#46 A diamond of the first water
06/01/21 16:41
It has recently come to my attention that the beady eyes of the ton are firmly focused on a debut known as ‘Bridgerton’. Thus, I delved into my reticule and brought out my quizzing glass to inspect this fine filly newly to market. I was obliged to despatch my husband, Lord P, to his smoking room, as he has an uncommon dislike of such entertainment, preferring the company of his hound and some gentlemanly pursuit. Reclining on my chaise longue, alone but for a glass of ratafia, I ogled this dramatic piece and offer my humble thoughts for your consideration.
I must confess that initially I found myself a trifle vexed by the audacity of the enterprise – a very large and bewildering cast whose wonderfully symmetrical looks and even teeth do not perhaps reflect the (often in-bred) beau-monde of Prinny’s London; rather the swells of Kardashians’ California. But let us not be mawkish in our demands for authenticity! Are we not in agreement that it is infinitely preferable to see an attractive visage and the ripple of abdominal muscle, in the stead of a weak chin and gouty leg? So, I found myself vastly roused by their antics, particularly those that took place up against trees - ah, the bracing, vigorous effects of fresh air! It certainly aids agreeable intercourse.
It is true that the faint-hearted among you may find the explicit nature of such encounters sordid and unpalatable, but I urge you to overcome your delicate dispositions, have some smelling salts to hand, and admire the urgent thrusting of a Nonpareil. Are we not in agreement that it is infinitely preferable to see a couple playing Hunt (and Catch) the Squirrel, rather than taking a turn about the room? Such a refreshing approach taken by the Scandalous Lady Rhimes; her production values are second to none. Mayhap if Mr Darcy had simply lifted Miss Bennet’s skirts and danced the blanket hornpipe, then Miss Austen’s story might have romped along more nicely. Similarly, if Miss Bennet had the temerity to plant Darcy a facer, as he so clearly deserved, he might have come to his senses more swiftly. If only Miss Austen were around to appreciate the narrative gumption of Bridgerton’s scribes.
I was particularly struck by the vivid and careful costumery sported by the ensemble. Mighty calves handsomely sheathed, cravats impeccably folded, Corinthian curls falling foppishly over the forehead – really, the fashions of Byron are justly applauded, and I fancy today’s aspiring dandies might adopt them to appear more pleasing to the eye. Our most lamentable prime minister Mr Johnson, for instance, could benefit from some rigorous Georgian styling. The ladies were similarly well-attired, with heaving bosoms discreetly exposed, ringlets ruthlessly coiffed, right hooks elegantly gloved. There was an unfortunate exception, however, in the form of Lady Featherington. Alas, when she confronted her charge Miss Thompson about the absence of her monthly courses, the Baroness wore a gown that caused her to resemble Mr Big Bird of Sesame Street. Indeed, I would advise her to retain the plumage in her name, but banish it from her wardrobe.
The musical accompaniment to this visual treat was pleasingly daring, leaving me in high alt. At the inaugural ball of the season, I noted a fetching arrangement of Miss Ariana Grande’s ‘thank u, next’, which seemed apt given Viscount Bridgerton’s rejection of his sister’s eager suitors. Sadly, I have not yet reached the infamous orgy scene but I anticipate a dainty string interpretation of the good Sir Mix-a-Lot’s ‘Baby Got Back’ to enhance the spectacle. Are we not in agreement that the best kind of bodice is a ripped one, and the best kind of butt a bare one?
In conclusion, I found myself transported by this Regency fustian, but fear a certain Mr Fellowes will be shaking his head and brandishing his quill, now that his most notable work has been so successfully aped by what that saucy chit Eloise Bridgerton might call ‘Downton Shag-ey’…
Your servant,
Lady Bustlefrown
I must confess that initially I found myself a trifle vexed by the audacity of the enterprise – a very large and bewildering cast whose wonderfully symmetrical looks and even teeth do not perhaps reflect the (often in-bred) beau-monde of Prinny’s London; rather the swells of Kardashians’ California. But let us not be mawkish in our demands for authenticity! Are we not in agreement that it is infinitely preferable to see an attractive visage and the ripple of abdominal muscle, in the stead of a weak chin and gouty leg? So, I found myself vastly roused by their antics, particularly those that took place up against trees - ah, the bracing, vigorous effects of fresh air! It certainly aids agreeable intercourse.
It is true that the faint-hearted among you may find the explicit nature of such encounters sordid and unpalatable, but I urge you to overcome your delicate dispositions, have some smelling salts to hand, and admire the urgent thrusting of a Nonpareil. Are we not in agreement that it is infinitely preferable to see a couple playing Hunt (and Catch) the Squirrel, rather than taking a turn about the room? Such a refreshing approach taken by the Scandalous Lady Rhimes; her production values are second to none. Mayhap if Mr Darcy had simply lifted Miss Bennet’s skirts and danced the blanket hornpipe, then Miss Austen’s story might have romped along more nicely. Similarly, if Miss Bennet had the temerity to plant Darcy a facer, as he so clearly deserved, he might have come to his senses more swiftly. If only Miss Austen were around to appreciate the narrative gumption of Bridgerton’s scribes.
I was particularly struck by the vivid and careful costumery sported by the ensemble. Mighty calves handsomely sheathed, cravats impeccably folded, Corinthian curls falling foppishly over the forehead – really, the fashions of Byron are justly applauded, and I fancy today’s aspiring dandies might adopt them to appear more pleasing to the eye. Our most lamentable prime minister Mr Johnson, for instance, could benefit from some rigorous Georgian styling. The ladies were similarly well-attired, with heaving bosoms discreetly exposed, ringlets ruthlessly coiffed, right hooks elegantly gloved. There was an unfortunate exception, however, in the form of Lady Featherington. Alas, when she confronted her charge Miss Thompson about the absence of her monthly courses, the Baroness wore a gown that caused her to resemble Mr Big Bird of Sesame Street. Indeed, I would advise her to retain the plumage in her name, but banish it from her wardrobe.
The musical accompaniment to this visual treat was pleasingly daring, leaving me in high alt. At the inaugural ball of the season, I noted a fetching arrangement of Miss Ariana Grande’s ‘thank u, next’, which seemed apt given Viscount Bridgerton’s rejection of his sister’s eager suitors. Sadly, I have not yet reached the infamous orgy scene but I anticipate a dainty string interpretation of the good Sir Mix-a-Lot’s ‘Baby Got Back’ to enhance the spectacle. Are we not in agreement that the best kind of bodice is a ripped one, and the best kind of butt a bare one?
In conclusion, I found myself transported by this Regency fustian, but fear a certain Mr Fellowes will be shaking his head and brandishing his quill, now that his most notable work has been so successfully aped by what that saucy chit Eloise Bridgerton might call ‘Downton Shag-ey’…
Your servant,
Lady Bustlefrown
- Bridgerton, 8 episodes, Netflix
