I am pleased to note that, much as I predicted, Denver’s headlong rush into mongoloidism is not only on pace, but far exceeding even my bold expectations.

I had barely stepped off the plane before your magnificent wave of offensiveness struck me with such force I had to immediately fall back on my rather extensive reserves of Old McGillicuddy’s Triple Malt Special Reserve.

You may well expect my rather strident attempts to convey the heroic nature of my previous struggle to correct your collective depravity and indecency was met with snickers from my London peers. ‘Couldn’t be,’ one chided. ‘Cousin of mine went there once. Had no problem whatsoever with the natives. They barely even assaulted him.’ I felt very much akin to Admiral Perry after he limped home from the North Pole. Everyone called him a fraud and a degenerate, whispering that he’d been hanging around in the attic of an Icelandic bordello for three months instead of whipping, and later devouring, sled dogs.

But do not think me daunted. You cannot daunt me, cruel sir! I have taken to heart my editor’s rather comical rants about radicalizing you hobos into attacking shadowy enemies and have assembled my own manifesto of sorts. Namely:

A Gentleman Tippler’s Manifesto For Decency and Taste
1.) Bring your own tobacco to the pub, you swine.

2.) Just because a gentleman carries a tasteful wolfshead cane, wears a bowler hat and orders splendid cocktails with names so exotic it causes your addled mind to shriek with a sudden awareness of its own lack of sophistication, does in no way indicate he wishes to converse with you. Rather, he wishes you to be quiet. Sit still and be quiet.

3.) Keep your lunatic hands off me. Swine!

4.) Tavern Owners shall refrain from posting gaudy snapshots of drunken patrons engaged in some godforsaken on-premise ribaldry, especially when said patrons are “giving the bird” or a “thumbs-up” to the camera. A portrait of the Queen would be in infinite better taste. Or perhaps a painting of loyal hunting dog fearfully laying a slain quail at the feet of his genteel yet stern master.

5.) Whining for a free shot from the barman shall be discouraged. This cretinous act only affirms their terrible and diabolical power. Less they know, the better.

6.) Just because a gentleman is well-spoken and attired in relative finery does not mean his is ‘the man’ or in any way related to the chap who quite understandably sacked you for incompetence and/or insolence. Sit still and be quiet.

7.) Barmen are strictly prohibited from any rolling of the eyes and squinching of the snout when a gentleman requests a tipple that doesn’t have all the ingredients included in its name. According to the distinguished writer H. L. Mencken (a Yank, oddly enough), 17,864,392,788 different cocktails can be made at a well-stocked bar and I don’t see why a chap must be restricted to only those that can be ordered with a grunt.

8.) The qualifications for being a bartender shall be extended beyond being able to slouch and sneer simultaneously. If we can train them (floggings might be necessary) to assemble a proper Parisian Flambe Cocktail as well as they presently pick their teeth and snicker, we will be in fine shape indeed.

And that should do it. Tavern owners are encouraged to immediately post as many copies as they deem necessary. There are some pubs where I strongly advise a copy be rather sternly pressed into the paw of every creature who skulks through the door. In others, I imagine it will be necessary to have it read aloud to the brutes. In others still one may have to resort to some sort of crude Pavlovian sign language involving pats on the head and ferocious cuffings.

The First Offense against the Manifesto shall be punished with a stern glance worthy of Thomas Beckett. A strike across the snout with a rolled up newspaper should greet the Second Offense. A sound off-premise caning should suffice for the Third. With this barrier against indecent behavior in place, we should shore up that wave in no time at all.

See you at the pub!