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.

We’re down to a single copy of Shakespeare’s First Folio that’s untouched by smegma. Have some respect for culture, if not for our labor. Similarly, while a spot of Henry VIII’s semen may qualify as a historical artifact, your impecunious cousin’s jism that has marbleized the down comforter does not. Rather, it creates more work for us and serves as an ignoble reminder that your bloodline appears to be sucking and fucking its way to an early grave.

On a related note, if you must hump a burial plot, kindly hose yourself off at the gates before setting foot on the premises. The admixture of pre-cum and sodden dirt is notoriously adherent to delicate surfaces, and Gertrude cannot afford to throw her back out again from scrubbing.

Please don’t misconstrue this missive as prudery. We respect every woman’s right to sensually lick her menses off the finger of a mysterious power bottom. However, may we suggest the stone fountain as a destination for this activity instead of the heirloom lawn chair? There are still faint wine stains on it from the Dionysian bacchanal of 2001, and Edgar has been flagellating himself for that for over a decade. Another blemish might kill him.

We are similarly invested in the state of the grounds. Each morning, we take pains to trim the labyrinthine hedge maze so that nary a stray twig remains. Is it too much to ask that you exercise similar care in your personal landscaping? Or is leaving traces of your genital topiary your latest stratagem to intimidate your playmates?

We’re at our collective wit’s end. There are stray butt-prints on almost every surface. Has someone taken to dancing naked through the mansion? We have found your bodily fluids in locations that seem to defy the very laws of physics. For instance, we cannot fathom the strength of the ejaculation that frosted the chandelier in the foyer. Poor Henrietta is risking life and limb on a ladder to polish the hand-cut crystals with the fervor of one of you posh sods polishing your uncut knobs in the entryway.

Speaking of entryways, might we suggest that, after digitally exploring the body of your first cousin, you might wipe the incestuous residue on your handkerchief rather than smearing it upon the oak banister? Young cousin Archie loves to slide down that banister during his Christmas visits. Doesn’t Archie deserve an unsullied youth?

For the sake of the estate and our sanity, we kindly request that you smarten up your comportment before we’re forced to take one of the few undefiled silver candlesticks and burn this whole place to the ground—and salt the earth.

Duncan the Butler and Colleagues

P.S. In contrast to the aforementioned grievances, the bathtub drain in the guest bathroom is always spotless. Thank you. (And we don’t want to know.)