Special Guest Blogger: Beau Brummell

Something that i was very good at was blagging, which is the art of speaking to make someone believe that we know more than we actually do without actually saying anything about it which turned out well for me to start with because from a young age i had the kind of ugly face that could scare the varnish off a door.
Something else i also had was £30,000 inheritance and i considered starting up a business or investing it but then thought, nah, i'll gamble the lot of it because this was the time when men were men, women were the property of men and everyone sort of daintily posed next to harpsichords before dying of syphilis so i thought enjoy it while i got it so i spent thousands getting a tailor to make me some suits and set about gambling the rest away.
Suits were unknown then, everyone wore pantaloons, cloaks and dressed like they were on psychedelic drugs so my style of a white shirt with a dark jacket, matching trousers and a tied neck ornament caught the attention of member's of the aristocracy who wrongly believed me to be part of their set, and as i never corrected them, they began inviting me to fancy parties, which got me invited to more fancy parties and soon my nob was hobbing with the best of them, including Prince George and the Duke of Wellington who's custom-made leather boots which were weatherproofed for the rain i endorsed and gave birth to the Wellington Boot.
Being the clothes peg for the elite doesn't come cheap and my suits quickly burnt through my savings and when i made the mistake of too much gin at a Royal Ball, i asked someone with the Prince who there Fat friend was which didn't go down well with the rotund Royal so i beat a hasty retreat and ended up in France broke and friendless where i was offered the post of the British Consul.
Now the French are a species that could have used a more thorough check before they left the assembly line and i tried to blag a job at a Consul in another, better country so saying that there was no necessity for a British Consul in France, the Government agreed and closed it.
Problem was the short time i was in France i had ticked them off massively and ran up some huge debts so no sooner were the arms of England taken down from the front of my house, than my French creditors arrested me as i no longer had diplomatic immunity and carried off to jail.
The Prince, still burning from the Fat jibe ignored my pleas for help as did all my aristocratic friends and after months of jail, and the galloping syphilis in me, i lost my mind and was moved to an insane asylum where i died.
I heard there is a statue of me in London with an inscription reading 'To be truly elegant one should be noticed' which really wraps me up in a neat little bow which in no way should men ever, ever wear.