The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part IV

I remember my university years fondly, but they passed slowly in Oxenfridge, and they were hard times. Every morning, the boys would awake to the sounds of the Headmaster beating the school bell with the limbs of dismembered students who had failed The Gauntlet. Chores involved cleaning the bell tower floors with hydrochloric acid, feeding the school hamsters (including our mascot, Simon the Psychotic, who had single-handedly gnawed off the foot of a first year during husbandry classes), and polishing The Gauntlet's revolving blades for next year's inductees. Breakfast was ghastly, especially when the cook was having an off day, and manners had to be impeccable. One boy was strung up by his nose hairs for five hours after eating his porridge with a salad fork.

Classes were also dreadfully dismal, but I am thankful for them now. I would not be anywhere near my present intellectual standards had it not been for the rigorous, demanding, and psychologically detrimental coursework at Oxenfridge. I keenly recall my coursework on ancient history, medieval history, world history, Oriental history, European history, modern history, rather obscure but highly interesting history, good dinner-time conversation history, the history of pick-up lines, the historical migration patterns of wombats, and a brief history of the British social strata as defined by upper, middle, and lower class dustbins. My minor in floral arrangements remained equally scintillating, especially my second semester on buttonholes.

But all this was too good to be true. Mere months before my graduation, disaster struck: I failed to turn in my library book on time. At Oxenfridge, the penalty for this felony was far from inconsequential: I was forced to translate the complete works of Vergil into Swahili within a week, while simultaneously being suspended upside down from inside the school dungeon and forced to hear the headmaster reading his personal poetry collection. No one before myself had ever survived.

I, however, broke the established trend. Not only did I translate the complete works of Vergil into Swahili, but I even did a bit of Ovid and Cicero as well. For my exemplary efforts, I was given a pet hamster from the school hamstery (whom I have since named Vergil, in honor of my translation) and was let off with only a minor flagellation.

I graduated highest honors with a B.S. in Historical Ramblings and, after a joyous ceremony, was drugged, beaten, and deposited outside of my lower class dustbin near Buckingham Palace. With substantial funds stashed away from my days in the Jaffa Cake industry, I endeavored to make a name for myself and work towards my dreams of a posh dustbin with its own indoor plumbing. I shall reconvene with this sentiment upon my next entry but, for now, cheerio, chaps!

The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part III

To be or not to be. That is a question someone ought to actually answer sometime. But the question I am going to answer now, is this: how did I, Sir Hubert H. Humphries, receive my degree in higher rambling? Well, it certainly wasn't easy.

I received my letter of acceptance to Oxenfridge only days after my resignation from CEO, although I have remained on the Board of Directors for the British Jaffa Cake Corporation ever since. Now, many chaps have asked me as to the actual locality of this famed University and I, being one for honest answers, have responded that I am not quite sure. The University has, for centuries, been extremely hard to get into, and not solely on account of burdensome, academic standards, but rather because no one actually has a clue where the Dickens it is. I imagine this has lent greatly to the University's aura for the mysterious, although admittedly it makes admissions a somewhat complicated process.

I, in fact, had never actually applied to the University, and received my letter of acceptance not so much as an invitation, but rather as an impressment notice. Upon my opening of the letter, I went through a brief period of shock, closely followed by elation, constipation, further shock, disbelief, flatulence, and finally another shock, knocking me out cold. I assume this shock came in the form of the Oxenfridge Recruitment Officers, known for walking softly and carrying big, pointy sticks capable of rather nasty concussions. The next thing I knew, I had awoken in the inner chambers of Oxenfridge with a rather large bump on my tender scalp and a terribly sore posterior. The next morning, I ran the Grim Gauntlet (which had a survival ratio of one in seven) with record time, and was ceremonially inducted into the class of '07 after determining to major in Historical Ramblings with a minor in Floral Arrangment.

My following years in Oxenfridge were, albeit a painful process, marked with success and I will continue with my revelations upon a later date. Cheerio, chaps!

The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part II

I have always had a great affinity for facial hair. But this has absolutely nothing to do with what I'm about to talk about.

Upon the death of my father, I was determined to succeed in life. His demise, coupled with my dissatisfaction with lower-class dustbins, urged me to seek a quality of existence that my father and his generation had not quite been able to grasp. I merely needed a divine spark, to ignite the proverbial fire of my inner passion and, in doing so, hopefully not cause conflagration in my proverbial knickers.

This spark came in the form of the Jaffa Cake industry, which at the time was suffering heavily from foreign competition, executive corruption, and worker fatalities. The Jaffa Cake industry was, quite literally, crumbling before my eyes, and I decided then and there that it needed a savior. The final straw came with the death of my mother who, having lived past the estimated life expectancy of 34, was looking like she might just have made it to retirement, had it not been for the Great Bundt Massacre of '02, in which our German competition staged a hostile corporate takeover, involving the fatalities of over 40 workers. My mother actually withstood the initial assault and held her ground quite well until the Germans (who were certainly known for their biological warfare), released B.S.E. (Bundt Spongiform Encephalopathy) into the cake mixture, decimating the desserts and killing all the remaining workers.

Vowing to avenge the fate of my mother and to redeem the dying industry, I entered into the same factory at the tender age of 17 and quickly worked my way up the ranks so that, by the time of my 18th birthday, I was CEO of the British Jaffa Cake Corporation. For the first time since the great Jaffa Boom of the Crimean War, corporate profits soared. I did away with the company's outsourcing, improved the marketing campaign to reach the younger generation, eliminated foreign competition, introduced new lines of products (such as Jaffa Jacks, Jaffy Paffies, Jaff Snax, and my critically acclaimed turnip flavor), and won back the hearts and stomachs of the British people.

I was shortly after awarded the Nobel Prize for "Outstanding Culinary Achievement and Edible Contributions Towards Mankind" and was even featured for an interview on "The Jolly Good Show!" It was then that I received notification of my rather unexpected acceptance to Oxenfridge, but I will save that yarn for another day. Cheerio, chaps!

The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part I

I was very young when I was born. I remember distinctly (vividly even) the complete absence of anything. I was born into a lowly dustbin, I have since been told by my parents, who are now both, regrettably, dead. My mother was a Jaffa Cake manufacturer at the local factory - I recall the horrors of the assembly line, or so she related back to me: once, an unsuspecting old lady was inundated in a deluge of sugary death when one of the pumps malfunctioned. It was several hours before they were able to dig her out from the horrific collation, but they found nothing left, save a gelatinous mass of spongy orange paste and chocolate refuse. It was on account of these stories that I set out to bring back good flavor in the Jaffa Cake industry upon leaving home.

My father, sadly, was never able to hold down a permanent career. He had a spell as a Cricketer in one of the local leagues, but after becoming the first man to hold a negative winning streak, he decided it was time to move on. After failure as an assistant bouncer, sock shiner, door-to-door knickers salesman, Queen Victoria's Secret fashion model, and human bottle-cap opener, he resorted to a life of drunken stupor and bad breath. He was still a young man when he died, and my mother lived not much longer. If there is one pearl of wisdom I can recollect from the greatest man in my life, it was this (his dying words actually): "Whether you're born into a lower-class dustbin, a middle-class dustbin, or even a rather posh dustbin with its own indoor plumbing, never, ever, let that prevent you from pursuing your wildest dreams."

I have endeavored ever since to follow my father's advice, and thus begins the story of my present and continuing journey towards fame, fortune, and a posh dustbin. I will pick up with this climactic sentiment upon my next entry, but at the moment I must attend to my radio show, which is in dire need of some TLC. Cheerio, chaps!

An Introduction from Sir Hubert

It gives me immeasurable pleasure to finally have an opportunity for mentioning my utmost satisfaction with this sentence. It took many fine seconds of diligent composition, but in the end my artful diction finally won out.

Welcome, I say, to my blog. I must confess, I had imposing doubts as to the quality of my internet service provider, seeing as the chap they sent round had rather a hard time determining how to configure a dustbin for a wireless connection. Obviously I was rather indignant, as the obstinate fellow seemed to hint, rather blatantly, that I was living in "rubbish." I informed him very matter-of-factly that this was a middle-class dustbin and was certainly, by no means, a substandard form of living.

But I veer unpleasantly far away from the subject of my present educated ramblings, so I will now attempt to realign my sentiments with the correct route, before I proverbially run over a small, woodland creature: the purpose of this blog is to inform the world - or at least, that is, everyone outside of Trafalgar Square, possibly greater London, or maybe even the Jolly Old Island herself - of my serialized radio lectures on the subjects of history, for which my B.S. degree from Oxenfridge has proved immensely profitable.

In an attempt to "get hip", I have finally decided to publish my scholarly tomes on the World Wide Webster, which even I must admit is a far more accessible form of knowledge than Mr. Webster's original pen and paper medium. I request that you, my fine and accomplished readers, keep your eyes peeled for my first installment, which I am industriously endeavoring to create as we speak or, rather, as I type and you sit there and read. Once it is completed, I will be sure to inform you of its whereabouts on the World Wide Webster.

I'm afraid I must leave you now, as I fear I can smell my crumpets burning and poor Vergil probably needs to have a loo-break. In the meantime, enjoy your stay and please hurry back soon. Cheerio, chaps!

Yours Truly, Sir Hubert