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 2005
You can also check out the 2006, 2007-08, archives and current page for more recent items...!
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The boy Tarquin (our youngest, 5 and ¾) returned with extra homework this evening from St Eustace O Cohen’s Primary, for displaced Chav’s in Strathmartine Road. Apart from having to make a full-scale model of a tenement from discarded waste products, but, produce a series of full colour lithographs of the said tenement by the morning; he felt the task was a little beyond him.
Thankfully help was at hand. Inspiration from a delightful set of pictures taken by the under capital punishment master, Rabbi-Father, Cane-a-lot O Conlan. We especially liked the photograph of the ‘Big Blue Crane,’ going about it’s business, fixing chimneys in the toon. We were also heartened by the father’s - I didn’t know those of the cloth were allowed to bear children? - addendum, noting helpfully on the attachment, that whilst doing their child’s homework for them, he wished all parents to note the Cooncil’s continuing good works on their behalf.
The Memsahib and I would also like to congratulate the Cooncil in there forward thinking, and utter pride in their civic duty. By the simple act of removing all the chimneys in the tenements in the Hilltown, they are foregoing any adequate form of heating for those in the area. As winter is fast approaching - the worst in 40 years if we are to believe the forward weather forecasts - these measures will no doubt help them balance any wayward budgets.
With the ensuing deaths, this will surely help cut next year’s Dumpdee Health Crust bill. Of course thankfully allowing more Cooncil-Tax money to be spent on figurative lard sculptures, and antique condom expeditions.(sic) So thoughtfully provided - after any number of expense-driven lunches - by those good people of the ACDC Centre in the Nethergate, for the limited at large.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Hilltown Towers is in an uproar. Why we have not had such a fever pitch of excitement since the cat got eaten by the bin men - no seconds again - or granny self combusted with excitement after watching the new Noel Edmonds TV show. I am of course talking about, The Eurovision Song Contest, dear reader. Is not the whole town aflame with the excitement of it all.
Why even Mrs Puggie Johnson, instead of eating her daily chalk allowance, has put it to a better purpose for a change, and has been happily ensconced in the downstairs piggery writing reams and reams of verse each and every available cider break since. Not since Dumpdee last won the contest in Peking in 1924 - with the catchy Vincey and Edna Powell version of that wonderful old highland folk song. ‘If it’s good enough for Jesus? Well, then it’s good enough for me!’. Edna of course adding a counter, high point harmony, with her unique rendition of ‘Sing Little Birdy Sing,’ as the song exited the middle-eight - have we had such a marvellous opportunity to allow our city to shine on the world stage.
Even our own Justin, (sexually and Budweiser consumption unsure) and the twins Rupert and Hermione, have formed there very own tasteful bagpipe, banjo and hurdy-gurdy ensemble. The Memsahib and I were of course delighted by the early shape, that this there first effort, has taken on. Although lacking a final verse and middle-eight, and a substantial chorus in which to raise the narrative into a climactic point. We felt that they needed encouragement and were so impressed we would like to share these simple words with you. (Sheet-music/Orchestral score/Elton John version- coming shortly)
‘Ma aine, wee, but an ben…’
“Come where the geese are quacking,
Come where the thighs are slapping
Come where the Jocks are strapping
Every noo and then
Come where the angels are singing
Come where the boys are hinging
Come where the girls are minging
Ootside their But and Ben.”
I can only urge my fellow Dumpdonians to learn how to write, and play an instrument at the first opportunity, or sooner, and so enter this competition. I would recommend ‘The circular saw in A# Major, for beginners,’ and ’Learn kazoo in a day. ‘ (Our Fintry reader may wish to take a week before they become too disheartened with the task) for the instrument. As to the writing, I believe classes are held in the dry produce section of the Hilltoon Spar on alternate Wednesdays, or of course ask your Social worker. .
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
An extremely distressed Cristobel “Pom-Pom’s” McGloag ( from the Memsahib’s
Upper Lo-chee branch of the family ) arrived at Hilltown Towers in the late forenoon. Apart from weeping uncontrollably, she had a full compliment of local gadgie bearers in tow, who may I add were non too pleased to be out of the square mile of their ‘Manor.’ The lowing of the lead bearer was pitiful to be heard, and it took all of Sammy’s’ - chief collie for the trip’s - courage, to stop them stampeding and returning from whence they came. Carrying the remains of her three piece suit, and her intensive collection of lounge furniture, they gorged themselves on bridies in readiness for the long trek south.
Oh, yea people of Dumpdee, hang your heads in shame. It seems she has been forced from her sprawling estate to the north of the Kingsway by the threat of racist prejudice. Hence, she has simply given over the house and lands to the good works of Tayside Crust, as a laboratory for the furtherance of much needed research into non-combustible Dental Floss.
We too have Afro-Caribbean friends, of Jewish-Irish-Welsh descent. And yes, they too, have known the sting of racism. Our closest associate, William O’Toole Duncan Magumbie, has been questioned many times whilst in the toon. ‘It must be hot where you come,’ said one young woman, peering into his coal-black face. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Guildford can be rather hot this time of year?’ He was also in a bar in Castle Street and was party to a discussion on, Why darkies ran so fast?’. ‘As they have to get away from tigers in the jungle,’ came his succinct reply.
Cristobel suffered many years of racist abuse whilst residing in London. As she is Scots from the liver up, and English - pants down. She was told top get tae ****, back to your own country. Now having been told the same thing here, she has decided to reside in the borders, where no-one can make up their minds whose side they are on anyway? So that alright then, isn’t it!
In the spirit of non racism, non intolerance towards racism, and racist intolerance toward tolerance, and of course any form of stereotypical thought pattern that may interfere with a sense of well-being. I am pleased to announce that the ‘Dumpdee City Cooncil. Dumpdee Healthcare Crust, and The Dumpdee Daily Bulge,’ all actively promote Scotland’s 5th largest Website in Schools, Libraries and Cooncil premises. So as to deter racist thought!
We salute your forward thinking, for it is humour that is the dissolvers of so many, many barriers. And you ‘our betters,’ are promoting this website in order that all who have the wit and wisdom can understand it.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Unfortunately if you have been married as long as the Memsahib and I matters of carnality rather go off the boil a little. I must say for the record dear reader that I have never seen the Memsahib without her ‘simmet,’ or her ‘goon,’ on, or at the very least her high waisted elasticized pyjamas; not since her previous life in Soho in fact. Thoughts of her impending nakedness make me shudder with disgust, and I am so overcome that I have to lie down in the indoor cow-pen on the 14th floor of the Towers in order to recover.
The act of carnality - rare as it is these days - is performed in the dark, and only when there is a Q in the month. Even then if she moves in the slightest and least provocative way I know that the Protestant lusts - and some may say Presbyterian ones - are upon her. I am reliably informed that they are the only misguided people who enjoy such things. Having to vent our lusts is such a chore, and as you know must only be performed for the continuation of the species.
Unfortunately I had been out with Clement Fraud, from Messer’s Argue and Phibbs, friend and barrister to ’a whit are in need O uz.’ And having partaken of a rather large quantity of pink gins in the Trades Bar in Union Street we had to hail a passing cab to take us home. After directing the young scamp to the library, we felt he could make it on his own from there. I arrived back to Towers and poured myself a claret, and noticing it was a Thursday forenoon and that the Memsahib was out at her Balaclava helmet and matching gloves symposium in Alexander Street. I decided on a little surprise, of the sensual kind. How she is driven into a mild frenzy by the sight of me in my frogman’s outfit!
Wearing my full wetsuit. Unzipped of course to the navel. And just teasingly beyond, I lay on the first landing, fourth floor of the new Jack O Connor wing of the Towers, awaiting her arrival home
Unfortunately Wendy our Thursday tweenie, caught a glimpse of me thus arrayed for action, and has had to be interred in the secure ward at the Arseview annex of Ninewells for the duration.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Extremely distressed. On Monday last the Memsahib and I in search of some cultural repast took an early lunch at the Deep C in the toon, and then made our way, after perhaps one too many bottles of the 54 Languedoc, on foot to the Mick McManus Gallery in Albert Square.
Oh dear reader, I ask youz, what has happened to the place? What have exhibitions about ‘Auld Dumpdee, in the time of the Pharaohs, what have Auld Dumpdee in the bad old days before our King in waiting, the blessed Jack O Connor was elected What have missionaries lost up the Limpopo, and what indeed has ‘Champion,’ (I’ve seen bigger Falabella’s) the so called, ‘Wonder Horse,’ have to do with this the city of near recovery. Why has this once majestic receptacle of memories seemingly been consigned to memory and left to rot in the waste basket of historical trivialities?
Was this monumental edifice not erected by public subscription over many years. Was it not set up to honour the many victories and good works of the blessed saint of the wrestling ring Mick McManus. For my younger reader Mick McManus was a famous wrestler, back when the sport actually meant something. No, dear, not that prissy WWF stuff with Stinkpen? Rock Chunk and the Swinging Blue Jeans, and their interminable effeminate antics. But a sport with REAL men taking part. Real wrastling. Why I even remember the Memsahibs great grandmother, Effie Seek, (Balgay- Plot 226) having the whole of the Caird Hall in a mighty uproar after perpetrating a fall, and a submission on Les Kellet (the Leeds Dynamo) until he unfortunately finally knocked her out.
Where is his trophy room?. His costume gallery? His footwear collection? The full sized replica of the ring? Where was the hall dedicated to the art of the comb- over. That skill carried out by such luminaries as Sir Robert and Lord Jack Charelton. Arthur Skargill, the current Archbishop of Canterbury and any number of current Dumpdee Concilors? Where is his Vaseline pot collection ( May 1957- June 1978) the great salver for those who are folically challenged.
And who may I ask in the Dumpdee region has - and is probably wearing - his hand crafted, fully fitted vasty pant collection, left to the city in his will.
The guilty know who they are?
Return the gallery to the purpose it was meant for.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Whilst researching my new book -‘ Cro-Magnon man in Kirktown - Is he still there?’ - at the Mick McManus Gallery in the toon last Friday forenoon, I uncovered a fascinating slice of local history, that the chief ED at the ‘Dumpdee Daily Bulge,’ has promised to send to his sister paper in London, as it is the 200th Anniversary of Lord Nelson’s demise. I would like to share this with you…
It was a naval tradition that if you were marked to die, then you did it as quietly as possible. The two friends who lay side by side on the blood soaked deck were doing just that, their only comfort, each others arms. They had both been press-ganged at Abernyte on the same day. Sailed on the same ships, fought at the Nile and at Copenhagen. But here, finally, off Cape Trafalgar on the 21st October in the year of our Lord, 1805, luck had finally deserted them. They were way past tending, and the greenness of death could be seen coming for them through the cordite mist and the roar of the guns. Lying in their own gore a filthy sheet separating them from the man of greatness who was in a similar condition to the left of them, they listened to his weakening commands, and then his final few words, left by him as his bequest to the nation.
“Whit did he say Boab?” Tam said through cracked lips. “I think he said ‘Lick mae love pump...?’ As he expired and so did not here the answer! “No,...No, I’m share it was ‘Kiss mae hard on...?’ Tam said, as he too breathed his last.
Within a few seconds the great man on the other side of the curtain was gone, and the battle shortly afterwards won. The Admiral’s body was reverently washed and tended, and then pickled in brandy for the journey home. Boab and Tam were thrown over the side. The Admiral was given a magnificent funeral, carried through the streets of London to lie in repose under a catafalque beneath the great dome of St Paul’s. Boab and Tam were eaten by a variety of marine life shortly thereafter. So that as they say, should have been the end to that.
Some months later on a warm Spring morning a young under-clerk at the Admiralty in the Strand was going through the log of the Victory, and noticed the greatest Admiral Britain had ever produced, last’s words. He was appalled and brought it to the immediate attention of the upper- clerk. He likewise was aghast. He spoke to the duty lieutenant. He spoke to the duty captain, who spoke to the secretary to the Lord-High-Admiral.
He read the log and was mortified. This would never do. This would never do But what to do. What to do. Finally the first Lord hit upon a brilliant idea. A re-invention of what was said. A noted playwright was brought in from Drury Lane to re-write the log. The resultant sales of the pamphlet ‘Our Best Beloved of All the Brave;’ even outsold Lord Byron’s, ‘Childe Harold.’. Thus the enduring legend of the fictitious ‘Captain, Kiss me Hardy,” was born...
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
A surprise visit by Vanda Johnson MSP for Mid-Cragie South to the Towers on Thursday forenoon. We do love Vanda so, but wish she would give us at least a little notice before she simply arrives at our door. It is not her that we mind so much, it is her entourage. Hair and nail stylist. Costume designer. Makeup, etc.
Now excuse me if I am being a bit unthinking here, but yes dear, we know that you used to be in filums, before you were called to the ballot box, but do we have to be reminded of it at every opportunity. That aside it must be very hard for her poor thing to give up Hollywood lifestyle, and replace it with the Hollyrood one. I mean, how can those poor things survive on the pittance they get. And as for the squalor the Scottish Parliament has too meet in, the sooner they blow and build a proper one, then happier they will all be.
You may remember Vanda for her starring appearances in ‘Mary Queen of Spots,’ ‘Weemin in Lust’ and ‘A Touch of Glass.’ I am sure that of course you recall her most famous role, that of Fanny, the spurned wife of Dumpdee’s composer of Victorian ditties, Willie Kinloch-Leven. The scene as she fakes an orgasmic climax in a railway carriage going over the Tay Bridge, prompting its immediate collapse into the river, was one of Scottish cinemas greatest moments.
The population of Angus, Vanda assures us, is in terminal decline, no matter the recent boundary changes that have been implemented by the Cooncil. It was thought be her that if it continues at it’s current rate, then by the year 2024 only the Sinderins are likely to be populated. Despite compulsory sex after various mince- break’s during the school-day in all local Academies, and the promotion of the ideals of ‘free love,’ things are in a sorry state. She was however glad to note that the Charlestown under 11’s bullfight team is keeping it’s end up, with bouts of compulsory sex – no exceptions, no sick-notes accepted - with the Dryburgh under 11 flower arrangers after their matches. Unless Dryburgh on mass are firing blanks, we should have a healthy crop of weans by this time next year. Even Old Mary Sare’Erse (Artherstone Terrace - Labour) has offered to be artificially inseminated (or otherwise) in order to increase the population of the younger generation. Although as yet no one from the ‘Jocks in Frock’s,’ Dumpdee’s finest, has been prepared to take on the difficult and dangerous mission.
In response to this poor showing the Memsahib and I can only urge the young to procreate, procreate, procreate, and find out why we are known throughout the World as the City of Discovery. Why, this city used to in the top echelons of the league-table of unmarried, and under-age births in Europe? Why, oh why, are we letting our exacting standards slip. To the young of Dumpdee I say take up the challenge? Go to it, and put us back where we belong. On top. (Missionary position only of course…?)
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Darvin Johnson the Strathmartine Stud arrived after coffee on Friday last, offering to take us Clubbing. As the Memsahib was just about to leave for her colonic irrigation (is it all a pain in the erse?) symposium, in the Highwayman on the Hill, I was forced to entertain him alone.
In fact I was a little surprised that Clubs were even open at this time of the morning in the toon. As to my recollection even the illegal ones I used to frequent in Mayfair and Rathbone Street, W1, used to close at 11am, rather than open at that time. So it was with a sense of mild trepidation that I agreed to accompany him.
As he has recently has purchased a Vincent Black Lightning 53, and side-car combination, he asked me to don a WWII war surplus tin-hat, from his grandfathers time as an ARP warden, and we prepared to set off. After wiping the dirt from the shield, had revealed an, ‘I am no a real Dumpdonian, from Dumpdee, cause I can read this,’ sticker, emblazoned across his windscreen, which of course ensured impaired vision and dangerous driving conditions at all times, we pulled away from the Tower’s.
After only a few minutes of carefree freewheeling - he had run out of petrol again - we came to a stop by the landward span of the Tay Railway Bridge, apparently our Clubbing, destination? After retrieving a selection of baseball bats from his undercarriage we strode out onto the sandbank, uncovered by the retreating tide. This was obviously a different Clubbing than I was used to.
We were then faced with a colony of basking seal’s. Family after family lying, in the forenoon sun, lazily flapping their flippers at one and other. Then as we went about our labours we saw their vicious little faces crumpled in pain as their bodily fluids spilled onto the sand. How the babies yelped as we gave them a damn good thrashing, throwing them up into the air, so that their brains exploded on impact with the ground. I can only say that Dumpdee with its good old whaling tradition should be rightly proud of the boy Darvin and I, and our work that day. Why even the travellers on the 12.15 Virgin train steaming it’s way to London, only too happily waved and urged us on with our efforts.
All too soon the fun was over, and Darvin and I took goodly measures from my hip-flask. As silently we grinned at one and other through our blood, spattered smiles. Later after we had cleaned up we were wondering what to do with the bloody carcasses, (bloody, not bloody! Dear reader.) when, luckily a passing truck stopped, and out jumped the exotic meats buyer for the Spar chain of grocery emporiums. He of course snapped them all up, ensuring that they will be available in the deli-counter at the Hilltown branch, and of course all nearby outlets, shortly.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
The Memsahib, bless her little wooden heart, is rather a soft touch when it comes to the staff. Why she has recently employed a resting actress to tend the herbarium, and make the odd banquet or two, when the downstairs cook’s are away. The position had become vacant as the incumbent herbivore had fallen to her death, after standing and cleaning the upper windows in the greenhouse without a safety harness or trampet beneath her.
The elderly lady has had bit-parts in recent episodes of Eastenders, River City and Crimewatch. But unfortunately the poor dear refuses to come out of the character of her most famous role as the house-keeper in the famous STV series, ‘Dr Findlay’s Saucebottle.’ It took the Memsahib only a few shorts weeks to train, Janet, as she so affectionately likes to be called her to address me as Major, rather than Dr.
She is such a sweet old gal, but we are daily beset with her endless questions in this pan-loafey accent. Such as….
“Oh Major! Major, ave got the maest awfey heartburn.”
“ Well,” of course I replied without looking up from my porrage with croutons. “Why, you’ve got your t*t’s in the soup again dear...”
And later that same day “Oh Major! Oh Major! Dr Snoddy wants me to suck his thingy?”
“ Well,” I retorted, “then you will simply have to keep your mouth shut, wont you.”
We then had to endure endless questions of a most odd nature for days on end. She constantly asked if anything was worn under the kilt, and even after assuring her that no, everything was in perfect working order, she seemed less than convinced.
Finally she asked to see for herself, and so I ordered Wee Nigel, our kilt-wearing Gilles son, up from the lower pasture where he was exercising the goats (He assures me that was what he was doing - never mind that else it may have looked like) After fiddling for a few minutes below the folds of his plaid she exclaimed the resultant find to be ‘gruesome.’
Nigel assured her that if she carried on with her ministrations, in time, it would undoubtedly, ‘Gruesome more.’
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
A house guest at Hilltown Towers last week. The Memsahib’s Italian cousin, that well known painter and decorator Michelangelo Buonarroti arrived on the train from Florence, taking up residence in the Andy Stewart wing.
He is a fine fellow, but a definite soap dodger I fear, as his skin could do with the tender ministrations of a mild moisturiser, and a sand-paper bath. We didn’t mind so much that he kept returning to the Towers late at night with drunken sailors he had encountered at the docks, but had to complain quite bitterly when we were awoken early on Thursday morning to find the whole Italian State Opera Company performing ‘Aida,’ in the downstairs conservatory
Mind he has made a friend of Mrs Puggie Johnson though. They have been having many a late night talk session over countless bottles of Lambrini (girls just want to have fun after all) And has informed me that he has found her comments on ‘Early Cubism in Forfar,’ and ‘Brechin! Does incest make you a better painter?’ most edifying.
Having said he wanted to see the famous crayon drawings, on the walls of the doctors surgery in Brooke Street, Broughty Ferry, he informed us he would be leaving us on Friday. As way of a ‘thank-you’ for his stay, he offered to decorate any part of the Towers we felt needed his artistic touch. On Tuesday forenoon he duly started work in the third floor cloakroom. (gents for the use of) We of course envisaged something in magnolia or perhaps bitter-chocolate, which we thought would have been highly appropriate, in order to cover up the nasty stain Santa left there last Xmas. But no, every inch of available space has been taken up with representations of Gods, Sibyls. Prophets and Wood Nymphs. Replete with scenes of primordial terror’s, such as Alice being expunged from Wonderland; and all in a state of total undress.
Thankfully Mrs Puggie Johnson came to the rescue, and saved our blushes, for the forthcoming festive season. After a mere twenty minute, a mop, and a big bucket of distemper, the distasteful scenes were lost from view forever, hidden under a fine shade of lilac.
Hilltown Towers salutes you Mrs Puggie Johnson and long may you continue you art appreciation classes at the Highwayman.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Mrs Puggie Johnson invited the Memsahib to a Spiritual evening on Monday last, at the Caird Hall. Now we have always been led to believe that medium was situated somewhere between a small and a large, but no, we were assured by Mrs PJ that almost the entire population of Dumpdee visits them at some time in the course of a year. I waved them off from the drawbridge of the Towers, and as the carriage crossed the moat, I saw on the Memsahib’s face a deal of doubt, knowing that as they disappeared down the Hill, that a sceptic is always a sceptic. However she returned some hours later with the mark of cynicism wiped from her doubting puss.
Three goats and a dove had already been sacrificed to the ‘dark one,’ and Mrs Fennimore of Tullybachart had won the limited edition pop-up-toaster, and a signed photo of the Lord Provost in his ‘simmet’ in the bingo draw before they arrived. But they had barely settled in there seats, when ‘Lennie,’ his bow tie and recently capped teeth, glowing in the spotlight, asked if there was someone with a J in their name in the audience.
Mrs Puggie Johnson’s hand immediately shot up in the air. Did she have a Granny that had passed over with grey hair? Had she perchance died in the Dumpdee Royal Infirmary, placing her as a deceased woman of a certain age, some years before? Did she have a husband who died before her? Did she like to wear a heavy coat in the winter. To all these Mrs PJ answered exitedley, yes!.
At this point she was tipped into an uncontrollable flood of tears. It took some time, and the contents of the Memsahib’s portable cocktail cabinet, to calm her jangled nerves. Just as Lennie was about to impart the important, and dare I say, life-changing message as to where Pop’s had hidden the Premium Bonds, the heavenly connection was lost. Ensuring that Mrs PJ would have to return in four week’s time and pay the entrance fee of a mere £57.96 in order to find out the answer.
As the evening unfolded the Memsahib watched utterly astounded as a cat called ‘Puss,’ from Yarrow Terrace, apologised to the owner of the Mondeo Sport for getting squashed beneath it’s wheels. And Jimmie Inveralmond, a Merchant Seaman from Laburn Street, would like to assure his Ma, that he had not intended to die in the arms of a sailor from Petrograd, he was merely keeping the young man warm until a new suit of clothing could be found for him, he, having lost own his in an unfortunate boating accident on the Neva.
Is it not a truly wonderful Dumpdeee phenomenon, that if you put six group’s of people in a tenement (Quaint - in England they would be called slums) they don’t talk to one and other, never mind bother to find out each other’s names. Yet, put those same people in a room with a Medium, and they are only too willing to talk to someone from the other-side.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
