Greener Fairways and Social Climbing: A Dandy’s Return to High Society

Greener Fairways and Social Climbing: A Dandy’s Return to High Society

Posted on July 21, 2023 at 6:29 pm by Charles de Lacy

The carnal sounds emanating from Mrs. Hernandez’s side of the wafer-thin wall were enough to put a man off his breakfast. The grunts and groans, punctuated as they were by her ardent solicitations for her companion to adorn her face with the… umm… fruits of his loins, so to speak, was certainly a little tough to bear first thing in the morning. I am very much of the opinion that one can’t expect to achieve a great deal without first indulging in the old restorative Full English, however, and I persevered manfully, blocking out the sounds of the spectacle next door as best I could, and savouring each morsel of greasy goodness.

One cannot fathom a more exquisite medley of flavours to rouse the palate from its slumber and awaken its proprietor to the promise of a new day than the Full English breakfast. Marwood, bless his heart, had put on an excellent spread: a generous slab of smoked back bacon, a battalion of succulent sausages, two fried eggs – their yolks running like a river of liquid gold – tender mushrooms gently roasted in butter, a feast of juicy tomatoes and a towering pillar of toast adorned with a regal pat of butter. All of this washed down with the obligatory cup of Yorkshire tea.

Such a breakfast, my dear companions, is a gastronomic symphony – a feast befitting the most discerning of palettes. Strange then that it should find such favour with so many a bricklayer, plumber and manual labourer, the sort that deem it the pinnacle of sophistication to snaffle their pork pie with knife and fork. Alas, the mysteries of this world are as enigmatic as they are barbarous.

I digress. The sad fact of the matter was that Mrs. Henandez, the insatiable wench, was one of the more esteemable tenants currently residing in the ‘Roachata’ – where the pests are just as infamous as the residents! I was starting to fear that between the insalubrious company I kept at home, and the drunken Irish expats in O’Leary’s, my habits – to say nothing of my manners – were growing coarser by the day.

If I wanted to maintain my delicate sensibilities and attain the highest echelons of Chicago’s elite, I would need more than just the de Lacy name at my disposal. Sadly for me, America remains, to some degree, a meritocracy, and as such I would have to charm, connive, and network my way into her esteemed circles. It was with this in mind that I resolved to try and gain entrance to one of the most exclusive country clubs in the area – the Chicago Golf Club. No more tepid pints of stout for me! No, soon I would be supping Old Fashioneds and discussing the finer points of real estate with some Russian oligarch, or declaring my affections to a lithe Italian countess. Hmm…

As I dressed in my immaculate morning suit, polished my shoes to a gleaming shine, and adjusted my well-coiffed hair, I felt a pang of panic as my thoughts were yanked out of the present and parachuted back into the events of the preceding couple of weeks. For those of you who don’t follow Lee Best’s wretched wrestling productions, please allow me to elaborate.

Your humble friend, Charles de Lacy, taking exception to what he considered HOW’s poor utilisation of his talents, decided it was time for greener pastures. Seeking to secure his release with the utmost of haste, he, that is to say I, commandeered one of his, that is to say Lee Best’s, production trucks and, in a rare act of pique, played a bit of bat and ball with some of the hi-tech equipment on show. Well, that and one or two of his underpaid proles. Now, could the matter have been dealt with a trifle more delicately? No doubt, but when a man such as I has his mind set on something it is better not to stand in his way.

Lee Best, that whiskered despot, had other ideas. No doubt realising the error of his ways, HOW’s Great and Furry Oppressor decided he rather liked having old Charlie about the place, and rejected his notice of resignation, pointing to some rather convoluted small print. Well, I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you, the well-informed and gallant reader, that I wasn’t about to take this rather disconcerting development lying down. Or was I? You see, I had devised a plan, so simple in its ingenuity, that it could hardly fail to have the desired effect. The plan: take it lying down. By assuming the posture of defeat I could render myself unemployable. Who in their right mind would pay to see the dashing de Lacy resigned to the role of feckless jobber? The only snag is, I’m not much cop at losing.

Some of you may recall my encounter with a certain Yogarishi Anand Swarmi, who promised to enlighten me on the “art of complete surrender”. Unfortunately for me, the Yogarishi was in fact a complete charlatan named Jared, who lived, like many a frustrated cuck, in his mother’s basement. His understanding of Eastern Mysticism extended no further than having once watched Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson in ‘Shanghai Noon’. His teachings, in their entirety, resulted in a lawsuit instigated by the unfortunate fellow I inadvertently sent sprawling out of the ring in that squalid Uruguayan gym. Another blot on the de Lacy wrap sheet and still no closer to understanding the Art of Defeat.

Life, that little trickster, has a penchant for luring you into a false sense of security, of promising you things can only get better, only to pull the rug from underneath your feet and shit on you from a great height. Just as I had reassured myself that things couldn’t get any worse, and that losing with grace wouldn’t pose too much of a problem – if I appealed to my opponent’s better nature and explained the matter at hand how could they fail to comply? – I see the card for Chaos 38. My name sits uncomfortably next to one Connor Fuse. Lee Best, in his infinite wisdom, had decided to pair the two of us together. Confounding matters, he’d pitted us against Stronk (I refuse to capitalise his name – good grammar, much like good manners, costs nothing) and Mike Best.

The boss’ son was an odd cove: all brooding intensity and schadenfreude. As I observed his pitiful excuse for a promo, happily ensconced in my armchair with a sly Châteauneuf-du-Pape, I could scarcely resist plucking my Mike Best Bingo card from its dwelling. Assertions of his innate superiority. Check. Derogatory remarks about his opponent’s mother. Check. Self-indulgent lamentations on past vices. Check. The man truly offered a sumptuous buffet of clichés. He did, to his credit, deny me my Full House. The usual implicit threats of sexual violence were noticeable by their absence. Just as well. That sort of thing doesn’t intimidate me. I went to an English public school, don’t you know? Sodomy was practically on the syllabus!

As for his feigned ignorance regarding my existence? Well, it came as no shock, my dear reader. After all, why would the progeny of a wrestling promoter concern himself with knowledge of the company’s talent, let alone someone who, in their fleeting tenure, had disposed of not one but two esteemed Hall of Famers? Much less someone engaged in a heated contract dispute with his very own father! A delightful irony, indeed. I, on the other hand, had performed my due diligence. No, Mike Best held little in the way of surprises for me. No doubt he had been briefed by the old man and was primed and waiting to scupper my cunning plot.

stronk (lower case letters a true nod to the regard in which I hold him) was the real key to success. While undoubtedly a menacing presence, his sheer strength enough to reduce your average man to a quivering husk, he is, to put it mildly, thick as pig shit. If only I could entice him to pin me without first breaking my bones, then everything could go off without a hitch and I’d be back home in my jammies quicker than a Tyler Best title challenge.

The real fly in the ointment was the young Fuse. His youthful exuberance would certainly prohibit him from throwing the match intentionally. What’s more, his rivalry with Best would give the match a worryingly competitive edge. No, this wouldn’t do. There were, as far as I could see, two courses of action. One: target the muscle-bound brute and coerce him into pinning me with a minimum of fuss and force. Or two: ensure that my tag partner remained in the ring at all times and offer as little in the way of assistance as possible.

The plan appeared as robust as a whore’s virtue – a facade of unyielding strength, built upon a foundation of fleeting promises. But, as I am sure you can appreciate, when we venture into the treacherous waters of HOW, even the most unassailable convictions can waver like a drunken sailor.


As I sauntered towards the illustrious Chicago Golf Club, feeling rather dandy in my bespoke suit, I couldn’t help but admire the grandiosity of the institution before me. The manicured lawns, the refined architecture, and the pompous aura of exclusivity – it was about as far removed from the Roachata as ice-cream is from horse dung. I was finally about to join the ranks of Chicago’s crème de la crème. Little did I know that my aspirations for a taste of high society would soon be served with a side of comedic calamity.

Just as I was about to give my name to the doorman, who already appeared to be regarding me with a subtle disdain, a figure emerged from the shadows, resembling a caricature of a debt collector. He wore a dark suit that seemed to be on the verge of bursting at the seams, and his thin moustache twitched with every menacing step.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the illusive Mr. de Lacy,” the debt collector sneered, his voice dripping with ill-concealed glee. “Here to swing some clubs, are we?”

“Oh, yes,” I replied with faux enthusiasm, “I do so enjoy a good swing.”

“Ha, you sure enjoy swingin’ clubs, don’t ya? But I reckon swingin’ the pendulum of debt is your real talent,” he said with a smirk, waving a sheaf of papers in my face.

I couldn’t help but chuckle at his attempted witticism. It was more than I had come to expect from the local riff-raff. “Ah, a debt collector with a penchant for wordplay. How refreshing!”

His brows furrowed, clearly not expecting such a response. “Look, I ain’t here to chit-chat, Mr. de Lacy. I’m here to collect what you owe. So quit beatin’ around the bush and pay up.”

“Ah, but I must insist on a pleasurable exchange,” I said, offering him my most charming smile. “For instance, have you ever tried the pleasures of golf? It’s quite the diversion.”

He scoffed, dismissing my attempt at diversion with a wave of his hand. “Ain’t got no time for trivial pursuits. My job is to ensure you pay your debts, and I’m damn good at it.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” I said, admiring his dedication to his craft. “Don’t much care for board games myself. But surely, my good man, we can reach a compromise?”

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in closer, his breath less than minty fresh. “No compromise. You owe, and you will pay.”

At that moment, my gaze fell upon the golf club’s majestic entrance, and a mischievous thought crossed my mind. “You see,” I began, drawing him in with a conspiratorial whisper, “the thing about debts is that they can be rather like golf swings. Sometimes you just need to adjust your stance, change the angle of approach, and give it another shot.”

I watched his expression shift from annoyance to confusion, and I knew I had him right where I wanted him.

“And you know, if you manage to hit a hole-in-one, you might just find that all your problems disappear with a resounding ‘fore’!”

His bewildered look was nothing short of priceless. I took the opportunity to make a swift exit, leaving him scratching his head in puzzlement. As I disappeared into the embrace of the golf club, knowing for certain that he would be denied admittance, I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself.

In the end, dear reader, life’s dilemmas and debt collectors alike can almost always be tamed with a touch of levity and a dash of creativity. And so too, I hoped, could the pesky matter of my HOW contract. Chaos 38 approached like an eager suitor, and all that was needed of me was to lie back, close my eyes, and think of dear old England.