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
You can also check out the 2005, 2007-08, archives and current page for more recent items...!
READ FROM BOTTOM TO TOP...
Had the great Russian thinker and writer Ivan Ballokov, Professor of ‘Idiot’ology’ at Dumpdee University, for dinner on Friday last. My, it is edifying to be in the company of such greatness, as it humbles one so to be in the presence of our betters?
Ivan was telling the Memsahib and I over canapés, that God has been so impressed with his good-work’s amongst the poor of the West End and Broughty Ferry, that he has sent down a company of angels to carry him from lecture to lecture so that it does not weary him between classes. After all, walking is too good for the likes of him?
If you not privileged enough to be a student of his, or are in any way unfamiliar with Ivan’s work, I can only point you towards just a few of his marvellous papers. For example, ‘Custard and it’s place in the Revolution’s of 1917.’ The Clash; music; attitude, and how it influenced the couple buying frozen chips in ASDA.’ And of course his finest moment, ‘Is pomposity a state of mind, or is it actually there, so that we can touch it with our inner feelings, and so bore everyone rigid with them?’
During the goat borscht we had a tricky moment though. We caught him scratching vigorously under his arm-pits. Lice we thought? No! It was merely that his ‘hair shirt’ was chaffing a bit. After a quick dusting with talc, his unsightly under-arm blemishes calmed down, and we continued with the meal.
After dinner we retired to the John Logie-Gardens memorial library, and after downing a number of vodka’s, he entertained us with songs from the ‘old country’ on his balalaika. Thoughtfully tucking his waist length beard into his underpants whilst he sang of course. My we were impressed with the likes of ‘Sweet Betty from Omsk, how I miss your caresses.’ ‘Ox of my father,’ and who could forget the 3 hour epic, ‘Ah Stalingrad, Stalingrad, damn you Stalingrad. You took my dear Lidvana Petrovich Radzinsky, (known as Wee-Eckie,) from me’
Apart from his music, his humour is wonderful; all those jokes about his fine times with Maxim Gorky, the helium bottle and the 20 Woodbines, oh, and the husky called ‘Max?’. He also had us in stitches by reading vast tract’s of his own best-seller, ‘War and a Piece’ the story of the great Russian struggle as they tried to get themselves through another winter with only n a ‘Scot’s Pan,’ amongst 400 million of them. At times he reminded me of that great stand up comic, lost before the Revolution, Grigory Efimovich Rasputin, but not having the great man’s ‘hypnotic eyes,’ and ‘quick one liner’s,’ he could not quite pull the complete act off
‘Ivan does go on a little,’ said the Memsahib, as his angels carried him down the driveway, and so back to his West End tenement. ‘I perhaps feel that he is so far to the left it is a wonder that he stays upright at all?’
In reply I could only say as I watched him disappear into the clouds, ‘Oh, Ivan, Ivan, long may you stay amongst the simple people of Dumpdee. We who need your wisdom so. We, who, after all, can only hope to emulate your simply humility and live a life as blameless and tolerant as you obviously do!
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
A most distressed Mrs Puggie Johnson arrived for pig castrating day at the Towers Tuesday last. She had read a notice in the ‘Dumpdee Daily Bulge, ‘ that as of March 26, no smoking will be allowed in public places anywhere in Scotland.
Try as she could, she could not grasp the meaning of this, and so I sat her down in the North Wing wine cellar, and over a few cases of Muscatel explained the repercussions to her and her family, of this eagerly awaited change to the nations laws. It of course it will mean no more smoking whilst mixing fertilizer in any of the estate’s greenhouses. No more smoking whilst looking for gas leaks in any of the kitchens. No more smoking whilst changing oxygen bottle’s in the second floor dolphinarium. No more smoking whilst filling balloons with helium at children’s open day’s. We have also forbidden her to smoke whilst darting any of the exotic animals on the Estate, a quick intake of the wrong sort of drug could leave us with a very nasty mess to clear up. However she cheered up a little when we intimated that it would be permissible to smoke whilst out in any of paddocks, neither the wolves, big-cats, nor ‘Devlin the Almost-Extinct-Dinosaur,’ seem to mind the habit.
In between swigs from a bottle of 65, she said that would it be possible to get a note from the Doctor, as her ‘condition,’ does not allow her to go more than 5 minutes between ‘Ritchie Super’s.’ She finally broke down when she realised that public meant basically any enclosed space where people congregate, anywhere in the ‘toon.?’
Later, as she mucked out the Tigers, ( I do wish she would allow us to cage them first, bouncing around on a pogo stick with broom in her right-hand is hardly ‘health and safety in the workplace,’) she came to a momentous decision. Instead of smoking cigarettes in public places, she will after the said date, be eating them, filter tip and all. Surely there can be no offence committed if she does not actually light the thing up?
If that does not work, she will be trying snuff. If it was good enough for her Granny, then she is sure it will be good enough for her…
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
PS…Should any public spirited persons wish to assist Dumpdee Cooncil in the up-coming fight against public smoking. A number of positions are available as ‘Community Smoking Operatives.’ O Grades are not necessary, but you will be expected to know basic first-aid, so that you can carry out on-the-spot surgery when your colleagues are attacked. Also a minimum of black-belt in Judo is also required. But thankfully, full suits of armour for all operatives to wear whilst on duty will be provided!
Stobie dropped us in the City Square on Wednesday last and a wonderful evening was spent at the Caird Hall in the company of those ‘Geriatrics on Tour - The Super – Hip – Fab – Groovy - Never-Ending - Swinging Sixties Review Show.’
Ah, the 60’s! Prince Albert and his ‘wobbly chain?’ Mr Stephenson and his Rocket! Young chaps up chimneys! Filth! Degradation everywhere; sorry, sorry, we are actually talking about the 1960’s, not the 1860’s?
“And here’s me thinking that the whole era only lasted 10 years. But it’s like episodes of ‘Friends,’ or ‘Will and Grace,’ they will be with us until we die” said the Memsahib, as we found our seats, removing our coats in the sub-tropical heat. Just before the lights dimmed I purchased an extra large pack of ‘Deep-Fried mince nibble’s’ from the usherette, a very attractive ‘Modette’ in her early 70’s, whose only clue as to her real age was the mild smell of camphor-rub, and that unmistakeable look of a woman who has kept the lights out whilst applying her make-up.
The stage-lights came up again on a wonderful set. Pristine white bed-screens, a whiff of disinfectant, and an emergency resuscitation team on stand-by. First up were ‘Herman and the Pacemakers,’ and a medley of their greatest hit, ‘Ferry across to Tayport.’ How splendid they looked in matching dinner-jackets and puce cummerbunds, the whole effect only slightly spoiled by custard stains on the lapels.
We were then entertained by the ‘The Hipppy Blue Jeans,’ with their most recent hit, ‘These days I can’t remember my name - Although my wife wrote it in my underpants.’ Matching Zimmer-frames catching the light from the centre stage glitter ball as they swung them in unison across the boards.
The close harmony singing of the ‘The Trollies,’ were next singing out there only Indian number one, ‘Hey Harry Khan.’ Finally and to great gasps of delight rippling around the auditorium we were treated to a rare appearance of the late-great DJ Probert. DJ was accompanied for his all too brief appearance by a state registered nurse and a team of highly trained surgeons. She administered copious amounts of life preserving drugs as he wheezed his way through his greatest hit. ‘My rear, My rear, I’ve just had a girl kiss my rear.’
As PJ slumped to the floor and his nurse gave him the kiss of life, Herman, not to be upstaged wiggled his lower region so much that his incontinence pants gave way and the first four rows were deluged in a most unpleasant substance.
“Funny the Memsahib said as we left the Hall to the sound of OAP’s adjusting the volume controls on their hearing aids. “Why do they not look like that now,” she said, pointing to the poster of the ‘Boys,’ all in their flaming youth.
We returned to the Towers and grooved the night away to the sounds of Lord Elton of St John, and Lord Cliff and the Shad’s!. Oh, how we grooved? In fact we grooved so much that the ballroom floor will have to be replaced.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
A note to his pupils, if you have not been informed of the fact already from the Dumpdee University notice board, that Dr Ivan Ballakov would like henceforth to be know as ‘Iv.’ He has long felt that being called ‘Ivan,’ was putting an unnecessary barrier between himself and his students. ‘Iv’ now feels’ he can be approached as a man of the people, which of course befits a man whose recent Doctorate for his paper ‘How I and a humble beef snackette, cemented between a bun, a leaf of lettuce and mayo spread, helped to bring down the Berlin Wall,’ was conferred on him by a certain North London University of Food Studies.
A humble man to the last, he has not only turned down a place on the board and the substantial benefits that that would mean, but he has promised to increase his goodly works amongst the poor and distressed of the West End of the City and the equally impoverished Ward of Broughty Ferry. .
He has however accepted a substantial monetary scholarship, which should keep he, the wife and the 15 children in Spanish holidays, until their trust funds mature. He has undertaken to not only use what is left of the money to inaugurate a chair of ‘Hamburger’ology,’ in the University. I mean he is a master of every other ‘ology,’ known to man, so why not that one. But to also use the residue to finish up the first draught of his latest book, the intriguingly titled ‘Was it a ‘Whopper,’ not a ice-pick, what done for Leon Trotsky?’
He would like it also to be known that in due course he will be standing for ‘Rectum’ of Dumpdee University, - oh, I ‘m sorry a typo error, that should read Rector, in the upcoming round of nominations for the post.
But then again, on second thoughts, perhaps the former was more to the point than the latter?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Mrs Puggie Johnson would like to take the opportunity to congratulate the ex-head of her Trade Union for becoming a hereditary Life-Peer in the Upper House’s of Parliament ; No dear, the real one, not the Michael J Mouse one in Hollywood.
Please take your seat, and then be-upstanding if you will dear members, for Lord Bill of Balmoral - or should that be Amoral? After collecting her weekly dues for neigh on 40 years when she was in the, Amalgamated Mince and Pie Makers Union, all branches now closed due to shop-steward incompetence; and of course doing absolutely nothing for her in return. He at last has claimed his just reward for all his outstanding effort’s and achievements, and so has been raised to the Peerage!
And what noble efforts they were indeed. All those beer and sandwich lunches, followed by 12 course meals at TUC headquarters. All those Trade Union conferences, not to mention The Labour Party ones, where he had to sit still and listen to someone else blathering on for minutes on end, instead of him! The tedium of all those expenses paid trips to Bermuda and Hawaii to listen to a 20 minute lecture on ‘Labour Rights,’ and then on to a gruelling 12 hours on the beach, sipping nothing but pina’colada’s, and being rubbed down with vegetable oil, by his overworked secretary. And after all those years of bravely fighting the ESTABLISHMENT for better conditions for the workers of this country, and now all he gets for a life of Riley, is well, yet another life of Riley.
Undoubtedly he will sell the old 2CV, and invest in a Rolls Royce. Swap his damp council tenement in Ackley road, Barnsley for a castle in Shropshire, of course forgetting that private ownership is in fact theft from the people? But there, he has earned it, for he has spent his life serving the people of this country, and who can complain if a few servants now serve him into his dotage.
Does it not make you proud oh reader’s and in some cases Trade Union members of Dumpdee, that the Lamb really doth lie down with the Lion?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
The more eagle eyed of my readers may have spotted me about the hill lately sporting the beginning’s of a rather fetching beard. No, not a full one like the Old King had when I was a lad in junior service. Neither an add on to the splendid moustache that I have on my web-page photo, or even the likes of that splendid creation that that nice Mr Hitler had when he decided to keep me very busy from 1939 to 1945. No, it is more of a Ronald Colman affair, or even an Errol Flynn; rather dashing actually, as befitting a man of my advancing years.
A young recruiting sergeant from Dumpdee’s finest, The Jocks in Frocks had a word with me in that very nice mobile home thing that sometimes sit’s outside the Caird Hall. He was a fine young thing, strong legs that suited a kilt, and a large proud hackle? He informed me how much the army has changed since my day. I mean I think it is wonderful how the institution has become so democratic.
In my day we signed up and took our chances amongst the ‘muck and bullet’s,’ facing Rum, the Lash, and that other thing that Sailor’s normally do, but which escapes me at the moment, facing anything in fact that the enemy or the town we were garrisoned in, could throw at us. Now it all skiing - no killing involved, trips abroad - and you don’t have to kill anyone you meet. And of course the most egalitarian measure of the lot is that if you don’t like the war! You don’t have to fight? You can simply sit this one out and wait for the next one to come along, one whose policies you agree with.
How splendid I thought, so flushed with excitement I rode straight back to the towers and consulted the Memsahib. In fact it was the Memsahib who informed me that I currently look like an ageing Aramis.
So I may very well rejoin the colours, this time as a Musketeer?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
The household of Hilltown Towers was rudely awakened by a huge explosion in the early hours of Sunday morning last. It appears that despite previous warnings, and within hours of the smoking ban coming into force in all public places in Scotland, Mrs Puggie Johnson has lit up in the wrong place…again!
As it was after midnight she thought she would have a sly fag whilst cleaning out the cage’s of Cherie and Tony our Sumatran gorillas, forgetting of course that the excrement of these highly-excitable, although ultimately timid creatures, is highly combustible. With the force of the blast she was blown into the upper branches of our 12th Century oak tree that has proudly stood in the grounds of the Towers, well, before there was any Towers here.
After recovering from the shock, and with the offending ‘fag,’ still clenched between her bloodied lips, she re-lit it. This then produced a chin reaction, the dropping ash from her now understandably long dog-end rendered our majestic, and irreplaceable garden friend matches. The culmination of this train of events meant that the local fire-brigade had to break down a number of Estate fences.
We can only apologise to local residents, and ask that if they find the odd Hartebeest or Thompson’s gazelle munching on their lawn to call us ASAP; we will despatch Stobie with the carriage and four to collect.
At least our precious stock of WWII T.N.T has been spared.
For the time being at least…?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
P.S I have just received an urgent communication from Professor Iv - man of the people - Ballakov. He is in hospital in Minsk, having been admitted after collapsing during a speaking engagement at the University of Omsk.
He of course was delivering his heart racing lecture ‘Should the Russian Imperial family have been executed, or should they have all been shot instead,’ when he was suddenly taken ill.
It appears he has been nabbed by the Bolsheviks?
Thankfully a leading Ninewells surgeon has assured us that he can sort the problem out on his return…
Mrs Puggie Johnson is most vexed, and she would like to stop the rumour-mongers now before their malicious gossip does any further damage, and certainly before some of the facts are revealed in next week’s edition of the ‘Bulge’s,’ supplement.
Yes she did know ‘Johnno,’ before he entered politics. And yes, she did have a relationship with him when he was a virile young stoker on the ‘Archie McAndrew,’ a tramp - yes dear, we are sure you know all about that one - steamer that used to ply it’s trade alongside the Caledonian Steam Packet Company on the Clyde, long before he went up in the world and became a P&O Steward - or was that just a PO one.
She was a young, innocent, flighty thing. He a man of the world, well Hull and Bradford at least. A man of integrity who took his boots, if not his cap off, before he came to bed! He took her to the ‘Barracuda,’ and out to the ‘hot-spot’s’ of Barry Buddon, and then yes onto the ‘flesh-pots’ of the Ferry. Plying her at each point with such exotic fare as Lambrini and Babycham, and yes the inevitable happened. They did it? She would have liked to do it again that night, but he had to lie down in a darkened room for six hours before he recovered from the first time, so that was obviously out of the question..
But oh the nights afterwards, those of abandoned pleasure in his hammock strung amongst the rafters left over from the building of the Tay road-bridge. And yes they did dally. But in hindsight she remembers him more as a Porkie Cumberland than a chipolata. But then, as she say’s herself, once you have seen one cocktail sausage, you have seen them all…?
And of course in time he left her, lured away by the machinations of Harold Wilson and his smooth talk. Of George Brown and his half-bottle . He did not want a little Dumpdee ‘Wifie.’ But an aspiring one, who appreciated the aesthetic benefits of flock wallpaper and having ‘great art’ on the walls, painting’s, whose eye’s follow you around the room. A woman with 40 foot hair, and a propensity for short rides in big cars.
Still she has her memories…
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
PS…Mrs PJ has just found out that ‘Johnno,’ is to be probed by the Police. She hopes that Sting, Stewart and Andy have the same pleasure she once had, when she indeed was once in that favoured position?
A distressing phone call from HRH Charles Prince of Whales on Friday forenoon. It took three verses of my singing ‘How much is that doggie in the window,’ down the connection in order to calm him down, so that he could actually explain why he was so upset in the first place.
It appears that Mummy is not going to retire after all! He was under the misguided impression that now that she had turned 80, that she would want to have a quieter life. But no, she and her handbag intend to march gamely on until her clogs are indeed popped.
“But it’s my job, it’s my job, he sobbed, “and I want it, want it now!”
I then offered some sanguine advice on alternative career paths he may like to consider. He forwent the idea of McDonalds or delivering the mail, as he has enough uniforms to last him for the foreseeable future. The same goes with anything to do with horses, as having been riding the same mare for the past 30 years he has only just broken her in. Likewise anything to do with gardening, he has had enough of all that tree talking nonsense.
After a mere 4 hours and some further 2627 suggestions he called a halt to the job search. No, he would just wait in opulent luxury until his own turn came in the great succession game. At least he will not have to do what his old uncle did, and pull the trick of ‘giving up the throne for the woman I love,’ in order to get out of getting a day job. He already made that mistake once, and will no doubt not have to do it again?
Strange that one has to wait for the death of one’s mother, before one can get a proper job? Nevertheless he has asked me to intervene, and if my reader would like to send him some suggestion on what he can do with himself in the meantime, if anatomically possible, he will try to comply with all request’s.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
P.S. In a somewhat similar vein, we are most annoyed with Scott’s the Butchers, purveyors of all things meaty, at the ‘posh end of the Hill.’ Mrs Puggie Johnson came home from beast procuring Wednesday with a most vexed expression on her face. She had been enticed into the emporium with the fine sign,
‘…fresh Peasants for sale…’
And what did she find on entering the bazaar. Not a plump little Flemish Farmer ready for the pot, nor a Buxom Broads-Maid ready for the spit roast, but some drab looking bird that had been blasted with buckshot in the nearby Sidlaw hills?
Disappointed we opened a packet of fish-fingers and sun-dried tomatoes instead.
I ask you, what is advertising coming to?
