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The Bourne Miscommunication July 12, 2011

Posted by Skippy in General Weirdness, Humor.
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Children, there is an old British sitcom that I love called “Keeping Up Appearances.” It’s about this woman, Hyacinth Bucket, who is constantly trying to convince her neighbors and pretty much anyone who crosses her path that she is of higher social standing than she actually is. The show is all about her class snobbery and how her downmarket relations and her own arrogance usually trips her up—for example, she insists on pronouncing her last name as Bouquet (“The Bouquet residence, the lady of the house speaking” is her preferred way of answering her slim white telephone with automatic redial). It’s full of dry wit and broad humor, and I love it. However, up till now, I never considered that a human being would actually comport themselves in a way so thoroughly reminiscent of Hyacinth.

Well, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, meet Carolyn Bourne, mother-in-law-to-be to Heidi Withers. Withers, it seems, had the temerity to get engaged to Bourne’s son, Freddie. She even had the appalling gall to, on a visit, not show all the proper graces that Mrs. Bourne expects of any young woman wishing to wed her precious son Freddie. Well, in the face of such shameful displays (the likes of which we only have Mrs. Bourne’s word for), Mrs. Bourne decided to do what all people of good breeding and character do: send Ms. Withers a scathing email.

Frankly, you can’t tell me that Mrs. Bourne probably took one look at Ms. Withers and immediately decided that her precious Freddie was NOT going to marry this downmarket, common American. Oh, no. And anything that Ms. Withers did would probably never meet with Mrs. Bourne’s approval. Now, other sites have been content to post the email (which is long) and leave it at that. Not I. No, I think that what this email needs is translation, because there’s A LOT going on in this email. And no, I am not making this email up. Seriously.
(Mrs. Bourne’s Comments in Bold; Skippy’s Translation in plain text)

It is high time someone explained to you about good manners. Yours are obvious by their absence and I feel sorry for you.
I hate you and it’s time I told you so.

Unfortunately for Freddie, he has fallen in love with you and Freddie being Freddie, I gather it is not easy to reason with him or yet encourage him to consider how he might be able to help you.
Unfortunately, Freddie, my golden child, love of my life, fruit of my loins, does not.

It may just be possible to get through to you though. I do hope so.
It may be possible to harass you enough to dissuade you from marrying my precious Freddie. I hope so, for I hate you.

Your behaviour on your visit to Devon during April was staggering in its uncouthness and lack of grace.
Everything you did, up to and including breathing, pissed me right off.

Unfortunately, this was not the first example of bad manners I have experienced from you.
This isn’t the first time your breathing pissed me right off.

If you want to be accepted by the wider Bourne family I suggest you take some guidance from experts with utmost haste.
I am an expert. In hating you. Oh, and nothing you can do will ever make me stop talking shit about you to each and every member of my family. I hate you.

There are plenty of finishing schools around. You would be an ideal candidate for the Ladette to Lady television series.
You belong on reality television, like your fellow trashy Americans.

Please, for your own good, for Freddie’s sake and for your future involvement with the Bourne family, do something as soon as possible.
For the love of GOD, please don’t have any children!

Here are a few examples of your lack of manners:
I will now recount each and every thing you did that makes me hate you. Remember, I hate you.

When you are a guest in another’s house, you do not declare what you will and will not eat – unless you are positively allergic to something.
I’m totally going to contradict myself in a few sentences. See what you make me do? I heard that offhand remark you made to Freddie, you cow.

You do not remark that you do not have enough food. (Skippy: Wait. Was she eating or not eating? Which is it, Mrs. Bourne?)
You are clearly a fat, overfed American cow who is trying to infect us with your fat American genes.

You do not start before everyone else.
I saw you, stuffing your fat face. Stupid, fat hobbit.

You do not take additional helpings without being invited to by your host.
When a guest in another’s house, you do not lie in bed until late morning in households that rise early – you fall in line with house norms.

I could go on about you eating everything in this house and then saying that you wouldn’t eat everything in this house, but I must now harp on your fat laziness, you fat, lazy American cow. What, we didn’t tell you that we arise at six o’clock sharp for inspection? Well, you should have known, you fat, lazy American cow!

You should never ever insult the family you are about to join at any time and most definitely not in public. I gather you passed this off as a joke but the reaction in the pub was one of shock, not laughter. (Skippy: The hell did she do? Piss on a dead person’s grave? Say she’s a supporter of Manchester United? Vote Labour?)
I am incensed that other people liked you. It’s clearly all your fault.

I have no idea whether you wrote to thank [your future sister-in-law] for the weekend but you should have hand-written a card to her.
Now I’m just making shit up. I hate you.

You should have hand-written a card to me. You have never written to thank me when you have stayed at Houndspool.
IN PLACE OF A DARK LORD, YOU WOULD HAVE A QUEEN! NOT DARK BUT BEAUTIFUL AND TERRIBLE AS THE DAWN! ALL SHALL LOVE ME AND WRITE THANK YOU CARDS!!!

[Your future sister-in-law] has quite the most exquisite manners of anyone I have ever come across. You would do well to follow her example.
I like [Your future sister-in-law]. She is not a fat, stupid, lazy American cow. Be like her, even though I know you can’t.

You regularly draw attention to yourself. Perhaps you should ask yourself why.
It is tragic that you have diabetes. However, you aren’t the only young person in the world who is a diabetic.

I really hope you fall into a diabetic coma and die. But I really can’t write that, so…don’t ever mention that you have diabetes, you attention-seeking cow.

I know quite a few young people who have this condition, one of whom is getting married in June. I have never heard her discuss her condition.
She quietly gets on with it. She doesn’t like being diabetic. Who would? You do not need to regale everyone with the details of your condition or use it as an excuse to draw attention to yourself. It is vulgar.

Other people who have diabetes? Well, I like them. I don’t like you, so any time you ever mention having diabetes is just you being an attention-seeking, fat, stupid, lazy American cow.

As a diabetic of long standing you must be acutely aware of the need to prepare yourself for extraordinary eventualities, the walk to Mothecombe beach being an example.
You are experienced enough to have prepared yourself appropriately.

I was hoping that that walk to the beach would have finished you off. Now all those ninjas I hired to kill you with poison darts went to waste. Curses!

No-one gets married in a castle unless they own it. It is brash, celebrity style behaviour.
I understand your parents are unable to contribute very much towards the cost of your wedding. (There is nothing wrong with that except that convention is such that one might presume they would have saved over the years for their daughters’ marriages.)
If this is the case, it would be most ladylike and gracious to lower your sights and have a modest wedding as befits both your incomes.

Ok, if I haven’t pissed you off by now, then gird your loins, cow. I’m now coming after your fat, lazy, broke-ass American family. Your family is fat. Lazy. And they are broke. They are clearly even more trashy than you are, since they’re not ponying up for this wedding. I also hate every choice you’ve made regarding this wedding, including having it at a castle. Didn’t some other trashy American also get married in a castle? Well, then you’re also guilty by random association, you shrew. You clearly should be getting married at the free clinic.

One could be accused of thinking that Heidi Withers must be patting herself on the back for having caught a most eligible young man. I pity Freddie.
I hate you. I really, really, REALLY hate you, you money-grubbing, attention-seeking, overeating, persnickety, joke-telling, lazy, fat, overfed, non-beach-walking, probably-street-walking, poor-family-having bitch. I bet you tricked him into thinking you were pregnant.

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