Dear Young Masters, Mistresses, and Distinguished Guests,
Over countless generations, it has been our honor to wait upon the lords and ladies of Saltburn as they set the standard for elegance, refinement, and homosocial outdoor nudity. However, the mess you have been creating of late has become intolerable.
Do you ever wonder why the turnover of a footman is notoriously high? Or why the preparations for last season’s Blacklight Gala took over a month? Or why we passive-aggressively served you runny eggs as a hint that you, too, might not enjoy having to mop up a mess of unfertilized goo before 9 a.m. on a Sunday?
We can hold our tongues no longer. We need to discuss the stains.
The intimate stains.
Conservatively, we are spending almost as much time on our hands and knees as you are. Do you have any notion of the volume of ejaculate we’ve scrubbed from your great-great-great-grandmother’s chaise longue? It’s concerning. Scrubbing endangers the brocade.