Dusty Wentworth

I was born to working-class parents, long before smartphones and streaming services. A time when milk was delivered before sunrise, teachers were called “Sir” or “Miss,” and the family car—if you were lucky enough to have one—was often a second-hand Cortina with rust around the arches. It was a Britain still feeling the echoes of war. The class system hadn’t vanished, but the war had weakened its grip. Brave men and women from every walk of life had proven that courage, sacrifice, and leadership weren’t the sole preserve of the upper classes. They fought not just for victory—but for freedom. Not only the freedom of our nation, but the freedom of potential—the limitless scope to shape one's own future, unburdened by predetermined status. That’s what I inherited—not a title or a silver spoon, but the chance to become something greater than the sum of my circumstances. The chance to choose my character. Being a gentleman isn’t about tailored suits or fine cigars, though I’...