Keep abreast of developments in Dumpdee with our Hilltoon correspondent : The Major, who offers his own individual perspective on the City...
On this page you'll find The Major's comments for 2006
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The boy Tarquin (six in only 2 weeks time - and oh the excitement in the Towers at the though at another round of parties and masked-balls ) has been having careers advice at St Eustace O Cohen’s Primary, for displaced Chav’s in Strathmartine Road. The Memsahib and I think he is of rather tender years to have such a burden placed on his childlike shoulders, but who are we - or indeed anyone - to interfere with Father Morrie O’Dougal, his advisory teacher.
We sat him down and asked him if he had considered his options, and this was his rather extended reply. “Well Pater! I would always have liked to have been a Viking. As long of course as you didn’t have to wear one of those pointy hats. They look terribly heavy and lets face it Health and Safety would have them sawn off these days, I mean, you could have someone’s eye out with something that sharp.
“Oh, and I wouldn’t have liked to wear one of those chain vest thing’s, look frightfully uncomfortable if you ask me. And what about the summer, once you started a bit of fighting, and all that sweating as you thrust and parried, well, think of the chaffing. And what about ointment application before you went to bed at night? I mean you would have to have a really, really, I mean, really, really, really, close friend, to attend to all those bits you couldn’t reach.
“I also wouldn’t be too keen on all that rape and pillaging stuff either. I would rather we all sat down with those whose lands we invaded, and perhaps held a coffee morning, or maybe say, a late brunch if it was a Sunday; then the hand over of goods and chattels - not to mention slaves and women - could be conducted in a far more agreeable fashion. And all that long hair, just think about the dandruff and those split ends, and not being able to wash for weeks and weeks on end. As for the bathroom arrangements, both on ship and on the march; well I positively shudder at the thought.
“And the sea, especially the North one I get terribly seasick, so that wouldn’t do at all. No, I would rather just stay back in the Fjord and do a bit of crocheting, or perhaps the odd bit of needlepoint. Oh, and maybe I could run up the odd balaclava or two, after all it does get so cold in the Longboat’s late at night. No, no, no, I could remain behind and cook and clean, so that when the boys came back from all that marauding, I could have their desks nice and tidy, chalks in a straight line, note pads in a neat pile and perhaps a few clips so they could get there papers in order.
“And Mead I really wouldn’t be too keen on that at all, it is supposed to play havoc with the digestive system. No, no, give me a good Chablis or perhaps a 57 Muscatel any day. I mean if drinking Mead is supposed to be good for you, just look what it did to those Berserker’s. Changed them from nice boys who were good to their mummies, and all creatures great and small, and turned them into ranting, raving madmen.
“Oh, look I’m sorry to have wasted your time Pater,” he said, his little voice breaking with the strain of it all.
“I’ve just realised I didn’t want to be a Viking at all? It was really a Chartered Accountant!”
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
A surprise visit from that well known ‘Fire and Brimstone Meenester,’ Jock Sox,’ the last of his noble line of, well, ‘Fire and Brimstone Meenesters?’ He made a brief stop overnight to enjoy the hospitality of ‘The Towers,’ on his way to the Hebrides to verify a sighting of the ‘Holy Toast,’ floating on the Little Minch?
As he had just an overnight stay in the city, he could only fit in a mere 15 sermons, a Bazaar opening - potted plants for the use of - and to wave the ‘Off Flag,’ for the 15th annual Hilltown Lama race, to the Stonehaven Red-Light district - a brief stop off compulsory for rider and Lama - and back, before his motorcade swept over the Sidlaws into the mist.
He did leave me with a sermon for your edification, but I have taken the trouble to edit it somewhat, as the original tome was a little shorter than that nice Russian chappie, Mr Tolstoy’s, War and Peace.
“Oh people of Dumpdee, do not sit at the feet of false prophets. Do not follow those who even though you have put X in their box, are deemed to be your betters. Do not dress thy concubine’s in the colours of thy favourite footie-team, in order to have carnal knowledge of them. Do not be Prime-Minister and lead thy country in the way of ‘Family Values,’ and yet admit, in vest and matching under-pants, to fertilising thine own Minister of Eggs. Do not be confronted by thy past, that in a moment of madness, in thy days at ‘Technical College,’ thy did ‘do a bit of smoke,’ and yet deny it, even though thy friends at the time kept all the pretty pictures you drew whilst under its evil influence. Do not follow the way’s of ‘Man O Man’O,’ - once solely the domain of the Whigs, one that has now infiltrated the ranks of the lesser parties. And above all do not harbour within thy ranks a spokesperson on ‘prostitutional affairs,’ who has been caught out at having first hand - or any other that was available - experience of the matter…”
“Remember Oh people of Dumpdee, and tell thy children this. There are naught better than thee…”
Fair enough then?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
A covert visit from the Dumpdee Sheriff, Sandy ‘Big-Gun’s’ Magee, in the early hours of Thursday morning. The Memsahib found him in the ‘Priest Hole, ‘ which is situated - I’m sorry I actually cannot tell you that, as you would then know where we keep ‘Fathers,’ on the run - anyway, she was alerted to his presence by his whimpering. He was curled in a foetal ball, his little weathered face puckered up into the appearance of a well smack arse.
After a mere bottle of Harvey’s Bristol cream, administered spoon by spoon by the ever attendant Memsahib, he blurted out the whole sorry tale of why he has had to go into hiding. As failed Libation Demostrat candidate for Broughty Ferry, and all the pretty bit’s in-between, for the last two Scottish Parliament elections , he has been asked to leave the party, as he is about to be ‘Outed,’ by the Dumpdee Daily Bulge. It appears - much to his shame - that he is not now, nor has he ever been, a practising homosexual?
The Memsahib and I were frankly astonished. “Why,” we said. “The way you dress? The eye-liner? The fish-nets behind your chap’s?. Even your official Cooncil horse is called Mary - and he’s a boy? We thought that the exterior, belied what went on inside?”
“Do not, judge a book by its cover!” is all he replied, before slumping to the nearest sofa and eating pickled eggs and a haggis selection of starters, until he fell into a fitful sleep some hours later, wrapped only in his horse blanket.
We were awoken by a further telephone-call around dawn, on Friday morning from Nigel McNoBrain, head of the Libation Demostrats in the Angus area - or any other that takes his fancy - to say that not only was he looking for Sandy, but that he was sick to death of all the bad publicity surrounding his beloved party.
He categorically refutes that they are any ‘gentlemen of a certain persuasion,’ in the ranks of his members. But, should I care to give him a great big, sloppy, wet mouthed kiss, he would tell me where I could find some.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
We were totally humbled by a surprise visit from the fabulous Chantelle, winner of ‘Celebrity Big Brother,’ on last Friday forenoon. Her incessant talking on the subject of middle-eastern politics, and conversational delights such as, the genetic make up of the average Fintry man, kept us enthralled for minutes, during her short stay.
Unfortunately we could barely contain the hugeness of her entourage in the confines of the Towers, and her extensive caravan spilled out into the surrounding streets. Yes we know, Lear Jets may be one thing, and the correct parking of them on the airport grid pattern another; but having to cope with a troop of Circus elephants and their exotic riders was an additional matter entirely.
She breathlessly informed us that her agent Mark Difford had sent her on a speaking tour of the east coast, as her knowledge of Byzantine pottery in the 5th Century, and the political landscape of Scotland during the Pictish Period, ‘was what ad got er into Big Bruvver in der firse place.’
Her first speaking engagement is a semi-naked performances in front of the Montrose Sheep-Smoking consortium, on the ‘Correct treatment of Tick’s.’. This is followed by a lecture at the Superbowl in Brechin, on ‘How to marry either your mother or your cousin without anyone noticing.’ She then crosses to Arbroath for a lecture at the Harbourdrome, on the correct preparation and serving of a ‘Smokie.’ Her triumphant East-Coast experience culminates in Aberdeen on Thursday with a lecture at the ‘George Calloway Centre for the distressed middle-classes,’ on ‘Oil…! Which offshore tax haven is best for hiding your stash?’ Followed by a civic-reception and the launching of the deep sea trawler, the ‘HMS Chanter?’
She has been asked by the Lord Provost to complete the difficult task of pressing a button which will send the vessel down the slipway and out onto the North Sea.
But secretly she has assured the Memsahib and I that she is not going to have her button pressed by anyone?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Oh dear, can you never keep a good girl down?
The utterly fabulous Chantelle stopped off on her way back from her ‘World Tour’ of Scotland, for a Civic-Reception at the City-Chambers. It was clear by her excited giggles that she had a fine time at all of her engagement’s, although at Brechin she was a little perplexed? Why was everyone called either Eddie, Davie, or Willie, and that one could not distinguish whether they were male or female. I explained to her the law’s of basic genetics and the years of careless in-breeding that produces sexless hybrid’s of these sorts? She seemed satisfied at my forthright explanation.
We accompanied her to the City-Square, where standing on the balcony of the Chambers waving to 100’s upon thousand’s of onlookers, she beamed and waved her right hand in a regal manner for what seemed like, oh, minutes at least. The Memsahib whispered in my ear that she looked every inch like Eva Braun, or was that Evita Peron girly from Argentina? Seen waving to all her shirtless one’s, outside the Casa Rosada.
After a triumphant procession through the city, headed by Sandy ‘Big Gun’s,’ Magee, riding his stallion Sally - his main mount being in a local garage for his 10,000 mile service - we proceeded from the square. After the floats, the elephants and refuse vendors had all passed by, the entire population of the city were decanted to the ‘Deep Sea,’ in the Nethergate, where a feast of assorted deep fried delicacies were on offer to all.
After lunch we continued the tour of the city, the Lord Provost excitedly showing Chantelle where Old Historic Dumpdee used to be, before his glorious predecessors took the back-hander’s, and had them all swept away. Later she prayed at the shrine of St’Obswell, where the towering chapel to his glorious mission - ending in 1952 after being mistakenly eaten at a memorial banquet for Pope Lionel 1st in Fintry - is still being completed. I can only ask my fellow Hilltown residents to please drink a little faster, we still need a further 15 million empty cider cans for the base alone, and regrettably we are far short of the target. It was then onto the shrine of our Lady of Lochee, the aptly named St Chantelle; tragically the miraculous Saint was on this occasion unable to help in her marvellous knack of finding lost things. As much as Chantelle - the Big Brother one, not the Holy one - may wish it, something she lost on the back seat of a Ford Cortina, that very rainy night of September 1937, in the Sainsbury’s car park in Billericay, can never be recovered. Still, she will see what she can do about the right stiletto - white of course - and the fake diamante earring.
After a masked ball in the 5th floor ballroom of the North - Jimmy Shand wing - we tumbled into bed exhausted at ½ past nine, the ‘Girl of the moment,’ safely ensconced with her troop in the specially decorated Big Brother suite in the South Towers. We were hastily awakened, well, before we had gone to sleep actually, by a soft tapping to the bedroom door. It was Chantelle, - no, not the Saint dear - looking glorious in one of Princess Diana’s old frocks, that she happened to be using as sleepwear.
She thrust into my sleepy hand the proof copy of her new book commissioned only hours before, by an eager publisher keen to milk a good thing when he sees it
Enthusiastically I forwent sleep to read…’Chantelle -My Struggle!’
It was not until dawn that I closed the leather-bound tome, and wiped a tear from my eye!. What a girl! What a life? The hidden years of the leper colony in the Congo - no dear she was a nurse, not a patient? The solo-flying mission’s in order to drop much needed supplies to the refugees in the Tibetan Himalayas, hiding from the crew of ‘Celebrity Big Brother!’ The months she spent in the hills of Bolivia helping the natives with their struggles in coming to term’s with ‘Soft Furnishing’s,’ and the need for correct bathroom decoration. The hours she spent on the operating table facing surgery without anaesthetic, to have that broken fingernail replaced.
The Memsahib - bless her - read the work the following day, and has taken to her bed yet again in paroxysm’s of sobbing; no, she will not be comforted with all the cream eggs in the Spar. For that poor girl to have gone through such horrors, and to be forced to live in Essex - yes I did live there before I met the Memsahib, so I do know what I am talking about - well, it is beyond all belief. If I happen to bump into the Pope buying his ‘butternuts’ in the Spar, at any time in the coming weeks, I shall ask immediately for her canonisation; her own talk show is simply not good enough.
In closing, for I know that you dear reader can keep a secret – not to be whispered to anyone in such establishments as Frew’s, on pain of death. During her visit, Chantelle, and a certain member of a very ordinary band - can you actually hum any one of their tune’s - on Friday forenoon last, were secretly married in the Cathedral on the Estate. All her celebrity friend’s were there; Elsie Tanner, Ena Sharpnell and of course Mimi Caldwell, all revelling in a day trip away from the rigours of the ‘street.’
The Dumpdee Daily Bulge paid for the lavish banquette held in the Rab C Nesbitt wing of the Towers, prepared by the eager cooks of Wallace ‘land o cakes,’ or in some place’s, ‘continents of pies!’ In return for the spread and the exchange of a crisp £50 note - they were allowed exclusive access to Chantelle on her ‘Big Day.’
Suck on that Hello, and whatever else they are called, for the pictures will cause a sensation when published! Chantelle looking utterly radiant as her bridal train was kept out of the horse manure by a contingent of pixies. She was snapped walking amongst the sick and lame lined along the five mile driveway from Constitution Street to the Gatehouse of the Towers. In fact some waited so long that they had healed themselves before she arrived, and so buggered off to the nearest hostelry to toast the bride. I must stop, I dare not tell you anything further, for fear of libel action, the Bulge are very hot on such things?
The highlight of the day was when a huge cake was wheeled into the middle of the ballroom floor and out popped George Calloway - MP for somewhere down South, but never actually there. He appeared in his ‘cat guise,’ from CBB, and mingled with the ‘plebs’ for seconds before he had to leave by helicopter, having an urgent appointment that clashed with the wedding.
He was off to the vet’s to be tutored, if indeed he has not been so already?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Ha, my fellow Dumpdonian’s, does it not make you proud yet again? The Memsahib and I have had to comfort each other from the sobbing attacks since we read the Sunday times last, well, Sunday?
Not only do we live in the city with the highest teenage pregnancy rate in Europe. Not only do we have one of the highest drug - and all that that entails - problems in Britain. Not apart from our drink and benefit culture, but now we have been given yet another accolade to add to those awards!
My, we were so proud…?
It appears that the North V South divide has turned lately into a mile wide ditch. North of the border we spend more on alcohol and tobacco, are more overweight - clinically obese to you dear reader. Participate less in sport, and as a result suffer more long-term health problems. According to the extensive newspaper poll our very own ward of Bowbridge is the top of the league. 5th comes Fairmuir, and a very poor 18th comes St’Obswell.
So what has happened to all the places in-between I hear you ask? Indeed, I can only reply. Only 3 places in the top 20, well that simply is not good enough, I mean even Aberdeen have 4 places.
I can only ask Benny - no surname supplied; that’s the second one to my Fintry reader, only after the first one of course - whom the Sunday Time’s reporter talked to at the Hawthorne Tavern, to come to the Towers and make himself known personally to me! I would like to ask him what exactly he is playing at consuming 12 bottles of Newcastle Brown, and 60 rollie-up’s in one day.
Scandalous; Mrs Puggie Johnson, manages that in 20 minutes.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
PS…If you are at all unsure what this is about please refer to a copy of the Sunday Times 12 February 2006.
The boy Tarquin (our youngest, 6 at Candelmas past) returned home from St Eustace O Cohen’s Primary, for displaced Chav’s in Strathmartine Road on Monday, beaming with pleasure. After his recent sterling attempts to learn Garlic, he has been chosen as the first in School to learn elementary Irish for beginners. It appears that the Scottish Executive (Who they?) have decided in order to promote a better understanding between the Garlic races, that Irish should be added immediately to the school curriculum; Welsh will be added in due course.
His first lesson is quite edifying, and I can only pass this on to my reader in the hope that they too will practice the phrase and use it on any social occasion they see fit. Firstly, take a pen and paper, or, if you live north of the Kingsway find a pointed stick and a patch of dry dust in which to play around in. Secondly, write in upper case letters - Big Ones for those that are unsure - the following phrase…
WHALE OIL BEEF HOOKED
Now, after you have mastered that simple phrase, speak it out loud, saying it quickly of course in an Irish accent, and pop into any of the hostelries on the Hill and repeat it at random to any itinerant traveller you may encounter. All the better if they are themselves, from, the Emerald isle. They will undoubtedly show there gratitude that you have at least made an attempt to converse in there native tongue, and reward you accordingly?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
It appears, if the current state of his neck is anything to go by, that Justin has a girlfriend? Either that or he is self-abusing? Oh, I meant self-harming, he has been self-abusing for years!
I must say the boy Justin has been a complete revelation since love has come a calling? Not only has the bed-wetting almost ceased, his personal hygine has improved no end and his waist length hair is carefully plaited into a neat bun, but he is ooh so attentive. He walks the 15 miles to her mobile-home each and every morning and then carries not only her books, but the girl herself to school. Any reader passing them on the Kingsway please give them a ‘toot;’ I’m sure he will reply in a suitably jolly fashion, after wiping the sweat from his beleaguered brow.
We finally met this ‘apparition of earthly delight’ on Friday last. Titania is pleasant little thing, extremely demure and shy at the out-set, but soon loosened up after consuming some 36 bottles of red wine, and the entire contents of the walk-in fridge in the west-wing kitchen. Unfortunately we can only assume that she was unused to such excess’s, as she then proceeded to regurgitate the lot on the white, hand-woven, silk rug outside the master-bedroom in the Sandy Shaw wing. As one knows dear reader, once red wine is splattered in a projectile arc, on anything it comes in contact with, the stain is almost impossible to get rid of. A great shame as the rug was a thank you present some years ago from the Shah of Forfar, after I extricated him from a house of ill-repute off the Dens Road, and discretely disposed of the incriminating evidence. The nurse’s outfit, I donated to Oxfam, the rubber gloves are Mrs Puggie Johnson’s constant companion, and the ‘donkey,’ has long enjoyed his retirement munching on apples in the lower orchard.
The Memsahib, in her inimitable fashion summed Titania up quite succinctly, even before meeting her, at the state banquet for ‘Jack O Connor’ - our King in waiting - during his recent visit to Dumpdee. She was of course seated next to him, and when he enquired about Justin’s love life, she replied that it was shortly to be “a little more ‘hippy-chick,’ than ‘Goth,’ as his intended has forgone the black cloak and heavy eye-liner for a softer lace, feather and turban look…”
We can only wish Titania and Justin well, especially Justin, we feel he is going to need it?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
His royal Highness the Prince of Whales appeared at the Towers for a late supper on Tuesday last. He was not hungry so he forwent his normal repast for ½ a dozen quails eggs, a ‘bridie surprise’ - in fact no bridie at all - and a mince Cranacken. He seemed somewhat distracted, so distracted that in fact he was talking even more nonsense than usual. He was telling the Memsahib that when mummy pops her clogs and he gets a real job he, is going to bring back public executions; a scaffold and a headsman’s axe for every town centre.
He will also be making sure that agriculture will be returning to its pre ‘Industrial Revolution’ days. This will not only ensure a surfeit of very pretty pastoral scene’s that he can paint in his spare time? But with the return of rickets, diphtheria, and cholera will eventually stop the peasants getting in the way of his very jolly pictures. He also intimated that he would like another outbreak of the ‘Bubonic Plague,’ as there has not been one since Charles II’s time. He prays to God, whom he speaks to daily in his garden at Highgrove, that ‘Bird Flu,’ will do it’s bit and rid us of a good 20 million of the underprivileged classes. And of course we say good for him!
Unfortunately the royal train broke down just outside Kirkcaldy and he was forced to continue his journey to Dumpdee via the ‘Megabus,’ - all stops from Edinburgh, and to points beyond our understanding. After turning down the offer from one of his equerries to put a cushion in the ‘lav,’ and then blindfold HRH, so that he could pretend it was first class, he at first sat next to a farmer from Tentsmuir, and talked all thing’s ‘tattie’ for a good half hour, before he got off at Tayport. He then made the best of the discomforts of the rest of the journey, taking the opportunity to burp and change the youngest of an excited family of 12 from Cupar, off to see where Daddy signs on every alternate Friday
Incidentally, I was informed only yesterday by HRH’s favourite gillie, Mactavish, Mactavish of the Mactavish, that his little doxy, oops, sorry his wife the queen of the Cornish Pasties, spends a mere sixty five thousand pounds a year on her hair. The Memsahib thought this scandalous, as it is impossible to get a good bottle of wine for under £6, our Chablis bill each year comes to that alone.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Before I met the current Memsahib I lived in the London Borough of Havering, which was on the eastern green belt just before it exploded into the wilds of Essex. Since returning to these parts I have learnt the ‘Havering’ is an old Scots word for talking nonsense, blowing out of your short’s - as our American cousins would say, a discussion with another person that is without any real substance. Oh, and the expulsion of hot air!
Well, ‘Havering’ really?
After a late night discussion with our King in waiting ‘Jack O Connor’ on Thursday last, he was bemoaning his lot. I noted with great interest what he was saying about one of the central beams that has been holding up the fan roof to the new Scottish Parliament building, which has recently gone awry. He was somewhat miffed that the £4.25 that had been invested in the building by the Scots electorate had been so scurrilously wasted, and that the builders were a bunch of slackers. When I pointed out that in fact it was £425 million that had been lavished on the ‘White Elephant,’ he offered me a crisp £20 note and a years supply of Edinburgh rock, if I kept quiet; I mean, what would the public say if they found out? Indeed!
I also pointed out that a perfect opportunity had been missed to garner a little public favour. As Edinburgh has just been voted ‘Heart Disease Central,’ of Europe, - Oh, the accolades for our little nation it makes me weep - would it not have been better to allow all the little chubby members of Parliament to walk the ‘Royal Mile,’ thereby not only saving the tax-payer upwards of £1500 per week, but they may have been seen in a favourable light, actually practising what they preach for once.
After all surely it all the ‘Havering,’ in the parliament building that brought the roof down in the first place
After our discussion he is considering scraping the coaches forthwith and supplying all MSP’s with skate-boards instead!
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
P.S..An interesting thought to close the week. Does my reader realise that the new leader of the Libation Demostrats Sir Ming Campbell is the same age as one Michael Philip Jagger, leader of the Rolling Stones. I would really like to hear Sir Ming’s version of ‘Start me up,’ or perhaps a rousing, ‘Cocksucker Blues,’ or at least Mr Jagger’s thought’s on the Current EEC agricultural policy?
