frightfully good-looking, as the poor creatures haven't the wit to know when to turn their eyes elsewhere.

Last night I took offence at people staring at me. "WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU GAWPING AT? I HAVE A FACE; SO HAVE YOU! NOW CLOSE YOUR GOBS & BUGGER OFF!!" The entire crowd fled in terror, leaving me feeling a trifle like the Big Bad Wolf & astonished at the fragility of modern men.

I say, I should like to grant certain users' GIFs & videos the privilege of autoplay, whilst declining to indulge the rest of 'em