Old Susannah gets to grips with Grampian gripes normally; this week the focus is on the Face of Aberdeen, and a shy retiring golf magnate. By Suzanne Kelly
Tally ho! There is quite a lot going on in the Deen, such as Dr Kennedy’s new book (interview and review to follow). BrewDog has some new beers coming out, and the BrewDog Jackhammer margaritas continue to delight.
An 87 year old man was put on the sex offenders’ list for kissing a shop assistant on the cheek while at the same time a man who lifted a woman’s dress over her head while she was using a cash point was dismissed as being just good fun. In fact, she was put on trial for giving chase and hitting him.
Sounds fair to me.
With the weather a bit dreich, and things not quite as vibrant and dynamic as they might be this summer, I thought I’d revisit an Old Susannah column from two years ago, The Beautiful Princess. The Beautiful Princess still stands as shining example of what happens when your looks are in the driving seat.
Sure, in her case the brain may not have actually made it into the vehicle, and ethics must have jumped out at a red light. In fact, a former co-worker has just told me that this princess is ‘thick as mince’. However, for the young and pretty girl, the sky’s the limit as to how much money you can make.
So Tally Ho! instead of the usual news round up, diary, and definitions, it’s time to re-visit the well-loved fairy tale of The Beautiful Princess. Definitions and normal services to resume shortly.
The Beautiful Princess. By Suzanne Kelly.
Recapeth:
There once was a beautiful princess; all around her marvelled at her great beauty back in the day. Was she as kind, good and honest as her looks implied? Alas! Not so much, as we well learned.
Proud of her great beauty, in her youth she entered a beauty pageant to find the fairest face in the land, and naturally, she won, for she was the most beautiful maid in all the highlands. The fame this brought her went straight to her head.
Verily when she was crowned fairest face in the land, the dashing young newspaper executive who had coincidentally run this august competition fell madly in love with her, and she with him. Forsaking their previous partners, they soon wed, for beautiful people must stick together. And ambitious beautiful people even more so.
Around this time, a tyrant-ogre named Trump from a faraway land had come to the Princess’ kingdom, and set out to make the world’s greatest golf course. Fearful he was, with the hair of a wildebeest (and the wildebeest was glad to get rid of it). This ogre had the roar of a lion (possibly one of the lions his two brave manly sons had courageously shot with high-powered muskets while tracking animals down using iron horses and 4x4s.
This hunting, in the words of one of the brave boys, was verily a largess on their part which enabled the poor Africans to have shoes, but I never did understand how that worked and I digresseth).
Who should the ogre tyrant choose to build hundreds of homes, two golf courses, a country club, kennels to keep the slaves in, and giant clocks showing the wrong times? Why the Beautiful Princess of course.
Her work experience consisted previously of hanging around at the Gordon Highlanders’ museum. She had tired of this job indeed, as many of the school children oft mistook her for one of the display dummies. Imagine her great joy when her great beauty won the heart of the tyrant King!
‘Forsooth! He may not be very pretty to look at, but his gold will keep me in all the Jimmy Choo glass slippers I could ever want, which truth be told is the lot of them’ she mused.
‘Surely I will have to spend a day or two learning about ‘golf’ whatever that is, and I already know about houses for I have lived in some. Verily, Master Bates and I his Mistress Princess are quids in’.
And the rest was history.
….. But things change, ken?
The Story Noweth:
Now the Princess was on a nice little earner, and in between rants the bellowing ogre-tyrant Trump taught the princess much. She learned of faraway lands and customs.
Near Trump’s American homeland was Mexicoland. Savage beasts called Mexicoans lived there – but were always trying to move to America to rape, pillage, sell magic potions and taketh over.
“As soon as I make the world’s greatest golf course here in Scotlandland, and am made King of America, I will build a wall shutting all those Mexicoans into their Mexicoland forever.” the tyrant told her.
There were also apparently Black people, though Princess Sarah had met precious few such people, and hardly ever did any black people appear in her husband’s Ye Press & Journal newspaper.
“A well-educated black has a tremendous advantage over a well-educated white in terms of the job market. I think sometimes a black may think they don’t have an advantage or this and that… I’ve said on one occasion, even about myself, if I were starting off today, I would love to be a well-educated black, because I believe they do have an actual advantage.’’ Trump would joke with the Princess.
But his infamous moods began to swing even more erratically with the passage of time.
Construction of the second golf course was put off because of something called wind turbines. Whatever these were, the Princess understood they were hideous to look upon, and no one would come for a match of golf if there were any turbines to be seen on the water.
By a happy coincidence someone with the same surname as the princess was in a position in the shire such that he had a vote over whether building such monstrous turbines should be allowed on land or sea; his name was Tom, and never did he cast an ‘Aye’ in favour of the wind machines, which happily suited ogre-tyrant to a tee. Verily though, the people decided that their energy needs were at least as important as golf, and these turbines got ye go-ahead.
So the second course was off. Then it was on again. Then Trump went to the court of King Salmond to proclaim ‘he was the evidence’ and no turbines should be built. For some reason, King Salmond disagreed. He was later succeeded by Queen Nicola, but alas, I digress again and seek thy pardon. And to the astonishment of many, Trump did buyeth a share in a wind farm company. ‘What’s he liketh?’ the peasants wondered.
Anyway, it seemed to the Princess that the tyrant was becoming more and more confused by the day. His rants against black people and Mexicoans were joined by rants against this group, that person, television networks, countries – in truth, everyone was subject to a fearful, slavering Trump slaggeth – except for the Ice Queen Sara Palin. It was said she had a musket, killed many a moose (whatever a moose is), and lived in the frozen north.
Upon hearing of the slaughter of fearsome lion Cecil, Trump said he’d pay the legal costs for the dentist-lech-hunter who had done the deed, and Sara Palin said:
“there are plenty of lions in zoos; what’s the big deal yous guys?”
As was well-known in the shire, Trump suffered from many bewitchments. One of these was of course his delusion of competence. Another spell he was under was that although he looked like a particularly unattractive bloated jellyfish with a gaping maw (why his mouth never assumed a normal shape was undoubtedly another bewitchment upon him – pardon for yet another digression), he thought he was beautiful.
He in turn had an enchantment of his own and was able to make fair looking maids think he was the very knees of the bees. Beautiful maidens with names like ‘Ivana’ and ’Melania’ threw themselves at the hulking mass which was the ogre tyrant, marrying – nay – even mating with the beast. This attraction he held over them was whispered in hushed tones to be in some way connected with bags of gold.
However, while The Donald, as Trump was also knowneth, showed scant sign of possessing any actual gold. But there one hath it.
Anyway, one summer day Trump flew his iron bird and came to visit the Princess and the club of golfs at Menie. Afraid of incurring his wrath, the Princess decked herself out in her loveliest clothes.
While Princess Bates had been a wee slip of a girl, there was a wee slip in her looks as the years progressed. The year before, Trump flew in a team of witch stylists, who put an American glamour on the Princess. While she was not best pleased at this turn of affairs, Princess Sarah thought ‘why fighteth it? If I am to look like an American for this gig, so be it, and I will just dress in my lovely clothes when out on the town with my Damian.’
So in came the hairdressers the stylists and make up artists. Sarah’s hair grew to twice its normal height and width, so big was it was that it nearly rivialled the main the giant himself sported. A jerkin with massive shoulder pads was put on her; she could barely walk in it. A tunic of American style was put on her. And to her great shame, she was photographed in this frumpy puritanical gear with giant hair, holding a giant certificate.
Forsooth! This was none other than the fabled ‘Five Diamond Award’. Now this was the most sought-after prize in all the countryside; even in Mexicoland. Trump was pleased greatly by receiving this great award. Result! By the oddest of coincidences, Trump was on the board of the great and good who gave this award out. But there you haveth it.
So the Princess kept learning about golf; apparently there were clubs that you struck things with (like Derek Forbes, who years ago in the shire saved himself from a giant fox that was after his sandwich by clubbing it half to death and leaving it to suffer. The people still to this day remember him – but again already this is another digression), and there were also clubs golfers visited to buy sandwiches for £20 a pop.
The Princess’ progress astounded all those around here, who had never known her to absorb so much knowledge before. And the ogre-tyrant would visit on occasion, at which times Sarah’s husband would bow to his wishes and spread stories far and wide about how wonderful Trump was.
Then it was time for another visit from Trump.
Warmly welcoming Trump and his entourage to his Scottish lands at Menie, Sarah curtseyed as per usual. When she looked up, she was aghast. Trump had never seemed a portrait in oils to her, but now he seemed positively terrifying. His face had turned the orange colour of oranges, and the skin around his beady eyes had turned the pink of the rose.
“Well, Sarah honey, now that I’ve done such a grand job here at Menie building the world’s greatest course, I’ve bought far off lands called Turnberry. I’ll soon do for them what I’ve done here!” Trump roared.
“I’ve even got another girl to help me with drinks and photo opps there just like you do here.”
Sarah tried not to shake with fear and revulsion when the monstrous Trump spake thus:
“Sarah honey, go get me and the guys some drinks will ya?”
Not accustomed to being ordered, she nevertheless left the elegant clubhouse room Trump was now ensconced in. Grabbing a passing servant by the neck, she hissed at them to serve Trump’s drinks. But could it be that there was someone else who knew about this game of golf who had been hired? Was she pretty? ‘Surely any new employee is not as beautiful as I am, for in truth I am the Face of the Shire.’ she thought.
Sarah was perplexed.
Trump and his court jester, Sorial, were laughing loudly. Sarah hid behind the statue of St. MacDonald, Trump’s grandmother from Skye, which had been cast in the finest concrete known to man (just like the fountain at the MacLeod house – ach, I digresseth again), and thus concealed, she listened to them speak.
“Dumb doesn’t come close to it, and I oughtta know!” Trump joked with Sorial
“Yeah, and did you see how doughy she was!” Sorial joked back
“Those eyes! those lines aren’t crow’s lines, those are San Andreas Faults”
The Princess heaved a sigh of relief. So – this usurper who was going to work at Turnberry was not a great beauty. This was good news indeed. Any insecurities she felt disappeared.
The servant girl with the drinks appeared; shaking like a leaf such that the goblets on her tray quivered. Serving as quickly as she could, she left.
‘Now that my great boss Trump has his drinks, I’ll emerge from behind this statue and dazzle him with my beauty AND my knowledge of golf’ the Princess thought. Sashaying over in her 6” heels, smiling from ear to ear, she heard the last line of their conversation:
“But at least if we keep the old bag of a princess around, we’ll still get good PR in Ye Press & Journal, and those rebellious upstarts like Forbes, Milne, Munro and Baxter will be closed out of the news, and verily their names stricken from the record.” Sorial laughed
“But for Chrissake, I’m going to get my makeup gal to fix the Princess’s complexion up just like she’s done to me – don’t I look nice and tan, Sorial?” Trump enquired.
“Er, sure you do boss” Sorial said, taking a big swig from his goblet.
Princess Sarah stopped in her tracks, her smile disappearing into the laughter lines around here eyes. Her chins dropped. Even beneath her St Tropez magic tan – which ironically made her look more like one of those hated Mexicoans than she could ever know – Sarah could feel herself grow pale as the blood drained from her once beautiful face.
Somewhere outside the beautiful clubhouse palace, a lonely seagull cried.
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