Inspired by the swashbuckling travelogues of Victorian diplomat Lord Dufferin, frail surburbanite Tim Moore sets out to prove his physical and spiritual worth before his sceptical Nordic in-laws by retracing Dufferins epic voyage to Iceland and Spitzbergen. Dufferins battles with icebergs, polar bears and the deep potations of hospitable Norsemen is a tale of derring-do; Moores struggle against seasickness, vertigo and over-priced groceries is all too plainly one of derring-dont. As his bid to emulate the Empire tradition of fearless pluck in the face of adversity crumbles before haughty Icelandic skippers, a convoy of Norwegian Vikings and Spitzbergens Soviet ghost towns, he finds himself transferring his affections to Dufferins valet Wilson, a man so profoundly gloomy that he was seen to smile but once, when told that his colleague, the steward, had been almost thrown overboard. As Moore says, Dufferin seems the personification of Kiplings If. Im more of a But... man myself. FROST ON MY MOUSTACHE is the wretched apologia of a big earls blouse.