Vol XI


Burton Factory Fire: Owner Survives and Hits 4 Under Par

A flame at the Burton Top Hat factory tragically cut production by 75% yesterday, as 43 machinists were incinerated.

Thankfully the owner of the factory, Lord Wellesly, was unharmed. He was playing a riveting game of golf at St Andrews at the time.

He described his opponent, Lord Aberdeen as "An unctuous Scotsman of absolute sexual and morale degeneracy." but enjoyed the game immensely. He responded to news of the disaster with a gentlemannely shrug.

Lord Wellesly claimed he would repopulate the factory "with sum of my fresheste toddling kids." He went on to elaborate "I will shower them with finery, including 12 Englishe pennies for each foot lost in service."

Tzarist Plot to Abduct the Empire's Hat Stocks; IT'S WAR!!

The Grim Tzar Nicholas, The Turban Tyrant, Hat Fiend of the Baltic, he has many names but now they shall all live in infamy.

Not since the mistes of antiquity has such a crime been committed against the glory of our monarch's crown. The imperial hat stock, source of all our brave boys headware has been plundered!

Our noblest Queen has dispatched Lord Raglan as head of 20 Legions to secure these stocks for the Empire! He is accompanied by Lord Aberdeen, a drunken scoundrel of a Scot, but all for Queen and country!

For all his purloin and bluster, The Gray Tzar will fall. Our finest behated cadets will march to his gold plated palace and plundere the finest spices from the Moscow Barbaries.

The Charge of The Light Brigade: The Cost in Hats

Disaster struck her Majesty's troops near Balaclava. Six hundred hatted heroes of the British crown cut down as they assaulted the Russian lines.

Her Majesty Victoria's Laureate, Lord Tennyson composed a tribute to the men and hats of our finest force:

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Left on the Cossacks soil
All of British work and toil
Never broken, always loyal
Charged an army while
All the world wonder'd
Caps of white and red
Scattered around Cossack dead
Legion of white head bare
Bereft of noblest headware
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
They rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.