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...!
READ FROM BOTTOM TO TOP...
I totally concur with the recent ‘George Best,’ day celebrations in the toon. I believe it is the finest, One Day Celebration At The Death Of A Nonentity, that the Cooncil has yet wasted tax payers money on. I do take Jack O Connor to task though, 3 full weeks of national mourning for the Sport’s World’s ‘Tragic-Loss,’ is not nearly enough, I would have had the lights throughout Scotland’s dimmed until Easter, and Xmas and Hogmanay cancelled as well, at the very least.
I would also like to thank Cairn Na Moar, Tennants Lager and OVD Rum for their respective drink’s tents. And of course the Incredible ‘Roll Inn,’ (Advertising slogan - not only do we make the finest sandwiches in Whitehall Crescent, but we also sponsor football teams that don’t win anything) for catering the event. The rides set up outside the Caird Hall were great amusement for all, with names such as Punch the Drunk, and The Birlies. And of course the musical accompaniment provided by the Scottish Fiddle-About Orchestra (stop that before the vicar see’s you) was mesmerising as always. To finish the festivities the firework display was truly breathtaking. I had to lend the Memsahib a hanky during the elongated tribute to every known brand of alcoholic beverage Mr Best had ever imbibed, which lit up the sky with florescent sparks until dawn
I find it wonderful that an alcoholic who squandered his talent and didn’t do a day’s toil after 30, is honoured in such a way. I think it quite right that those aged reprobates who at the advanced age of 80-90 or so, daily fall over in the toon, should be ignored as they are. Being an ex-military man I find that it is scant excuse that they fought in two world wars, devoted there lives to serving their communities and died penniless, to act in such a manner.
You know, its somewhat akin to the fuss at the death of the late Princess of Whales, and all that hysterical nonsense that followed her demise. Yes dear, you knew before you married him that he was in love with a horse, and that there were always three in the marriage. But damn me woman, you still went ahead with it anyway. And what did you get out of it. Palaces! Riches beyond compare!. Exotic travel! Waited on hand and foot! And just like Mr Best’s ‘tragic’ life, I am sure you though you had it tough! And all for having to go to bed with the ‘Once and future King,’ twice. (Well Ok, once, if you believe the rumours)
I can only salute our monarch-to-be, and hope that as Buddhists believe, his Karma is set, and he returns in his next-life, for what he so wished to be in this one; a ‘Tampax.’
Well, that should get him into someone else’s hair? For a few hours at least!
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
A most welcome letter from ‘Jonty,’ our eldest. (Or ‘Jonter’s, as we so affectionately call her) As we had not heard from her since she moved to the Bus Station, April last, we were becoming a tad worried about her well-being.
The few lines scribbled hastily on the back of a Woodbine-packet and thrown haphazardly through the gatehouse window, informed us that we should not be concerned about her. She has been working as a hostess in a topless bar in Dock Street, ‘The Saucy Sporran,’ I believe. A haunt frequented by the aging blades of Dumpdee Cooncil who can happily pay £124.88 for a bottle of Lambrusco, (on expenses of course) masquerading as house champagne, whilst boring the bare- chested young ladies (No free feelies allowed) silly, about budget balancing and waste disposal problems in the ‘Schemes.’ She also informed us that that nice Mr Jack O Connor often pops in for a take-away, when his own secretary is away on business. Of course it is so hard to find a good temp in Edinburgh, is it not?
Nevertheless Jonter’s has moved on and is now doing ‘tricks,’ in front of the bus-station itself. The Memsahib and I are so proud, as we now realise that all the money spent on her education has not been wasted. Especially the elongated stay at ‘The Tommy Cooper Conjuring School,’ in Berne, Switzerland. We must say she always was a whiz at cards. Playing ‘Find the King,’ and ‘Hide the Ace,’ I only hope that she performs the spectacular how to get an elephant from your school-bag, for she so used to keep us amused for hours with that one in her youth.
We are now led to believe she has acquired a very nice ‘pimp,’ who after promising not to ‘smack her bitch up,’ has assured her that he can find her a better sort of clientele than she is used to.
The Memsahib and I went to bed relieved that she is thus, now no longer on the payroll of the Cooncil’s arts and recreation’s department.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
The Memsahib and I took great exception to a televisual entertainment on the 4th Channel on our wind up TV apparatus the other Sunday Evening. A most shocking documentary purporting to be the life-story of the late, and may I say much lamented Princess Margaret of Snowed-in. (yes, it does happen this time of year)
We were appalled by the graphic content, swear words and sexual innuendo; and that was only from our own family in the third floor lounge! The sight of her in congress with her husband was the most shocking thing that I believe has ever been portrayed. I mean has this world gone entirely mad, the action just about put the Memsahib and I over the edge. My God, that, is why one has servants.
In our younger days we were often in Her Royal Highness’s (or Her Royal Highness, as she so affectionately allowed us to call her) company, and we truly cared little if she would become aggressively drunk and sing those old songs of yesteryear, from her days of snogging the ‘Group Captain.’ In the back row of the Alhambra, Leicester Square..
Why even the Queen Mother (Gawd Bless Her) who stayed on in splendour in Buckingham Palace, whilst her subjects were bombed and blasted all around her, complaining that they had it tough, during the last war; was indeed a beacon to us all. Bravely surviving the conflict with only the meagre rations of a bottle of Gin, 2 bottles of Shamper’s, a brace of pheasant, and a packet of Bath Oliver’s a day; now, that was real hardship? Even when she was alive she was known to treat all her underlings in a similar manner. Often she could be heard bawling down the dumb-waiter at Clarence House to the young pale skinned footmen (no roll-neck sweaters to be worn on duty) clustered below stairs. That, ‘Which of you old Queens down-there, is going to bring this Old Queen up-here, another bottle of bloody Gordon’s.’ I hope you also not that the stock of Benson and Hedges, and of all alcoholic beverages fairly plummeted when they both died
I think that collectively we should remember that we are all her Majesty’s subjects (and that includes you too Jimmy McLogan of Bell Street, and please stop referring to the Queen, as, ‘that auld wifey in London.’ I myself have long believed that in her younger day the incumbent monarch had a fine pair of ‘Jugs.’ But as I have come no closer to her than licking the back of her head, that will sadly have to remain a mystery to me and mine.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Had Lord McCartney of Liverpool and his lovely husband Heather round for dinner last week. He often leaves his Lear jet on the roof terrace whilst going shopping at the Kirktown ASDA, as he informs us that they have the best vegetarian, meat-free, no meat-at-all, ‘Bunny Burgers,’ in the toon.
As his pilot had gone down to the docks for a spot of R&R (yes dear reader it may very well be some Rock and Roll) and had not returned, he decided to stay the night, and we lodged him in the executive suite in the recently refurbished Harry Lauder wing. He was most excited at the prospect, as he said he had not had his JOCK tickled since late 1967.
Unfortunately, as the Memsahib commented later, he does become rather tiresome about the 60’s. About he and John - yes he’s dead you know! About he and Linda - yes she’s dead you know! And above all about the terrible, terrible problem of what to do with all that royalty money. I mean £250.00 per second, twenty-four hours per day, for a bit of the old, Yeah, Yeah, Yeahing, must be a terrible burden to be saddled with.
Mind you after a few bottles of the old carrot juice he was on fine form. He sang and played Justin’s banjo until dawn, throwing in all the old favourites from his extensive back catalogue. And this was of course before retiring to bed, where before breakfast he had completed 12 songs for his new album, a book, thought to be a social study on local mores, called. ‘If you can remember Carnoustie in 65, the 60’s obviously didn’t effect you.’ A full size painting of the Lord Provost in the nude - Lord McCartney was allowed to keep his socks on, so that he had somewhere to put his brushes. And a Symphony for strings, bouzouki and tinselly things, entitled ‘The Caird Hall Suite.’
Unfortunately the visit was spoiled by the Memsahib, who I believe had been at the Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry, as she is not one for loose comments. She made a remark that mortally offended Lady McCartney. When asked how she and Paul would be spending the new year, would they be doing any First-Footing? Lady M, of course dear reader, has a prosthetic, her appendage being bitten off by a rabid sheep on the Kintyre estate, looked at her blankly and replied, that if she put her best foot forward she would fall over?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Young Justin (bi-sexual, again this week) has tired of his paper round, and has handed over his lucrative pitch, exclusively to Mrs Puggie Johnson. A move she assures us will not interfere with her daily duties at the Towers. It will simply mean that she will have to complete her demanding round, before morning milking starts.
He has not however forgone his sweet days of publishing all together. He has taken an add in the Dumpdee Daily Bulge which we believe is the first one they have ever run for such a purpose as, ‘Men seeking Men.’ And why not I ask you for I am sure there are many Dumpdonian males of a certain persuasion, who would rather spend a pleasant evening in the company of a ‘fit’ 17 year old, with muscles in all the right places, then in the company of there aged mothers. Or at the very least a damn sight better prospect than staying in with a bottle or two of Vimto, a boil in a bag Haggis-Supper for one, and the entire re-mastered Elton John collection, (Gus Dudgeon era 1969-79).
Alas he has yet to receive any replies, even with the rather fetching photograph of him skinny dipping in Magaluf the year before last, as a suitable teaser. I can only ask any men unsure of their own sexual proclivities, to give the boy a hand - (or two). All options will be gratefully considered, especially advances from the ‘professions.’ Perhaps say, a nice doctor from Ninewells, or a young solicitor aspiring to be a future Procurator Fiscal. These would fit the bill most admirably.
You may not only have the boys hand, but suitably bribed, the Memsahib and I will see what we can do about the rest of him.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Oh dear will those in Dumpdee never learn about racism? A most terrible scene at the local Country Club the past Friday forenoon.
You may remember dear reader that the Memsahib’s Kirktown cousin, Cristobel “Pom-Pom’s” McGloag recently decanted herself to the borders, in order to escape the rampant racism in our local vicinity. It appears that in only a matter of hours of her arrival she had fallen in with a thoroughly fine bunch of chaps in Hamilton, who are of the ‘pony-set,’ as indeed she is. They meet every Thursday at the ‘Slaughtered Stag and Whippet,’ on the outskirts of town dressed in ceremonial white robes, of the ‘Clan,’ variety. After much drinking and all round jollity they put on pointy-hats and ride about throughout the night with torches aflame setting fire to houses, barns and hay-rick’s. Just before dawn they all congregate in Annan to sacrifice pigs and light Fiery-Crosses. Why there has even been talk of ‘lynching,? But as that fine 60’s crooner Kenny Lynch, has yet to move to those parts, I don’t see how that could be possible.
Nevertheless, the Memsahib and I took her for lunch at the club, and after a fine repast, she noticed that the leisure centre was open, so thought she would partake of a dip. Unfortunately she was rebuked by a tartan clad pool attendant, whose awesome sporran was showing through his Speedo’s. Informing her in no uncertain terms that the pool was for the exclusive use of those with ‘Pure Scots’ blood only.
We of course we appalled at such rampant racism and took the matter further. After some hours of negotiation it was agreed that as she was half Scot’s and half English, she could go into the water up to her waist,
I cancelled my membership forthwith. I hope you understand dear reader that I would never be a member of any organisation, that would have me as a member of that organisation?
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
A fearfully distressed Mrs Puggie Johnson arrived late in the forenoon, looking a little the worse for wear. It took three bottles of Buckfast before she could blurt out her terrifying tale. It seems she was subjected dear reader to an attempted hijack.
Whilst carrying her laden’d message bag, (I thought that was something one sent electronically or tapped out over the wires?) she had taken a 22 bus from the centre of the toon, to be at the Towers for her early morning cider-break. As she was deep into reading the leader of the early edition of that days Dumpdee Daily Bulge. It was Thursday last, I am sure you remember it? The one with the picture of the Conservative MSP in leathers. The performing dog-troop, and of course the bucket of cold water; she at first did not take any notice of the altercation taking place on the rising step. She had just reached the in-depth coverage, when the reporter was about to make his excuses and leave the scene of the perpertration(sic), when she was alerted by screams coming from the front of the bus.
Four rather elderly gentlemen, dressed in skin-tight black pattern Burberry, balaclava’s obscuring there faces, were screaming at the driver. He remained stoic to the abuse, sipping from his Diet Iron-Brew with measured draughts, a defiant look reminiscent of those which backed down the troops of Bonnie Billy Cumberland, on his face.
“We are the Coldside Sheltered-Housing Chapter of the Hilltoon Huns, and we are hijacking this bus. Tak wiz tae the tap o the Hull,” one of them screamed.
“Whit,” said the driver…?
“We are the Coldside Sheltered-Housing Chapter of the Hilltoon Huns, and we are hijacking this bus,” he said this time with all the menace a mouth full of falsies could muster. “Tak wiz tae the tap o the Hull.” .
The driver looked at them askance, replying in a calm voice. “Look pal, this bus gaes to the tap o the Hull.”
Stunned by his forceful command of the situation they duly paid their £1.10’s ( no concessions for would be hijackers, or those over 60, before 9-30 ) and sat sheepishly at the back of the bus. One got off at Alexander Street, two more at the Clock and the fourth had to be surgically removed from himself at the Terminus. Yes dear, Super-glue and pile-ointment do look the same on these dark mornings, but at your advanced age, do try not to make the same mistake twice.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
When one is as learned, as is the Memsahib, one often needs to stimulate the old ‘cranial muscle,’ and has thus made friends with a local teacher of those that are somewhat behind in there scholastic studies. Her knowledge of the classics,’ is beyond compare, having read, and carefully indexed every copy of ‘Pigeon Fanciers Weekly,’ and ‘What’s best? A JCB or Massey Ferguson, for wet weather planting.’ since the Great War.
Davinia is know to her pupils as ‘Auld Reekie,’ for her habit of lighting up in the confines of the stationary cupboard. A habit that has so far resulted in the burning down of her two previous establishments, and so she has been decanted to the Ann Street Academy for ‘Ladies of the Night,’ teaching deportment and crochet studies, for the foreseeable future, the world is her very oyster.
Her’s is a rather sad tale however. She has lately become enamoured by a young man from Albania, who was allowed to reside in this country after being implicated in the death, by cream bun, of the President of the country, Musthave’a Mustapha. He found his way to Dumpdee from the hills outside the small village of Smorsk, with naught but a loin cloth to his name, in order to teach the under 16’s, the community singing of ‘By by Black Sheep,’ for the 3rd Achterader, ‘Best loved Song’s of Bonnie Scotland,’ Folk Contest. They came a pitiful 15th, and he now lives under the threat of daily deportation, back to ‘the old country,’ where he will no doubt be dragged to the Gulag’s (no dear to, not by the) disappearing into the wasteland that lies beyond - a bit like Fintry really?
She is much enamoured by his waist length beard and goaty, unwashed smell. Thinking that indeed he cuts a fine swagger as he wanders the hostelries on the hill, dressed as he is in his fur waistcoat, silk, ‘Cossack Shirt,’ and knee length boots. Why, his peasant look fits in admirably with the local’s, and oh, if only he carried a knife or a firearm by his side, why he would be right at home.
Unfortunately she is unsure if this is indeed ‘True Love,’ as his definition of foreplay is rather strange to say the least. Tucking his beard into his underpants, asking her to get down on all fours and ‘make like a sheep baby,’ whilst he sings a selection of Nana Missouri(sic) songs on the zither, does not ‘do it,’ at all for her.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Thrilled when the boy Tarquin (our youngest, 5 and ¾, six at Candelmas) came home from St Eustace O Cohen’s Primary, for displaced Chav’s in Strathmartine Road, and informed us with some glee that he was going to learn a foreign language. Quite right the Memsahib and I intoned, it will help you in your extensive travels in later life; when the trust fund matures and you can set out on your own.
But what language we inquired. Spanish, so that you can converse with a goodly 1/3 of those on the planet perhaps, or French, so good when one needs to order a good vintage of the old Chateau Nuf De Pape whilst in Paris. Or at the very least Chinese - Mandarin, Cantonese, it makes no difference - for in a matter of years we will be competing head to head with them in vagaries of the free-market? No, Garlic he replied proudly - and here was us thinking it was merely a flavoursome additive to a spaghetti sauce.
I can only congratulate the Education Department for their forward planning. By allowing pupils to learn a redundant language they are only making the world of the Scot’s youngster an even smaller place than it already is. Thus the Memsahib and I can only contain our great excitement when he has the opportunity to put into practice what he has learned so far.
I am sure phrases such as; “My Granny’s bath has no coal!” “The dog has eaten the poachers blunderbuss,” and, “Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa,” are bound to come in frightfully handy when he visits Eigg, Mull or Lewis, at some future stage in his life.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
Ah yes Xmas, what a time indeed. Presents you do not want, from people you do not like. Xmas cards from ‘friends,’ sending their love, even though they cant be arsed during the preceding 365 days to pick up a phone and find out if you are in fact dead or not. Xmas? Thank goodness for Jameson’s…!
The Memsahib and I were forced into a confrontation with Mrs Puggie Johnson on Wednesday forenoon. She was overheard discussing Xmas with Pudie in the swimming pool changing rooms, and I had to reprimand her most severely and took the drastic step of stopping her 12 bottles of mid-morning Lambrini. I ask, whatever happened to Babycham dear reader, I so loved that little Bambi thing?
She was discussing Pudie’s up and coming role as Mary in the Hilltown under 5’s production of that old Diwali/Hanuka/I Ching/Sufi/Shinto/classic ‘Away in a Stranger.’ Not wishing to offend anyone she wanted to play ‘Mother Mary,’ as nature intended, ‘au-natural,’ but Pudie was indeed unsure about being visited by the ‘wholly goat,’ and thereby putting in question the real parentage of the saviour; after all, Dumpdee surely has enough of that sort of thing already.
Mrs PJ was simply confused, for she could not grasp the concept of religion, and what indeed it meant to the Festive season. Why in fact should it interfere with a ‘guid bevy’ up. It took us some time to explain to both the true meaning of the ‘Xmas Story,’ and to Pudie in particular the importance of costumes. That clothes and the wearing of them helped us differentiate on stage, who was indeed playing whom. If all the participants were naked, not only would it look like an out-take from ‘Oh Calcutta,’ but we could not tell Magi from Shepard’s, Angels from members of the ‘Wholly Family!’
Hoping that cleared up her confusion, I sent her off to rehearsal’s with a selection of tea-towels stuffed into her knickers, hoping that by wearing them about her person, she could see good sense in the end.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.
PS…As it is fast approaching the season of goodwill, the Memsahib and I were glad to see the header in last weeks Dumpdee Daily Bulge. Once again Dumpdee is back where it belongs, at the top of the international league of teenage pregnancies. I can only refer you to my article of some weeks ago and say that I am glad my advice was taken up so swiftly. Keep going at it all you under 12’s, you make us all so proud!
I had obviously partaken of too many glasses of cooking sherry, and perhaps one too many Buckfast flavoured Brussels sprout’s, with of course brandy butter sauce. For I distinctly remember the Memsahib saying we were to have a Low-Key Xmas this year? One can understand my surprise when on the morn of the saviour’s birth, I was presented with a fait-u-complie, a Lo-Chee Xmas!
Oh what fun the family had dining off paper plates and drinking Vimto from plastic cups. It was a little hard to carve the Xmas turkey though, as we know that the frequenters of that parish are yet to acquaint themselves with knives and forks and their proper usage. But we got by somehow, and a fine time was eventually had by one and all.
Well now that we have the Season of Goodwill out of the way, it appears we have a serious problem with Mrs Puggie Johnson. She was so moved by my recent telling of the Xmas Story, that she spent her days off reading the ‘Bible.’ It would seem that she is so full of the spirit of the ‘Wholly Goat,’ that she is now a paid up, card carrying member of, the “Hovis Witness’s.”
She was stopped on Christmas Eve in the Murrygate by a very nice young man dressed in black, who filled her with his presence (no dear not present’s) Giving her a substantial number of back issues of the Witness’s periodical, ‘The Watch Cry, for her perusal. She subsequently spent all of Xmas day at the ‘Temple of the Grain,’ which for those who are unsure, is just off the lower end of the Arbroath Road.
Here she was inducted into the strange rituals attendant with the faith. The sucking of the yeast, the skipping of the bread, and yes, the running of the deer.
Of course as you know dear reader, the Memsahib and I would never buy a used religion from a man in the street. That is only the habitué of those who sell you ‘Jazz Woodbine’s,’ or DVD recorders that do not work once you get them home.
Nevertheless we look forward to Mrs PJ’s continuing interest in the ‘Hovis’es’ and can only hope she will not only be able to walk across the swimming pool in order to clear the water of those unsightly mid-winter leaves. But that all those bottles of sparkling spring in the cellar can in time be put to a more useful purpose.
Major Symington Fforbes (retired) BSE, Chocolate Biscuit and Crunchie Bar.