Here is one putting pen to paper on your behalf once again. Well, what a to-do about the Union Terrace Gardens, eh? One simply couldn’t believe that even a jumped-up, nouveau-riche oik like the odious Wood would try to desecrate the centre of the Granite City with his ridiculous vanity project.
That was bad enough but when we heard that crowd of bludgers in the city council had actually passed it! Well, I’ve haven’t seen Mumsy so peed off since that dreadful Thatcher woman came on a visit and Ma found her in the guest bedroom trying on her crown. The flat-heeled sensible Clarks Ladies shoes were flying that day, I can tell you. As the visiting Australian Cultural Attache aptly remarked at the time , “Yer ma’s farting sparks today, son”.
Anyway, back to the day of the council vote. Obviously, the family’s first response was to get tooled up with polo mallets, climb into the Range Rover then zip into town and give the spineless curs a good seeing-to while Mumsy, (having what the family calls ‘One of Her Little Pol Pot Moments’) was all for having the little bastards shot for treason.
Unfortunately, when we got to the garage, accompanied by the corgis, who are always up for a ruck, we discovered that Dad had taken the Range Rover and left it at the airport on his way to the demos in Greece. So instead of being available for us it was sitting at Aberdeen Airport clocking up parking fees like nobody’s business. There’s your typical bloody anarchist for you – never around when you need them.
Anyway, at this, Mumsy lit up and went tilt, swearing and half-volleying a corgi into the nearest bush which set the rest of them about each other – snapping, yapping, barking and farting into the fading gloom. Consequently, it was a very miffed family that returned seething to the castle. The memsahib and I cheered ourselves up by having a go at the Amontillado while Mumsy, still growling, got her mobile out and texted the council, threatening death and destruction all round. It was at this point that my hefty sister-in-law Big F announced, that after her recent bit of venture capitalism, introducing people to other people for a price, she could arrange for us all to have our tea at the Inversnecky with ACC’s ruling junta for fifty quid a head. Everyone ignored Big F except for a corgi which fired off its own thunderous rear end comment on this tempting offer, rendering the firer unconscious and emptying the drawing room in seconds.
Dinner was a rather gloomy affair despite the Amontillado and it was drawing to an equally gloomy close when Mumsy’s mobile went off in the kitchen. Predictably, Mumsy’s mobile plays ‘God Save The Queen’ which needless to say, she’s quite fond of as a tune, although Dad says it’s really stupid as everybody will think she’s a Hun.
Mumsy re-appeared a few moments later looking even more hacked off than before. The corgis, recognising the danger signs, quickly scampered behind the settee while the rest of us gazed up askance. Predictably, it was further bad news. ‘Julian and F****** Sandy’ (as Dad now refers to them*), had formed a coalition government after almost a week of sultry looks, flirtatious glances and come-hither smiles and we were obliged to fly down to London first thing in the morning and ‘receive’ the little wankers at Buck House if you please. Oh joy and bloody bliss.
More of this next week, as we enter the political arena with Julian and his friend Sandy.
*Dad was a regular listener to a 1960s radio programme called ‘Round the Horne’ which featured the aforesaid Julian and Sandy.