Toff Quotes

You mean I'm going to have to do a spell in front of a bunch of toffs?" Kim said, outraged that no one had mentioned this before she had agreed to this come-out. "Yes, exactly", Lady Wendall said serenely. "You and Richard have plenty of time to design something that will reflect your unique background, as well as demonstrating your abilities as a wizard. I am looking forward to seeing what you decide upon." "I could pick everyone's pockets at once with magic, "Kim said, still disgruntled. "That'd 'reflect my unique background', all right".

For decades, Americans have experienced a populist uprising that only benefits the people it is supposed to be targeting.... The angry workers, mighty in their numbers, are marching irresistibly against the arrogant. They are shaking their fists at the sons of privilege. They are laughing at the dainty affectations of the Leawoof toffs. They are massing at the gates of Mission Hills, hoisting the black flag, and while the millionaires tremble in their mansions, they are bellowing out their terrifying demands. 'We are here,' they scream, 'to cut your taxes.

You don’t understand,” Mairelon said dully. “Kim doesn’t want to marry a toff.” Was that what was bothering him? “Well, of all the bacon-brained, sapskulled, squirish, buffle-headed nod cocks!” Kim said with as much indignation as she could muster. “I was talking about the marquis, not about you!” Mairelon’s eyes kindled. “Then you would?” “You’ve whiddled it,” Kim informed him. As he kissed her again, she heard Mrs. Lowe murmur, “Mind your language, Kim,” and Shoreham say in an amused tone, “Yes, Your Grace, I believe that was an affirmative answer.

toffs could get up to speed. But Ben at least knew roughly

Clell, Gillman and I are joined by the wee chinky bird with the toff's English-Yank accent. It keeps fuckin well changing. Probably been tae posh schools all over the world. I hate those privileged cunts. They think that you're fuck all, that they can use you tae clean up their shite, and in fact, most of the time they are spot-on. What they don't know though, is that you're always lurking in the shadows. The opportunity to pounce usually never comes along but you're always lurking, always ready. Just in case.

toffs

Do not bow to any man, toff or thief. They’re no better than you.

There's one big difference between the poor and the rich,' Kite says, taking a drag from his cigarette. We are in a pub, at lunch-time. John Kite is always, unless stated otherwise, smoking a fag, in a pub, at lunch-time. 'The rich aren't evil, as so many of my brothers would tell you. I've known rich people -- I have played on their yachts -- and they are not unkind, or malign, and they do not hate the poor, as many would tell you. And they are not stupid -- or at least, not any more than the poor are. Much as I find amusing the idea of a ruling class of honking toffs, unable to put their socks on without Nanny helping them, it is not true. They build banks, and broker deals, and formulate policy, all with perfect competency. 'No -- the big difference between the rich and the poor is that the rich are blithe. They believe nothing can ever really be so bad, They are born with the lovely, velvety coating of blitheness -- like lanugo, on a baby -- and it is never rubbed off by a bill that can't be paid; a child that can't be educated; a home that must be left for a hostel, when the rent becomes too much. 'Their lives are the same for generations. There is no social upheaval that will really affect them. If you're comfortably middle-class, what's the worst a government policy could do? Ever? Tax you at 90 per cent and leave your bins, unemptied, on the pavement. But you and everyone you know will continue to drink wine -- but maybe cheaper -- go on holiday -- but somewhere nearer -- and pay off your mortgage -- although maybe later. 'Consider, now, then, the poor. What's the worst a government policy can do to them? It can cancel their operation, with no recourse to private care. It can run down their school -- with no escape route to a prep. It can have you out of your house and into a B&B by the end of the year. When the middle-classes get passionate about politics, they're arguing about their treats -- their tax breaks and their investments. When the poor get passionate about politics, they're fighting for their lives. 'Politics will always mean more to the poor. Always. That's why we strike and march, and despair when our young say they won't vote. That's why the poor are seen as more vital, and animalistic. No classical music for us -- no walking around National Trust properties, or buying reclaimed flooring. We don't have nostalgia. We don't do yesterday. We can't bear it. We don't want to be reminded of our past, because it was awful; dying in mines, and slums, without literacy, or the vote. Without dignity. It was all so desperate, then. That's why the present and the future is for the poor -- that's the place in time for us: surviving now, hoping for better, later. We live now -- for our instant, hot, fast treats, to prep us up: sugar, a cigarette, a new fast song on the radio. 'You must never, never forget, when you talk to someone poor, that it takes ten times the effort to get anywhere from a bad postcode, It's a miracle when someone from a bad postcode gets anywhere, son. A miracle they do anything at all.

I know what that sort thinks of me: a city toff. A great useless peacock who knows nothing about the superior virtues of farm life." "I don't think they'll judge you severely, so long as they believe that you're not judging them. Just try to be sincere, and you should have no difficulty." "I have no talent for sincerity," West muttered. "It's not a talent," Kathleen said. "It's a willingness to speak from your heart, rather than trying to be amusing or evasive.

The day after you pop up at your distillery alive and kicking, someone will come to finish you off." "Let them try," Keir shot back. "I can defend myself." The duke arched a mocking brow. "Impressive. Only a matter of days ago, we were celebrating that you were able to drink through a straw. And now apparently you're well enough for an alley fight." Keir was instantly hostile. "I know how to keep up my guard." "That doesn't matter," Kingston replied. "As soon as your arm muscles fatigue, your elbows will drift outward, and he'll find an opening." "What would a toff like you know about fighting? Even with my ribs cracked, you couldn't take me down." The older man's stare was that of a seasoned lion being challenged by a brash cub. Calmly he picked up a small open pepper cellar from the table and dumped a heap of ground black pepper in the center of Keir's plate. Perplexed, Keir glanced down at it, as a puff of gray dust floated upward. His nose stung, and in the next breath, he sneezed. A searing bolt of agony shot through his rib cage. "Aghhh! He turned away from his plate and doubled over. "Devil take your sneakit arse!" he managed to gasp.

Shall I have the carriage readied in time for you to catch the late morning train?” “I’m afraid you won’t be that fortunate.” West took a swallow of tea. “I can’t go back to London. I have to stay in Hampshire until I’ve met with all the tenants I had planned to visit.” “Mr. Ravenel--” “I have to,” he said doggedly. “My brother never asks anything of me. Which is why I’ll do this even if it kills me.” Kathleen glanced at him in surprise. “Very well,” she said after a moment. “Shall we send for Mr. Carlow to accompany you?” “I rather hoped that you would go with me.” Seeing her expression, West added warily, “Only for today.” “Mr. Carlow is far more familiar with the tenants and their situations--” “His presence may prove to be inhibiting. I want them to speak to me frankly.” He glared at his plate. “Not that I expect more than a half-dozen words from any of them. I know what that sort thinks of me: a city toff. A great useless peacock who knows nothing about the superior virtues of farm life.” “I don’t think they’ll judge you severely, so long as they believe that you’re not judging them. Just try to be sincere, and you should have no difficulty.” “I have no talent for sincerity,” West muttered. “It’s not a talent,” Kathleen said. “It’s a willingness to speak from your heart, rather than trying to be amusing or evasive.” “Please,” West said tersely. “I’m already nauseous.” Scowling, he took another bite of the bacon sandwich.

The school regime refused to make it easy for us on the dress side of things, and it dictated that even if we wanted to walk into the neighboring town of Windsor, then we had to wear a blazer and tie. This made us prime targets for the many locals who seemed to enjoy an afternoon of beating up the Eton “toffs.” On one occasion, I was having a pee in the loos of the Windsor McDonald’s, which were tucked away downstairs at the back of the fast-food joint. I was just leaving the Gents when the door swung open, and in walked three aggressive-looking lads. They looked as if they had struck gold on discovering this weedy, blazer-wearing Eton squirt, and I knew deep down that I was in trouble and alone. (Meanwhile, my friends were waiting for me upstairs. Some use they were being.) I tried to squeeze past these hoodies, but they threw me back against the wall and laughed. They then proceeded to debate what they were going to do to me. “Flush his head down the toilet,” was an early suggestion. (Well, I had had that done to me many times already at Eton, I thought to myself.) I was okay so far. Then they suggested defecating in the loo first. Now I was getting worried. Then came the killer blow: “Let’s shave his pubes!” Now, there is no greater embarrassment for a young teenager than being discovered to not have any pubes. And I didn’t. That was it. I charged at them, threw one of them against the wall, barged the other aside, squeezed through the door, and bolted. They chased after me, but once I reached the main floor of the McDonald’s I knew I was safe. I waited with my friends inside until we were sure the thugs had all left, then cautiously slunk back across the bridge to school. (I think we actually waited more than two hours, to be safe. Fear teaches great patience.)

The journey up to battle camp started badly. “If you can’t even load a bloody truck with all your kit properly, then you’ve got no bloody chance of passing what’s ahead of you, I can assure you of that!” Taff, our squadron DS, barked at us in the barracks before leaving. I, for one, was more on edge than I had ever felt so far on Selection. I was carsick on the journey north, and I hadn’t felt that since I’d been a kid heading back to school. It was nerves. We also quizzed Taff for advice on what to expect and how to survive the “capture-initiation” phase. His advice to Trucker and me was simple: “You two toffs just keep your mouths shut--23 DS tend to hate recruits who’ve been to private school.” The 23 SAS were running the battle camp (it generally alternated between 21 and 23 SAS), and 23 were always regarded as tough, straight-talking, hard-drinking, fit-as-hell soldiers. We had last been with them at Test Week all those months earlier, and rumor was that “the 23 DS are going to make sure that any 21 recruits get it the worst.” Trucker and I hoped simply to try and stay “gray men” and not be noticed. To put our heads down and get on and quietly do the work. This didn’t exactly go according to plan. “Where are the lads who speak like Prince Charles?” The 23 DS shouted on the first parade when we arrived. “Would you both like newspapers with your morning tea, gents?” the DS sarcastically enquired. Part of me was tempted to answer how nice that would be, but I resisted. The DS continued: “I’ve got my eye on you two. Do I want to have to put my life one day in your posh, soft hands? Like fuck I do. If you are going to pass this course you are going to have to earn it and prove yourself the hard way. You both better be damned good.” Oh, great, I thought. I could tell the next fortnight was going to be a ball-buster.

Toffs?” Jack kept his eyes averted from his

Foxes are considered vermin by landowners, have a population inflated by modern farming techniques, and may be shot or snared by anyone—which is not clearly less cruel than hunting them with dogs. Nor was the ban a blow for class warfare, contrary to the belief of many Labour antis, who considered the “so-called sport” an exclusive preserve of cruel toffs. It never was. And by then fox-hunting, with village cricket and the Sunday service, was a fading vestige of the class-based, yet not wholly class-bound way of much of British rural society for centuries. “If the French nobility had been capable of playing cricket with their peasants, their chateaux would never have been burnt,” the historian G.M. Trevelyan wrote. Had they ridden to hounds with their tenants, as 19th-century English gentlemen huntsmen did, then cheered them as they sent in the terriers,

Is the movie of your LIFE how you intended it to be? Do you feel you’re the star of your own movie, or is someone else – a celebrity, royalty, a privileged toff, a super rich person – always in the main shot? Are you an out-of-focus blur in the background? How close does your movie stick to the original script you intended for your life? If it’s nowhere near, isn’t it time to change the script or change your life? Become the star of your own movie, transform it into colour rather than the dull black and white it is now. Ask yourself – if the movie of your life was in a cinema, would you watch it? Would you want other people to see it? Would they walk out because it’s so boring? Even worse, would you walk out too and demand a refund?

I'm allergic to fickle-minded toffs.

They’re all in the Toff’s Rifles or the Mummersetshire Yeomanry.

new-fangled ideas were all very well in theory, but did they work in practice or was it just ignorant toffs with fancy words and no idea how things really worked?

You don’t understand,” Mairelon said dully. “Kim doesn’t want to marry a toff.” Was that what was bothering him? “Well, of all the bacon-brained, sapskulled, squirish, buffle-headed nod cocks!” Kim said with as much indignation as she could muster. “I was talking about the marquis, not about you!” Mairelon’s eyes kindled. “Then you would?” “You’ve whiddled it,” Kim informed him.

Uski ek choti si khwaishh thi, mujhse ek toffe ki farmaaishh thi... bade hi hakk se manga tha usne wo toffa, jaise mujse meri mohobbat ki aazmaaishh thi,,,

many of the racial alarmists were also leaders in the nation’s new conservation movement. The blue-blooded toffs who feared that the noble and superior white race was menaced by unwashed rabble also saw wild landscapes as noble and superior wildernesses menaced by the same rabble. Prizing the expert governance of resources, they found little difference between protecting forests and cleaning up the human gene pool.

Oh, like I say, I've seen you in action, it's the others who should worry, but..." His head dropped. "But...?" "But I also saw you hesitate when you had that murderous little toff bang to rights, and I saw the fight drain out of you, just as surely as you'd been uncorked. I saw someone who's very good at dealing death but ain't got no heart for doing it. Now, I've met lots of evil bastards with a sadistic streak long as your arm, who would go knocking your teeth out of your mouth just because they had too many ales and fancied swinging their arm. Evil bastards who loved dishing out pain but only to those weaker and more vulnerable than themselves. Christ only knows, I've been married to two of them. And what's more, I've seen men who was good at fighting and could handle themselves if a brawl broke out, and who would do what they had to do given the circumstances, and maybe take a grim pride in their work, and maybe not. But what I ain't never seen is a man so good at fighting as you, who had so little stomach for it. [...] I wondered about that an awful lot, young man, believe you me. I've wondered if maybe you was a deserter from the army but not out of cowardice, oh no, I've never seen a man so brave, but because you're one of them, what you call it? Conscientious objectors. Well, the truth of it is, that I don't know, and from the sounds of what you're saying now, it's probably best I don't know, but what I do know is that you've got a big heart and there's no room in this world for people with a heart like yours. This world eats up people with hearts like yours. Eats them up and spits them out. You ask if I worry? Yes, my boy, I worry. You ask why? That's why.

Albert is een toffe gast. Ik zag hem dikwijls in mijn favoriete pianobar in Knokke. Ik denk dat ik hem zelfs ooit in het pokeren versloeg, al ben ik daar niet helemaal zeker van omdat ik toen heel veel dronk. Maar stel je eens voor dat die stijve Filip morgen koning wordt. Daar mag je toch niet aan denken? Mochten die Saksen-Coburgs alleen lintjes doorknippen, ik zou me er niet aan storen. Nu hebben ze gewoon teveel macht. Heb je Di Rupo zien uithuilen op de schouder van Albert? De koning maakte zich eens kwaad en een uur later stonden ze snel terug bij Elio op de stoep, volksverraders Beke en De Croo op kop! Hoe kan je nu de grootste partij van Vlaanderen de rug toekeren? De pretentie van Alexander De Croo grenst aan het ongelofelijke. Dan heb je de verkiezingen verloren en ga je nog eisen stellen. ‘De groenen mogen niet mee doen!’ zei hij, terwijl z’n partij net afgeslacht werd. Je moet het maar durven!

For decades Americans have experienced a populist uprising that only benefits the people it is supposed to be targeting. In Kansas we merely see an extreme version of this mysterious situation. The angry workers, mighty in their numbers, are marching irresistibly against the arrogant. They are shaking their fists at the sons of privilege. They are laughing at the dainty affectations of the Leawood toffs. They are massing at the gates of Mission Hills, hoisting the black flag, and while the millionaires tremble in their mansions, they are bellowing out their terrifying demands. “We are here,” they scream, “to cut your taxes.” PART II:

If the toffs can’t afford to be hypocrites, who can?

We’re adaptable, not blunderers. Every step has its questions, its changes. And we’ve got to be ready to face all of it. Think on our feet. The way we get it done doesn’t matter. It’s the end result that counts, and Nemesis doesn’t stop until the job’s finished.” “You’re all a bit mad, aren’t you?” Surprisingly, this was said with a hint of amusement. “Nobody said getting revenge against powerful toffs was a task for the sane.” He chuckled. “Maybe that’s why I jumped at the chance to be a part of it.” “Then perhaps I’m a bit mad, too,” she said in a confiding whisper. “Because I’m rather liking this vengeance business.” He could hear her smile, and picture it in his mind. He gripped the shelf behind him to keep from reaching for her. Pulling her close. Yet he was a man of his word. He wouldn’t kiss her again until she asked. But he hoped like hell that she did ask.

who are relatively sensible and good when