Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Tuesday, 25 February 2014
Better out than in
Another Rat drawing (Rat and Widdy the cat blaming each other for an S.B.D.), unearthed when I was scanning stuff for G.E.'s Valentine card, and discarded as inappropriate for the occasion. A rare example of the exercise of good taste on my part - or at least stopping myself from displaying the bad sort.
Being surrounded by animals to blame must constitute at least one small compensation for all that angst and all those vet's bills (is it, John?), but I'm not sure the Queen (Elizabeth) really needs it with all those Corgis. She has footmen for that job.
Here we go again. Why is it I constantly return to base, schoolboy stuff, when everyone else is showing fabulous pictures of Venice, windswept moors, retro interiors and beautifully prepared cuisine?
I think that - in a way so small as to be virtually indetectable - I am possessed by a tiny devil. Note the lower-case 'd'.
Having listened to a dramatisation of 'The Exorcist' on the radio the other night, I found myself identifying more with the girl than the priest. I often have an almost uncontrollable desire to scream out the 'C' word (why so coy all of a sudden?) when in the presence of clergy, but since it is 'almost' I hardly ever do.
I did have a highly entertaining train-ride between Paddington and Reading once, when I spent the entire, shortish journey insulting the Bishop of that town in what I thought was an entertaining and humorous way, but I stopped short of screaming obscenities. H.I. was grateful for that, especially since that same Bishop came to a small church to bless and dedicate some work we had done to a medieval Doom Board a few years later, and either didn't recognise us, or politely pretended not to.
I notice that the above drawing was scribbled on an envelope bearing the post-mark for Bradford on Avon. It so happens that the Mayor of Bradford on Avon is an old acquaintance of mine, and it also so happens that he has one of the foulest mouths I have ever encountered in one who has made his fortune by dealing with the general public.
I happened to be in his office years ago, when he was expressing his irritation over the telephone to one of his many paying customers. He has an Estuary accent, which makes his use of expletives twice as effective as it would be if it were B.B.C. - or at least the B.B.C. when they didn't feel compelled to employ broadcasters from every part of the realm and provinces thereof without sending them to speech therapy first.
The conversation went something like this:
"I DON'T GIVE A FUCK WHAT YOU THINK! YOU CAN TAKE YOUR CHEQUE AND STICK IT UP YOUR ARSE FOR ALL I CARE! I DON'T NEED THE FUCKING MONEY!"
He now talks with a gentrified inflection which owes more to Hyacinth Bucket than Harold Steptoe, but he is the Mayor, after all.