France is filled with French

Good thing you ignored that rambling borefest of Walter's on crumbling buildings or whatever. Maybe you're ready to handle my insights.

French and their dogs:
who's leading who?

So when the Master said we were going to Paris, I thought I was ready for anything. But who knew this overblown monument-hole would be packed wall-to-wall with the French? It's not just one or two, oh no. They're everywhere. It's insulting. Oh, and their precious dogs! Sidewalks, supermarkets, metro trains-- it doesn't matter. Let them run free. Bring cheese! Bring wine! Let us pay hommage to our canine lords!

To top it all off, everyone speaks this prancy language composed of a series of mumbled slurs. The mumbles themselves are governed by a maze of rules designed to expose anyone who can't mumble in the approved fashion. Un baguette, s'il vous plaît. At this point any French within a mile's radius will be falling over themselves to point out that a baguette is feminine. Vous voulez une baguette, n'est-ce pas? To them, this fact is blindingly obvious and they will probably pass out if you question the female nature of a stick of bread.

These men are imposters. Or
more like imposters of imposters.

But I was almost ready to accept the presence of the French here. That is until these two wise-guys decided to get a free ride off the Walter and Wayne media success with their third rate ripoff Le monde de Walter et Wayne. I've had my share of imitators, but this guy is horrible. Note to you: I AM 10 YEARS YOUNGER AND NOT BALD. A letter from my lawyer wiped the smile from his over-aged face. On the other hand, the Walter guy is pretty accurate -- especially the part where he's looking to the Wayne for guidance.

Pierre and Claire.
Or Claire and Pierre?

The upshot is that the Walter et Wayne legal battle has kept me from my usual groundbreaking life for the last couple of months. But I can tell you about the Master. As Walter attempted to explain: when he arrived, the Master stayed at a university residence for the first month while looking for a French family to stay with. No family was found, but he did find Claire and Pierre who were also students looking for an apartment. We all moved into the apartment here in Ivry-sur-Seine at the beginning of October. Oh, and of course they had to be French. Unbelievable.

CULT.

The Master also insisted on getting involved with the GBU, some sort of Christian university cult. For proof of their bizarre rituals, go no further than the photos page. There's also some shots from the apartment-warming party and the latest GBU gathering. University semester rolls on at Sciences Po. Highlights include presenting the "dingo's got my baby!" case in French, and not being able to go to university because of transport strikes.

Castles I have known

La Maison des Provinces
de France: our temporary
accomodation in Paris.

A new post! But do not fear, for it is I, Walter, and not that unseemly baffoon, Wayne. He shall not bother us at present-- as I write, he is perched upon the window sill, looking out over the entrance here at La Maison des Provinces de France. His head is resting upon one arm, his face contorted in a most absurd attempt to appear sad and contemplative. I believe this to be another attempt to gain the attentions of the young ladies below. I note that he has not yet succeeded.

The Master is currently busy securing suitable lodgings for the rest of our stay, but he asked that I share my thoughts on a matter close to my heart: castles and palaces. We have, in fact, visited many during the last month, and I offer you my expert reflections on a few of them.

Edinburgh Castle
This is a formidable fortress and the first of our visit to Scotland. I was glad to see it was well equipped with dungeons-- a feature sadly absent in modern society. Of course I don't mean to suggest we go straight back to putting people in dungeons. No, dear me. I am content for it to be gradually reintroduced.

Beware the wet pavement.

We also observed an authentic mock sword fight, complete with flying sparks. But do not let the synchronised dancing and inoperable cannon fool you: Edinburgh Castle is still much to be feared. We witnessed yet another victim of the Castle's most enduring defense mechanism: wet pavement.

Warwick Castle

Evil as it should be:
highly competent.

Our kind hosts in High Wycombe took us to the famed Warwick Castle, and it did not disappoint, save perhaps for "Dream of Battle", a bewildering presentation of a battle seen through a quasi-religious drunken vision. We scaled towers, were swooped by birds of prey (not to mention birds of mutation) and witnessed an infuriating jousting match. I say so because the supposed villain in black put on a masterful show but was robbed of his deserved glory.

Yes, hide your face, novice!

The "hero", a blonde-haired amateur, was no match for the theatrical and horse-back skills of his foe. But the powers that be had ordained that the youth should win. There is no justice for the excellent!


Windsor Castle

This man is roughly
ten times more serious than
the dolls he is guarding.

Windsor presents a fine sight, which is well, considering the wait to get inside to view a small collection of French dolls and the state appartments. Tickets were required at the end of the queue, but the Master was able to proceed by explaining that he had "used a grappling-hook and climbed over the wall". The attendant seemed impressed by this account and waved us through.

As in many such establishments still owned by the Queen, photos from inside the building are not permitted.

Tower of London

What these guards lack in
actual ability to protect the Crown
Jewels, they make up for in
knowledge of Tower trivia.

The Tower of London is pleasingly self-explanatory. I should add that the Crown Jewels are still kept here. But as all the armed guards are busy preventing people taking photos of dolls at Windsor, there remain only some friendly yeoman to distract would-be thieves.


Hampton Court

Our temporary replacements
Jacob and Ella, on duty at
Hampton Court.

Finally, we come to Hampton Court, notable for its hedge maze and not having the word "castle", "palace" or "tower" in the title. I cannot report directly, however, as Wayne and I were given the day off.

Good evening!

You're in Wayne's World Now

I see the old man got here first. Well, chalk up one hollow victory for the Decrepit Butlers Club. I'm Wayne, but you can call me the best damn butler in the room. You can forget everything you think you know about butlers. I'm ushering in a new wave of butlering-- hell, I am the wave. If a few geriatrics in the Butlers Guild can't see that, what do I care? Sending me to the Butler gulags with washed-up fossils like Walter just shows how out of touch the Guild has become. Thankfully, the Master saw my unique talents and decided to hire me for his travels to Paris for the year.

I've been called the James Bond of butlers, but that's not strictly accurate. James Bond never wore a tie this fine. I can take off your jacket without you knowing I'm in the room. By the time I'm done welcoming your guests, they'll be including me in their will. I fold napkins so well they rewrote the standards, on my napkins. If you're not getting the picture, I'll connect the dots for you: Wayne is butlering. Don't forget it.

Let's get to business. Unlike that expired gasbag Walter, I've actually got something useful to post from the Master's journeys: photos and plenty of them. That page will be updated with new photos as they come in from the lab, so check back often. Or don't-- your affairs are no concern of mine. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a profession to revolutionize.

Welcome Indeed

Allow me to introduce myself. I am Walter C. Fairweather, butler of some note and estate manager par excellence. And this is my online journal as butler to Master Joshua M. Klose. In the coming months I shall share with you my travels as personal companion and chief servant to the Master.

The Master's travels have so far brought him to St Albans, Edinburgh, Bellshill (near Glasgow), High Wycombe and now London. More details and photos will be posted shortly.

But there is already a nasty stain on the new tablecloth. As you have undoubtedly noticed, this is not, as I would have far preferred, Walter C. Fairweather's Journal of Exploits. For you see I have been unjustly yoked -- as a thoroughbred stallion to a mule -- I am forced to share my life, my work and even this journal with the insufferable brute Wayne. He folds a decent crown-napkin, I won't deny it, but as a parrot who has somehow learned to recite Shakespeare. He is a man of inordinate arrogance whose embarassing attempts at charm are matched only by his capacity to demean our proud profession. His words are many and worthless and I humbly suggest you skip over his posts entirely. Rather, I encourage you to return for the glittering prose with which I shall shower you periodically.

For now, simply let it be known that I was rescued by the Master from a horrid punishment dealt out by the International Guild of Professional Butlers (for alleged indiscretions I need not go into presently). My only regret is that Wayne escaped as well. I trust that nature will soon correct itself and he will be quietly swallowed up by the earth.