18TH CENTURY CLUB F.A.Q.
A brief explanation as to the origins of The 18th Century Club.
Why is it called the 18th Century Club when you're clearly the epitome of Victorian manhood?
Do you assume then, that the Order of Water Rats is comprised entirely of semi-aquatic mammals? Of course not. We are The 18th Century Club in honour of the century in which the Gentleman's Club, as we know it, first sprang into being.
Who decides on the names?
The Founder Members bestow appellations based upon the character and exploits of those inducted.
How often do you induct new members?
When the time is right, the books are opened. Following the initial recruitment of the original cohort, members have been invited to join at the average rate of one per year.
Has anyone been thrown out?
The Laird of the Highlands better pull his bloody socks up, that's for sure.
Do you have guest members?
We have "Associates" who are known to the Society, and held in considerable esteem, though not fully snuggled into our bosom.
Are you all frightfully witty and clever and handsome?
Yes.
How can I become a member?
By invitation only. Various strictures apply, but in the first instance all members must have known the Founder Members for at least ten years, and must have put them up at their place, providing a massive feast and limitless booze.
What are the aims of the Society?
Rather than bleat on about the miseries of post-modern existence, we choose rather to glory in the benefits of our good fortune. e.g. - consider all the amazing things at your disposal - freedom to travel, exotic food and drinks, light, heat, water, carpets, cigars, and chocolate - sink me, you don't know you're bloody born.
100 years ago, you'd already be dead at your age.
Why is the Ladies' page still empty?
A gentleman never rushes the fairer sex. When they are ready, their delicate hands my deem to scribe.
A brief explanation as to the origins of The 18th Century Club.
It began, as I recall, one particularly gin soaked evening several years ago, as the final embers of the 20th Century spluttered like damp logs in the black hearth of Time.
Myself and Lord Arse, deep in our cups and bloated on fine victuals, too drunk for coherent discourse, gazed about us in our stupor and took stock of our surroundings as we gnawed at the stubs of fine cigars. (The ladies, sensibly, had retired).
The heavy drapes were pulled to, closing off the wind that moaned through the gaps in the cracked window frames. The rain hammered on the glass like grapeshot. Inside, the room was lighted by numerous candles and the orange glow of the fire, these reflecting back from the bottles and dishes that littered the ancient oak table. The walls, barely visible in the gloom, were lined with books, and, crammed in the gaps between the volumes, and above them, various trinkets and souvenirs of our exploits.
Somehow it occurred to one or other of us that, had we been born a hundred years earlier into wealth and privilege, we would probably have wished we'd been born a hundred years before that, and lamented the passing of a most splendid time.
This idea was the seed, and, as is the way with notions of singular genius planted in the fertile soil of the booze benumbed brains of men of exceptional cognisance, it took root and grew.
"We must approach the tedious banality of the post-modern condition with the vigour and elegance of half-pay Victorian colonels!"
"Blast me sir, you're right!"
Despite, or perhaps because of, the sheer quantity of alcohol coursing like the fiery sperm of Zeus through our ravaged yet manly physiques, it seemed all but self-evident that a Society should be formed to prosecute this endeavour. We would seek out others like ourselves: trusted libertines and reliable debauchees, similarly at odds with the prevailing anti-culture of the corporate and the mediocre, and we would live out our lamentable lives in dissipated magnificence!
And thus came into being our most splendid league, named in honour of a time when good form and licentious intoxication were the twin hallmarks of a gentleman.
I bid you then, raise your brimming bumpers and bellow a hearty "Huzzah!" to The 18th Century Club!
"Nos operor quis concubitus nos volo!"
Myself and Lord Arse, deep in our cups and bloated on fine victuals, too drunk for coherent discourse, gazed about us in our stupor and took stock of our surroundings as we gnawed at the stubs of fine cigars. (The ladies, sensibly, had retired).
The heavy drapes were pulled to, closing off the wind that moaned through the gaps in the cracked window frames. The rain hammered on the glass like grapeshot. Inside, the room was lighted by numerous candles and the orange glow of the fire, these reflecting back from the bottles and dishes that littered the ancient oak table. The walls, barely visible in the gloom, were lined with books, and, crammed in the gaps between the volumes, and above them, various trinkets and souvenirs of our exploits.
Somehow it occurred to one or other of us that, had we been born a hundred years earlier into wealth and privilege, we would probably have wished we'd been born a hundred years before that, and lamented the passing of a most splendid time.
This idea was the seed, and, as is the way with notions of singular genius planted in the fertile soil of the booze benumbed brains of men of exceptional cognisance, it took root and grew.
"We must approach the tedious banality of the post-modern condition with the vigour and elegance of half-pay Victorian colonels!"
"Blast me sir, you're right!"
Despite, or perhaps because of, the sheer quantity of alcohol coursing like the fiery sperm of Zeus through our ravaged yet manly physiques, it seemed all but self-evident that a Society should be formed to prosecute this endeavour. We would seek out others like ourselves: trusted libertines and reliable debauchees, similarly at odds with the prevailing anti-culture of the corporate and the mediocre, and we would live out our lamentable lives in dissipated magnificence!
And thus came into being our most splendid league, named in honour of a time when good form and licentious intoxication were the twin hallmarks of a gentleman.
I bid you then, raise your brimming bumpers and bellow a hearty "Huzzah!" to The 18th Century Club!
"Nos operor quis concubitus nos volo!"