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These Are The New Observations By
'THE MAJOR...'
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My what a little minx our very own Shona Robison is!
Not content with her starring role in the Wallace and Gromit film, ‘A Close Shave,’ as Wendolene Ramsbottom, wool shop owner extraordinaire, and Wallace’s unspoken love interest. Not happy with been the greatest MSP that Dumpdee Somewhere-or-other has ever had. But now she has been exalted and raised to the rank of Pubic Health Minister by our uncrowned king, Tommy Turbot.
She has just released a directive saying that she intends to inject almost £5.2 million pounds into Tayside in order to tackle the ‘blight,’ caused by the misuse of alcohol. Mrs Puggie Johnson has written to her personally at her office in Hollywood to complain. Surely she has her sums wrong? Perhaps her abacus has strained itself? No it cannot be? How could this poultry sum help the thirsty of Dumpdee…she drinks more than that in a fortnight!
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
PS…Whilst on the subject of Mrs PJ. Now that the Summer Holidays are almost upon us, last, we were sitting ‘une famile’ on spoon licking Tuesday last, when she disturbed our simple reverie. She burst into the lower annexe kitchen to announce that she was going to become pregnant again, ‘ as her loins ached for another bairn.’ She has been set aflame by the news that a 66 year old ‘wifie,’ had recently given birth to a bouncing baby boy, and she deserved one too. The Memsahib, who as you know is so good with such matters, tactfully explained that at her advanced-age, she would have had a telegram from HRH before the child had actually started nursery. She brushed this off as a mere trifle - and here is me thinking that it had to include jelly, sponge-cake and custard. Nevertheless - as Julius Caesar once said, ‘look at this toga, I just can’t get the stain out of it!’ - she was not to be dissuaded.
After a mere three days in Primark in the toon she returned with a caravan of porters laden down with everything that a new-born baby could need, for at lest the first 34 years of life anyway. A fine array of romper suits, whistles, bells and pampers for every occasion, both formal and informal.
When asked if it would be IVF she said no, it would be conceived up against a closie wall like all the rest of her children
PPS…Oh, we at the Towers do enjoy the Fourth Channel’s televisual programme, ‘Embarrassing Bodies.’ What fine film making indeed. What a delight to relax on ‘Cup-a-Soup Wednesday,’ to relax in the Saunas and be bombarded with other peoples bodily indiscretions. Boils. Verruca’s. Man Boobs. Front and back bottie problems. We only have one problem with this exposure of the nations flesh. If these sufferers are too self-conscious to confide in their nearest and dearest…then why do it in front of millions…?
PPPS…And finally! An angry exchange of words between myself and Sandy ‘Big-Guns’ McGee, sheriff of this fair city un the 3rd floor north-wing coffee house. I took him to task for the laxity of the staff at both the Bell St, and Castle Huntley hotels. It appears that the welcoming committee so upset a recent inmate (sorry guest) that he promptly checked himself out of the sub-standard accommodation and vacated the area vowing never to return.
On capture (sorry, rebooking) he was treated to bunting, fresh towels, complimentary champagne and a chocolate on his pillow. Each night of his stays the staff promise to gather under his window and sing him to sleep with a selection of popular arias.
Glad to have been of community assistance once again.
Awoken by a tap-tap-tapping on the balcony windows in the master-suite in the early hours of Thursday last. Initially we thought it was the POOR of Dumpdee asking from scraps from our tables, but now that the Hilltown police have enforced the recent monthly, 'culling policy,’ we no longer have any….so we were wrong on that score. No as it was almost a full-moon, it was Lord Peter Mandelson, Prince of Darkness come to make an early morning call.
He had flown by to ask our voting intentions for the European Parliament the following morning. Both the Memsahib and I informed him that we do not discuss those intentions with each other, so why with him, old and dear fiend as he is? He was somewhat miffed and in a fit of pique destroyed in a explosion of flame the Victorian Armoire housing my butterfly collection. We calmed him down with two pints of blood from a local virgin, (we of course lied, as their are none) and after he had sated his monstrous desires, he burst into tears, flapping his wings in a most distressed fashion and wringing his scaly hands..
It appears all is not well at Number 10. Gordon has taken to wearing a Roman toga and walking the halls after midnight, sobbing; ‘Infamy, infamy, they’ve all got it infamy…’ he has also taken to eating copious amounts of carrots. Not only will this help him see in the dark, but it will also enable him to see through walls, and briefcases, and desks, and clothes, in order that he can see what his collegues have hidden from him.
We asked dear Peter if he would like to select a local infant to snack on whilst winging his way back to London, but he refused, saying that having so many children in Parliamentary seats anyway, he was in-fact, spoilt for choice…
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
If we have all not sated ourselves on the downfall of our current honourable members, we have yet more exclusive news. Our servants have had to parry many a late night call from Ms Jackie Smith the Home Secretary, at the Towers these past weeks. Somehow she has got it into her head that she and the Memsahib are somehow friends? Yes it is true that they once shared the spotlight at the Tivoli Gardens, Sunderland, appearing in an exotic balloon review! But that was many years ago, and anyway, a few white pudding suppers and the odd 5th of gin, can hardly be misconstrued as friendship! But now that her star has slipped in the firmament it is become apparent that she needs all the friends she can get.
Anyway, a leaked e-mail from the editors desk of the ‘Dumpdee Daily Bulge,’ has just found its way into the Memsahib’s in-box. (Strange I thought I was the only one allowed into her in-box?’) Nevertheless, it appears that our Sainted Home-Secretary is in trouble again regarding her expenses. Her errant husband no longer being able to satisfy his lusts on adult porn has turned to the Telletubbies, to slake his carnal thirst’s. Now after a tiring day at the helm of our nation she returns home to find him dressed in his La-La costume, and is beset by his constant demands for custard and toast. Finally, when they do retire she is ordered into the bedroom to, ‘get like a noo-noo!’
We can only trust he is yet to see ‘In The Night Garden…?’
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
PS…Whilst on matters political. It appears in an act of contrition for being caught out in recent wrong doings Michael Martin, (soon to be LORD, and current Speaker of the House of Commons) has formed ‘The Church of the ‘Blessed Iggster,’ in order to give him something to do in his retirement. This is a non-profit organisation which will hold services on alternate Wednesdays on the second floor drinks-lounge of the House of Lords.
As both he and that paragon of virtue Mr Iggy Pop are both 63 this year, he felt something was needed to celebrate the event. We are reliably informed that at the climax of his performance Lord Martin, will strip to the waist, adorned only in ceremonial cod-piece and carpet slippers, roll around on broken single-malt whiskey bottles and stage dive from the bar. All before belting out a lusty rendition of ‘I wanna be your dog,’ on the bagpipes.
PPS…A little word to the delectable Ms Joanna Lumley. For a great number of years the Memsahib has known my unrequited longings for you and your body. How I salivate at the mere mention of your name. How I long for your soft touch. Having to sate myself on hearing your dulcet tones when one of the Towers secretaries turn on AOL in the morning.
Unfortunately you have slipped a little in my estimation. I watched you thrust a Gurkha, ‘Kukari Knife’ into the air inches from David Cameron’s throat.
Unfortunately you failed to ‘do the biz,’ thereby saving the nation years of future misery…!
PPPS…My, how school has changed since I was a lad?
Our youngest Pudie came home from Big-School with 2000 lines from her form teacher. She had previously insisted that our boisterous little girl should refrain from shouting in class. The note read…
‘I must not call Susan Boyle, a ‘nut bucket…’
We were awoken by a great commotion outside of the Towers main gates on Tuesday last. Thankfully the drawbridge was up so our guards had time to load the cannon and man the machine gun posts before the buggers could enter our sanctum!
Who could it be we thought as we scrambled to the walls and peered down at the assortment of camels, wagons and carriages arrayed out in a colourful panoply below us. Ivor Novello and the cast of ‘ Desert Song?’ The entire chorus of a revival of ‘Kismet,’ by the Dumpdee Operatic Society? Or indeed the Wise Men still looking for that babe in swaddling clothes they had lost so long ago. (I had to severely reprimand one young Pikeman for suggesting that he may be found asleep in the Kirkton district of the city…which of course is not the case) It was not until we espied the silken litter amongst the throng, that we realised it was the caravan carrying the spouse of our late PM, Anthony Aloysius Bear, come for a surprise visit.
After the interminable job of quartering her retinue, we retired to the First- Floor, West-Wing conservatory, for refreshments. After the delectable Cherie had downed a mere four litres of Milk-Stout (such a Northern drink, and so terribly hard to come by these days) we found her suitably sedated enough to answer our urgent question. Why, oh why, was her face and upper-torso swathed in bandages. An argument with an aggrieved client! Final revenge by a member of the Press complaints Commission, or simply a domestic, between her and Anthony Aloysius? No she replied! Plastic surgery!
As anyone in Dumpdee’s catchment area knows, we have the finest surgeons in the arts of facial reconstruction United Kingdom. Why even the Memsahib has availed herself of their services on occasions. It appears that Cherie has undergone a ‘Bra-Endectomy,’ a serious condition which she contracted way back in May 1997, on the very day that Anthony Aloysius became King. Whilst constantly raising her arm to wave at the adoring throng her left nipple was trapped in her bra strap, where it has remained ever since. Hence the lop sided grimace that one could drive a fleet of route-master buses into, seen to full effect in every single photograph taken of her. Now that Anthony has abdicated and she has become as it were the new Queen Mother, it was time to go under the knife and rid herself of the ridiculous look.
MajorSymington Fforbes(retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
PS…Monumental news from Senior-Surgeon, Donald Skelpme at Nine-wells on Thursday. The ‘Jock,’ of the late Harry Lauder that has been kept in the hospital since his demise…has finally stopped tickling.
PPS…Tell me this, if Doctors are so good at their job, why do they have to have a Doctor themselves???
Ah the tabloid Sunday Papers, what a joy they are to skim through and then line the bottom of the rabbits cage with. As one can imagine we at the Towers keep lots of rabbits, and so our eager consumption of the delights they contain keep us amused until Thursday forenoon at least. Why if truth be known the Memsahib and I quite often stack the buggers in a corner, pour kerosene over them, take all our clothes off and dance naked, just to see the pretty blue flames and the lovely smoke they make; and the rabbits be damned.
After consuming the joys of the recent round of woes blessed on Kerry, Ashley, Victoria, Wayne, etc, etc, we were enthralled to read that Paul Burrell has finally let it be known that he actually slept with Princess Diana. Is no-one going to leave that poor bloody woman alone? But yes, he was her plaything. Called to her bed at all hours of the day and indeed night, to perform God knows what. Appendectomies! Intrusive irrigation. Puppet-shows? But still we have to jog him if his memory fails. He was also the toy-boy of the ‘God bless err,’ Queen Mother, and the late Princess Mary of Teck before her. He was also the boy-toy of Edward VIII. David Bowie. Lou Reed. Quentin Crisp, a dustman (sorry, refuse operative) from Kensington Gardens and a household Cavalryman of indeterminate years from Chalfont St Giles. He also had an illicit affair with the whole troupe of the Dagenham Girl Pipers - at once. And yes he did once have an affair with that chanteuse of the sawdust ring Nellie the Elephant, until she promptly packed her trunk and said goodbye to the circus. Asked about his dalliances with Frankie Crankie and Swankie Crankie, part of the famous Music-Hall troupe he has to date remained tight-lipped.
Oh and once and for all, the famous quote from the late Princess was, ‘Paul Burrell…you are my rock.” I am sorry but this statement has been misquoted for far too long, she actually said, “Paul Burrell…take off my frock. We at the Towers are glad to put the record straight…
Major SymingtonFforbes(retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
PS. A very pleasant visit from Donald Trump’s hairpiece for Sunday brunch at the Towers. Mr Trump, or ‘Donnie,’ as he likes us to call him, had actually left for New York on Friday forenoon, but his toupee decided to stay on and visit the sights. Over drinks in the Moira Anderson memorial tearoom it told us it was having dinner with our future King, Mr S on Tuesday, and will be seen at the Queens side, or perhaps on Prince Phillips head, at the forth-coming Ascot parade. Having no need of air-travel it will simply hang about until the start of the hurricane season, catch a ride on the southerly Gulf Stream and meet up with Donnie somewhere mid-Atlantic.
PS..With reference to the demise of the late Saint Jade of Lower Bermondsy, her grieving husband has suggested a wax statue of her should be erected in Madame Tussauds, repository of facsimiles of those dead and almost dead. We in the Towers think it should in fact be made from lard, more in keeping with her lasting memory.
As you may remember Mrs Puggie Johnson has been our house cleaner, oracle, fountain of wisdom and purveyor of the delectation of stuffing fine wines and assorted liquors, down her throat, oh, since VE day 1918. Over the years each and every day she has drunk her body-weight in any substance she could get her hands on. In truth I think the substance is finally beginning to take its toll
On Thursday last we had a surprise visit from the newly crowned King of London, Boris Johnson. At the same time we had a written communication from that great tennis star, the German ace, Boris Becker. Unfortunately when his jet Boris One touched down Mrs PJ greeted him dressed for business in her tennis whites. I think she was slightly confused between a wiry haired German, and a rather portly English buffoon
I have known Mr Johnson most of his life. In fact we were both borders at a rather select public school. IO ask you why call them public when they are in fact private all along, I can never understood that one. All that floppy hair - let me tell you its a wig - used to fall into his soup every morning as his croissant was dipped, no matter what he had been up to the night before?
Now, dear Boris, or BO as he was known was a bit of a blade. Ah, yes, the showers, the strapped-jocks, the pain of incessant wedgies. I even recall that Boris and I were joint under 15’s pocket billiards champions of the 1972/73 open season.
In fact he was found to be fagging for Miss Williams - and yes, that is Mrs Shirley - who, disguised herself as a jubilant boy and suffered through any number of years of discomfort as such. I also remember all the cruel beatings, the bruises, the weeping soars that she imbued on the boy, after all I think they both liked it really. God, think of all the stick she took for setting up the Social Democrats. Yet I still remember his screams as she beat him for buttering her toast incorrectly. This of course gave him a lifelong hatred of Labour, so much so that he became a journalist, politician and latterly King of London; well lets face it when did you ever see any of those buggers doing any work.
As I look out of the window in the Stanley Lauder 3rd floor annex and watch Mrs Puggie Johnson and Boris, bash it out on the upper tennis courts, I can only think of those words from the bible – as supplied by Mrs Dorothy Cotton, East and West-enders - “Yea, when the Ox and the rabbit frolic in the lower pastures, then we shall see the beginning of the end O days” Or something like that anyway.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Well, hello, where have you been then, we’ve missed your visits to the Towers of late, never mind everything is still as it was, or is, or probably always will be.
Pudie as you remember has been at Primary One for almost 8 months now, and is finding things rather rough. She keeps complaining that there is no one who is remotely her intellectual equal, having already completed her Higher Philosophy and currently writing a thesis on the subject of Religious Thought in Medieval Scotland, 1320-1615, she finds it hard to talk with her equals as u unfortunately her fellow classmates are barely coming to grips with reader No 2. whilst at least one poor soul, Kevin McHugh of 23 Moncur Crescent was rushed to Nine-Wells after eating too many crayons mixed with the contents of the sand pit on Thursday forenoon. Thankfully after a night on a mince-drip he was released the following morning. But you can see her point though?
We only found out after the flame was extinguished but she has just finished an affair with a young gentleman by the name of Wayne Rooney, who is a sportsman of sorts I believe. She said that his intellectual IQ was reaching the upper genius level and so not being HIS intellectual equal, she felt she had to end things.
Having already explained to her that adult relationships can be tricky especially when you are only 6 she has disregarded our counsel and is now seeing the inside- right-left- back of our beloved Camels, Dumpdee United, one Tam, Bongo a Bongo, Moysha, Juan, Ali O Fisal, whose friend is one Mr Nacho Novo from a local kick about side, Rangers United - personally I thought a Nacho Novo was a spicy snackette. Nevertheless The boy was a nice enough chap but he seems a little unhappy with his lot. After a couple of cases of the old Montrachett 34, at the Towers last Sunday, he opened up to me explaining the difficulty of his situation.
“Ye see if they’d jeust let me da ma joab, that’ed by fine, but its a these obstacles they keep putting in ma way,” he said in between sips. “And what exactly is that I enquired,” holding onto the in-between-stairs-tweenie for support. “Well yous see eh, come up to the grund. That’s if ah havney been out bevying the night afore, then ma chauffer Wullie draps me at the gates in the jet. Then a hae a the bather a changing out a ma clathes and putting aff ma strides to well, frankly, look like a lassie - Eh, and that’s no ah, then they want me ta go on the pitch and kick aboot this ba. Now that would be fine but there are other ladies, bigger ladies out there as well. An, I ‘m no telling you, ah, ken ma joab like, kick it tae me, kick it to you and try and get it inta that nettie thing at the n end o the field. I mean that aright, but then tem bigger laddies wannie tak it awa fae yae, an they wannie give to ain O their ain. If they just left me tae t we nabody tryuing tae tak the thing afa a me, then…
Am only on 125 thousand pounds a week, and ah the grass ma horse can eat. What we ma tattie farm in the Sidlaw hills, my wine bar in Brook street in the Ferrey and mh offshore holdings in the Cayman isles. Eh ask ye Major Forbes is it a worth it
“Yes Tam, I think it is,” replied the Memsahib as she was waxing her legs, the spring sunlight catching their golden incandescence in its rays. .
But then of course I know naught about the offside rule either, for that mystery is only known by those truly touched by the hand of God.
MajorSymington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
PS…talking of the boy Rooney, as you know young Wayne’s squeeze Mrs Rooney has just signed a billion-squillion pound deal with a large publishing conglomerate to produce 5 books over an equal number of years. Here’s the best thing though, she doesn’t even have to write them, not a single word. No the nice publishers are getting a ghost writer to do all the hard work. So all she has to do is turn up in bookshop and sign X when a book is put in front of her. - she really is working on her cursive writing, but is still encountering a problem with all those funny loops.
Anyway, Wayne attended a bash for the actual signing of the contract a couple of weeks back, and he was asked by a feverish reporter from a London tabloid what Colleen had on her bedside table. Meaning of course what was her current choice of proffered reading material. He replied, “A telephone.” Bless.
