Sir Wilfred spoke on the telephone and both Tim and Quentin could tell, from his hortative tone, that it was The Dame on the other end: "whatever his faults may be - and I have no doubt they are legion - he is a banausic teetotaller and when he is toppled, there will be such an effusion of cannibal stinkwood, that his body will be left to rot into the forest floor! but let's not become so focussed on the bright side that we miss the essential point, which is - he doest not give a fig for Ulster, so he and those rag, tag and bobtail followers of his will happily trot along in his wake, seeing neither cannons to the right of 'em, cannons to the left of 'em, nor even cannons to the front of 'em and into the jaws of death will he ride 'em; not quite the words of the poet, but you catch the point, Ma'am, so shall we proceed accordingly? yes, Ma'am, no Ma'am, three bags full Ma'am? ab-so-bloody-lutely Ma'am, thankyou Ma'am . . . . ." and he actually blew a kiss before hanging up and turning to the others; after a few seconds, with the tension growing, Sir Wilfred clapped his hands and said: Thunderbirds are GO!"
"What you need to remember, Tim," said Sir Wilfred, "is that The Dame is by nature predaceous, remember how she won the leadership out of the jaws of victory? little Master Goven, school sneak, a bit of a butterfly, but with the loyalty of the born assassin, he despatched Doris with one stab, and that thrust pushed him above the farouche throng, with all their roars and boos and waving of Order Papers, but he had no concept of snatch and run, he was the kind to drop his weapon and raise his hands in surrender with a bleat of 'it was me wot dunnit, m'lud, as gawd's me judge it were a fair cop,' but that's not The Dame's way. look at this video, young Quentin's put together: it was silent, just snippets of The Dame being interviewed, speeded up; "see her head, Tim, and her eyes, never still, she looks to right and left, up and down. well, those are her tells – which indicate when she is telling the truth and when she is telling a barefaced lie – can you spot which is which; Quent, run it again, and you Tim, no deep thought, just your gut instinct, decide for each clip whether it's Truth or Dare!" and Tim did, said what he thought each one was, and ended up with twenty True and 3 False; but when he told Sir Wilfred the totals and then identified which he saw as False, the Cabinet Secretary and Quentin had quite a chuckle, before Sir Wilfred said: "wrong 100% of the time, she really is a proper caution!" and they went through to the kitchen, leaving Tim trying to work out what Sir Wilfred had meant and how he could have been so wrong – it just didn't add up!
The gypsy music, which allowed Timothy Michaelmas-Daisy to sense the origins of the kletzmer he so loved, died away and the rather sprightly figure of Sir Wilfred Heath-Robinson too, came to a stop and ended the verbunkos he had been dancing with Ms Natalie Rhombus and caught an unexpected glimpse of Tim in the mirror; he spun around and to Tim's surprise, threw open his arms to embrace the Secretary of State for Brexit and hold Tim much closer than he would ever have expected, but least of all, now, after the staggering 230 vote majority against The Dame's Proposal etcetera etcetera: Tim felt it was his bounden duty to break away from the embrace and bring to the room the agony that had been eating away at him, especially after the Vote of Confidence, which the Old Lady had won easily with just her own MPs and the Orangemen, but not one single Member from the Opposition parties had stood out against his or her Whips to lend support to the beleaguered government; then he noticed the xanthic pallor of the Cabinet Secretary and the dark smudges beneath his eyes, themselves red-rimmed, and he bit off the words he might otherwise had spoken; as Ms Rhombus, one of the Beddingshire MPs lit a pink Sobranie and the smoke drifted in the airless room, Sir Wilfred clapped his hands and Quentin Quibb put his head around the door: "more champaign," cried Sir Wilfred and threw himself into the large sofa which stood below the Downing Street window, through which Tim could see Dan McGann of The Sun shouting out his Headline Questions at any MPs walking towards The Bunker; "'tis the season to be merry, Tim, all the cards are falling as we planned, the bait is being snapped up and we will have everything in place by Monday and then . . . . ." which to Tim's ears all sounded rather nomothetic, abstract and as unlikely as that there really is a Santa Claus, although when Sir Wilfred had worn his red costume for The Staff Christmas Party he had looked the real deal – 230% for sure!
Which was when he started 'signing' the street paintings as Banczhi! of course, that just added to the mystery, as he had intended; now, instead of simply wondering who did them, the question on everyone's lips was: "who is Banczhi?" it was risky, of course: although only a very few knew who he actually was, and those were absolutely trustworthy, there were also the casual, paid, helpers – the street Arabs – the kids who, for a few coins, kept a look-out for the police or anyone who might alert them, they had no loyalty except to whoever paid them and a reward being offered by the City authorities, and several newspapers, would have been more than Dada slipped them, but, thankfully – and here Dada was worried that his cernuous petit-bourgeois antecedents were showing – they neither had the ability to read nor, even if they could read, never read newspapers! so Banczhi kept on with his under-cover-of-darkness work; and after working all day on designs and set-painting for Cabaret Voltaire, he went out after dark with two co-conspiritors, to stencil his latest creations onto fresh canvases, and, one of his best, featured a large jabroni police officer and the unmistakeable figure of Archduke Franz-Ferdinand, upbraiding several children for playing knots and crosses on a wall outside the Police Headquarters! and next morning a grainy photograph seemed to show Banczhi at work; it appeared on the front page of Neue Freie Presse under the headline They Seek Him Here, They Seek Him There, Right Under Their Noses, Everywhere! and asked the question: if our photographer can find him, how is it that the Police are still scratching their arses and stuffing their faces with strudel? of course, it was a fraud, for Banczhi (or rather, Dada) had taken the photograph himself and the slightly out-of-focus artist was actually a passing drunk who, for a nip of best Laphroaig from Dada's hip-flask, had quite happily posed in the field of vision as the artist at work and, even if in the sober light of morning he recognised himself and had any memory of the night before, it wasn't Dada, or Banczhi, himself who had spoken to him and posed him, with a paint-brush, for the photograph, that had in fact been Tristan, who delighted in any liaisons dangereuses and of course, for him, as a Romanian, there might have been the danger of being expelled if the Authorities decided to cut up rough; and so the project of bringing Art onto the Streets continued unabated, and included a growing number of imitators, who only muddied the waters for, unless their wage budget was doubled or tripled, there were never going to be sufficient numbers of police on the streets at night to seriously threaten Dada or restrict him in his self-imposed task!
And, at the very same moment, albeit in 1913, Dada Heidler, felt himself at a crossroad - his work for Cabaret Voltaire was receiving praise in the Vienna artistic circles and even being recognised in the newspapers: against all expetations, the bourgeois press was steadily building up the reputation of Jakob Goldman's experimental Theatre which combined outrageous comedy, inexplicable drama, with ludicrous poetry and allicient song; writers, composers and designers clamoured for an opportunity to participate in the nouvelle vague, the New Wave, which eschewed traditional narrative and plot, but steadily gained audiences tired with the predictable and traditional alternatives to be found in long-established theatres and opera houses;the darkly handsome Tristan Tzara was dashing off poems, manifestos and plays (in which established actors and actresses were queueing up to audition); Dada was working full-time, designing sets and costumes, which his girl-friend Magda worked long hours to turn into scenery and bespoke clothing for the players and the number of actors desprate to be cast was fast outnumbering the number required; often, two complete productions were in rehearsel while a third was still being performed to packed houses; Hugo Ball and Emmy Hennings had arrived from Germany and both were working furiously to expand the repertoire; Dada had created a range of large stencils which enabled him to quickly - with support of several assistants and a number of street urchins acting as paid lookouts - create amazingly realistic paintings on walls and other blank spaces throughout the city (as well as eeny-weeny motifs which his followers tried to identify, from cryptic clues published in the newspapers) and all of these were anonymous, and a growing number of fans, as well as the city authorities, vied to be the first to find and admire, or obliterate what had been done overnight; only a small band knew the identity of the artist and they held the secret of his name to be sacred and only wild horses would induce any of them to divulge the identity of their leader and inspiration; the Emperor himself was not only the butt of many of thesre humorous and seditious creations, nut also an unexpected fan: Franz-Josef insisted that he be informed as soon as possible of any that appeared and that nothing be done to disfigiure or disguise (usually by the applicaion of consideranle amounts of whitewash) and he had taken to having a photographic record of each one, with himself included in the image, usually standing to one side, and he also insisted that before covering or removing the artwork, an official application be submtted to him for appproval - and being a very busy man, Head of State with Affairs of State to be considered and responded to, it was little wonder that such matters, not involving issues of Life and Death, tended to move further and further down the list, accompaned by his murmuring of mea culpa before quickly moving on to some more pressing matter; so it was that more and more of Dada's anonymous works survived and became accepted decorations of the City!
. . . . . a bass chord was struck, as the door of Number 9 opened and Hank Javid appeared, then Duke Hunt on lead guitar; a drum roll and from Number 11 came Jock Goven on rhythm and a moving contraption complete with full drum kit and Fluff Mumble battering his drums and cymbals more Animal-like than even Animal; while from Number 10, the backing singers: Andrea Woesome, Amber Bead, Karen Broadley and Halfpenny Mordaunt started "doo-wop-a-doo-wop" behind her as Theresa picked out one mic and kicked the rest over, did a high kick that exceeded Angela Rippon's on Morecamb and Wise all those years ago and then, snapping her fingers she belted it out:
"well, I'm a walk-on girl,
and I walk my own line,
if I feel clement,
it's in my own time;
no need for a dunaker like sleazy Greave,
he doesn't want this country to leave,
no need for a Boris, in our House
when I've got my very own Micky Mouse,
there's a real done deal
for MPs to approve
and whatever you feel,
you better get in my groove;
we want you if you're young.
or even if you're old,
or Jerry and the Peaceniks,
will kill Brexit cold,
so Tuesday is the day,
to sort the sheep from the goats,
and we can turn away
all those migrant boats;
it's the very last chance
to keep Britain for the Brits,
and every vote counts
so long as it Brexits!
tonight the Super Trouper
lights are gonna find me
Shining like the sun
Smiling, having fun
Feeling like I'm number one!"
and as the last notes faded and an entranced Press Corps watched like a mass of corpses, one voice rang out, that of Dan (Invisible Man McGann): "Prime Minister, does the End of The Pier Show show that you're about to leap before you've looked?" and Mrs Maybe-Maybenot shot him a withering look which on television screens the length and breadth of Britain looked like that of a dead woman walking into oblivion!
And as the faces above him swam and altered, he thought: "no, there can't be two dormice, there's something wrong – it's either me or him!" and he caught sight of Quentin's contraption, but the screen had changed, now it was like a television and showed the front door of The Bunker, with a microphone standing beside some sort of improvised lectern, and he realised what was about to happen: "Mad Hatter, can you hear me?" and the Mad Hatter, vaguely resembling Sir Wilfred, bent closer and said in a brumal sort of voice, soft as falling snow, yet crisp as frost: "it's all alright, Jim, Lad, you see, The Queen of Hearts has baked a huge Charlotte Russe and if the Nasties don't fall into line she's going to boycott their Winter Frost Fair on the Thames – did you hear, Jim, lad, the ice is now twelve feet thick and the locals are dancing with yokels from the backwoods round a blazing fire and everyone is throwing their passports and all other Identity Cards we've conned them into over the years – Bus Passes, Driving Licences, Credit and Debit Cards, Supermarket Loyalty Cards, anything with a Chip and a Pin or a Passport-type Photograph! now we won't have a scooby Who's Who! or What the Buy, or Where they Go! everyone in the country, whether home-grown or imported, will be completely anonymous, absolutely wiped clean, washed out, laundered better than anything the Mafia in the Banks and Hedge Funds and on Trading Floors can do; all reborn, able to go where they like, with whomever they want and the Government can't control them, nor can anyone else!" and as he danced around his voice grew to a crescendo! "no Referendums, no Elections, no Taxes, no Check-outs, no Money, no Traffic Wardens, no Police, no Border Controls, no Civil Servants, no NHS, no Army, no Navy, no Churches, no . . . . ." which was when Timothy screamed: "you can't abolish the NHS! for God's Sake man, that's a Bridge Too Far!" and they fell back, as if he was a Leper, come to infect them all, and then the screen caught his eye again and he stood stock-still and watched, and the others crowded round him and watched too, as the PM, Mrs Maybe-Maybenot came out of the most famous door in the World, and before the door closed, the most famous cat in the World slipped inside; the PM stood before the small lectern, now with a bouquet of microphones, and a girl crept into shot and attached another to the bouquet and crept out of shot again; the PM gazed earnestly around at the journalists, photographers, cameramen and women, from all over the world, indeed, the Known Universe, she nodded to a few, smiled, even gave a tiny wave of the hand, and took a breath, looked directly into the BBC camera and then . . . . .
Quentin Quibb was nursing a hangover, and still seemed to blotto to be capable of work, while Sir Wilfred Heath-Robinson fed him Alka-Seltzers, when Brexit Secretary of State Timothy Michaelmas-Daisy crept into The Bunker by the back door: "Happy New Year," he said and held out a bottle of Laphroaig and one of his mother's Dundee Cakes (from Harrods) which he had sneaked out in an S&M bag, thinking that would arouse no comment if he was glimpsed by the TV cameras lurking in the undergrowth, or Quentin's partner, Dan McGann, the Headline Man, whose ethics refused to permit him to decline a good story even out of loyalty to Quentin; but Dan was at home in bed even worse for the wear, Timothy the only one who seemed chipper at the start of what should worry him – the Meaningful Debate leading up to the Meaningful Defeat followed by the Meaningless Plan B – surely less likely to be remembered for it's good lines than Ed Wood's Plan 9 from Outer Space; indeed, Quentin seemed to have aged rapidly, from his pre-Festive-Season boyishness to a fair lookie-likie for Bela Lugosi! "make some coffee," said Sir Wilfred and Timothy happily obeyed, and it was when he was in the kitchen that he heard a faint knocking from the other side of the cellar door; hesitantly, he opened it and was rather surprised to find the Conservative Members of Parliament for the three Beddingshire Constituencies: North (Sir Pompus MacFarlane), Mid (Mr Digby Doubleday) and South (Ms Natalie Rhombus) looking like they had climbed over a slag-heap, so besooted were they: "hey, come in, would you like some coffee," asked Timothy, then adding: "how long have you been down there?" but other than to hand him their dirty coats, the three walked straight through to Sir Wilfred's office; it was only when Timothy, assisted by one of the Police Officers – who had had to put down his weapon to carry a tray – came in with the coffees, that Natalie recognised him: "I thought you were one of the minions, sorree," so he laughed with her, and now that she at least knew who he was, he again asked: "how long had you been down there?" but by this time Quentin had dimmed the lights and was setting up one of his strange contraptions, with numerous boxes, presumably different pieces of computer technology, connected by a spaghetti-junction of cables and wires, topped off by a wide-screen monitor that was blazoned with the words Chardonnay Presentations which meant nothing to Tim: "belt up in the back," quipped Quentin, and Timothy realised it was directed at him, so he sat down and watched and tried to listen as the remarkably agile Lugosi, darted around, drawing attention to This or That, or The Other, "which dare not speak it's name!" the gist of the Presentation was that a) the PM's Chequers Proposal – unchanged since she had withdrawn it before Christmas and delayed the rest of the Meaningful Debate and Meaningful Vote, would be defeated; b) would it be a total rout, or just a slight rout; c) what can Plan B possibly be? and this was the crux of it: "we have to go outside the box," said Quentin "and Sir Wilfred will explain, he's the Master of the Political Syllogism!" at which Sir Wilfred put on his reading glasses, put down his notes and gazed myopically at them: "okay, bottom line – the PM is going to ask the question: 'does anyone want a Hard Border between Northern Ireland and the Republic?' chorus of 'Noes!" so she then says: 'I have spoken with the Taoiseach, Mr Leo Varadkar and we have agreed a Plebiscite on the Unity of Ireland, in which electors in the whole Island will vote, so that, to quote Robert Emmett: "Ireland long a Province May be a Nation once again!" so let us do the decent thing and let his epitaph be at long last, written!"' and Sir Wilfred said: "cries of 'No Surrender!' from the Orangemen, deafening cheers from the Opposition, the PM announces that the Referendum will be held next week, as will a Second Referendum on Scottish Independence and then a second EU Referendum, a so-called People's Vote on her Proposal the week after – but what she doesn't tell them is that Irish Citizens will, like all other EU Citizens, be unable to vote in either the Brexit Referendum or UK General Elections which follow – think of it, most of them vote Labour! and if the Scottish Referendum produces a majority for Independence, with one sweep, we guarantee a Tory Majority in England and Wales for the next 100 years! and even if it goes against, with Roxy Davidova rallying the Unionist Troops, we'll have Great Britain under our party for generations!" and Timothy fell over backwards, lay on the floor, trying to focus on the anxious faces staring down at him, but could see only stars – delirious, siderosous? he felt that he must have slipped into another, parallel, Universe, in which Sir Wilfred was the Mad Hatter, Quentin, the Dormouse, Sir Pompus, the Cheshire Cat, Doubleday, the White Rabbit, Miss Rhombus, the Queen of Hearts and himself, the Dormouse! through the Looking Glass or down a Rabbit Hole into Wonderland, it made no odds – everyone was Stark, Staring, Mad!
"The problem is," said (Sir) Faslane MacFarlane MSP, in the most secluded corner of the upper room in The Wee Windaes restaurant, on Edinburgh's Royal Mile, "the sausage-dog, this, whatsisname, Hector! if he's allowed to give evidence it could result in the vindication of these," he took a sip of coffee and glared at Duncan Doubleday, Chief Constable of Police Scotland and Martin Elginbrod, the most successfully venal bent lawyer in the city, "three snoopers! who's representing them?" and Elginbrod examined the menu while Doubleday tapped at his phone, before saying: "it's Egbert Shadbolt, he lives in Morningside too and his wife's also a member of the Neighbourhood Snoopers, he's giving his services free, gratis and for nothing!" and MacFarlane muttered "bugger me backwards," while Elginbrod's face blanched, making him look more aglopened than his partners in crime had seen before: "he's the Clarence Darrow of Embra, he'll push for disclosure of what the Snoopers saw!" and MacFarlane's face was like thunder: "surely that's not permitted? it's the fact that they were Snooping into other people's private residences," and Elginbrod nodded, "mine," and MacFarlane continued: "but it's their actions that are on trial. not what they saw!" and Doubleday shook his head: "aye, but he'll argue that it's what they saw prompted them to call the rozzers, if only they hadn't phoned!" and MacFarlane said: "if only you'd pulled down the blind before doing what they saw – okay, Duncan, you're the one with the size 13 boots, beat for the walking of, so nip into the Call Centre and write up a call to the cops from Martin as coming in before the one from the snoopers, say he noticed them watching him and phoned in and it's his call the cops were responding to!" but Duncan shook his head: "it's all digitised and each day's records are uploaded to the Central Computer and one, I wouldn't have any good excuse to go in there, and two, I wouldn't know how to do it anyway!" so MacFarlane turned to Elginbrod: "okay, Martin, it's down to you – it's your blooper, you're the one who got us into this mess and you're going to have to get us out of it," and the lawyer looked askance at him and hissed: "how?" so MacFarlane smiled grimly: "there's a Wormhole in your garden shed, isn't there?" and the other nodded, warily; "okay, go into it tonight and access the wormhole, go back to before the Snoopers made their call and phone the Call Centre to report Smookeekers up on Braid Hill, watching you; that'll do the trick nicely, and then we're home and dry!" but Elginbrod blustered: "how do I work out the time?" but was shut off by MacFarlane: "make a guesstimate, Martin, isn't that how you lawyers earn a crust? jist dae it!" and in Drumchapel, Glasgow, the 13-year-old Economic Migrant took off his headphones and made a call from a disposable mobile phone: "Goldy, it's me, the Target is going to go into a Wormhole in it's Garden Shed this evening, and travel back to yesterday evening and place an earlier call complaining about Smookeekers, to get that logged into your system before the ladies make theirs," and without any small-talk he switched off; the bug Budge had attached to the Brief's coat as they squeezed past each other on the busy Royal Mile was worth the £50 he now transferred to his Embra pal's account!
Budge reflected that the palimony he might have to pay at the behest of his burd could easily leak the reserves from his cryptodepression, "oh, man, this life's turning intae a fuckin subcreation in ma heid an there's no a fuckin thing ah kin dae aboot it!" but the voice of the Economic Migrant in his head, from the little ear-bud receiver was crystal clear and he knew the images his Weegie Boss was watching, from the button-hole camera would be pin-sharp, was calm: "here he comes, pal, wearing a crombie, with a tartan scarf, bare headed as to both hat and hair, got him?" and Budge moved to close the distance, the bug in his hand and, as the crowd pushed them together, just the slight jostle and a grunt and he was striding away without looking back: "cool one, Budge, that's £50 going into your account after I tell the client," and Budge decided that a pint was affordable now.
Edinburgh Daily Chronicle
Three Neighbourhood Watchers Nabbed For Watching!
Worthy of Taggart and Still Game!
Another Cock-Up by Police Scotland!
Three members of Morningside Neighbourhood Watch who decided to carry out 'Pro-Active' rather than 'Passive' Watching for the protection of their community have been arrested on charges under a 12th Century Offence of Smookeeking! while previously, Neighbourhood Watchers tended to do their Watching from the comfort and safety of their own homes, usually behind net curtains, after several incidents of encroaching, or attempted encroaching on their properties, these fearless and courageous women, concerned about the protection of their own families amd all the others who come within their 'Neighbourhood' decided to view their Patch, from the wilds of The Braid Hills after dark, when who knows what creatures might be slithering or creeping through the undergrowth; spotting something suspicious – which they freely admit could be open to a variety of interpretations – they called to the responsible authority for investigating such things, Police Scotland, Morningside Station, where the Senior Officer is Superintendent John Bruse; the Call Centre despatched one car, with two constables, while alerting another two cars to stand-by in case the might be required; at this point the Police did not know who or how many might be involved in the Neighbourhood Watch Operation Thomasina! in due course and within a very creditable five minutes, PCs Wullie Ord and Tommy Inary, arrived on the scene and set off to speak with the Neighbourhood Watch volunteers, to seek further information which had not been given to them by the Call-Centre – but the ladies, accompanied by a sausage dog, attempted to flee the scene; this was the beginning of the mind-boggling Comedy of Errors! the two officers – no malingerers them – were nippy on their toes and quickly overtook the ladies and apprehended them; on instruction from the Call Centre, they arrested the three women under the archaic law prohibiting smookeeking and took them, together with the dog, to the Police Station in the Grassmarket where they were charged with being, in the colloquial, Peeping Thomasinas; the three, detained overnight to appear at the Sheriff Court this morning are: Nancy Rathbone, the Morningside Squiggler for the Edinburgh Evening Dispatch, Madame Madeleine Parmentier, Medium and Clairvoyant and Mrs Janet Askew-Pemberton, widow of the former Director o the Royal Bank of Scotland whose hefty golden handshake was quickly invested in Monifieth House purchased and registered in his wife's name; Sergeant Goldy Brevity, long-time vexillary of the Grassmarket and Cowgate Community Policing Hub and now Inspector in Charge of Morningside and Braid Hills Community Policing Centre, which has it's own Detention Block, Stables and Kennels as well as an excellent Canteen tod this reporter that he sausage-dog Hector has been accommodated in the Kennels and is regarded as a possible Witness for the Defence!
Meanderins oan the rurban Braid Hills owerlookin Morningside
by Nancy Rathbone
"May ah, Mrs Askew-Pemberton?" ah sed an reached fer ma binoculars; "och, jist cry me Jinty," sed she, handin them ower, so ah cood tak anither bogle at the bane o ma existence, Martin Elginbrod and whahoomsoever wis gien him the BJ, as Madeleine had called it: "the effin shitface bocht up lots o feus in Morningside, includin mine, an when Tommy Sheridan was pushin thru the Abolition o Feus in 2000, Elginbrod worked a flanker an somehoooranuther, goat exceptions tae the Abolition for aw the properties wha's feus he'd purchased, under the name o an a variety o so-called Charities, ye've probly nevver heard o The Morningside Mithers and Toddlers Milk Charity, or The Braid Hills Conservation and Children's Play Areas Foundation, an The Jordan Burn Early Years Bathing Society, tae say nuthin o The Holy Corner Salvation Memorial Fund an the demotic Public subscription Campaign to Raise a Statue of Sir Parlane MacFarlane on Bruntsfield Links, weell they're aw Fronts whit wis the registered Feu Superiors an because o their Charitable Status were exempted fi the Abolition and as soon as the Bill wis passed by the Scottish Parliament, me an hunners o ither Feu Vassals received letters fi lawyers acting for the Charities – as in Martin Elginbrod, Solicitors – detailing hoo much the annual payments wis bein retrospectively increased tae thoosans o poonds, in sum cases hunners o thoosans, an advisin that the only wey we cood avoid this wis tae sell oor hooses, but that 'unfortunately' because the arrears wud be passed oan tae whaever bocht fi us, the properties wis noo, officially, Blighted! but as a gesture o goodwill, the Charities wis prepared tae buy them aff us, at a knock-down price; ah ken sum folk soucht their ain legal advice but ye ken hoo hard it is tae get ane solicitor tae tak action agenst anither, so for fear the valuation micht drap even further, a lot o them accepted whit wis offered; ah wis lucky, ma nephew is cried Felix Rosenstiel an he's Chief Clerk at ane o the few honest solicitors in Embra an he managed tae get me a meetin wi a Judge o the Coort o Seshun, Lord Jock Linkumdoddie, wha wis very interested in ma case an sed an investigation into Elginbrod wis currently underway, but it hud tae be aw Hush-Hush, but Felix wrote back on ma behalf an telt Elginbrod tae get stuffed – in mair proper legal langwidge an he drapped the threats but it took a lang while an ah wis worrit sick, but ah wis only lucky that Felix is ma sister's laddie, otherwise ma goose wud hae bin cooked!" an then the person wha's heid ah thocht wis a sporran stood up an Madeleine wis richt enough, it wis a wee laddie, wha coodny hae been above ten yeer auld; ah handed the binoculars tae Madeleine an suggested we call the polis: "ye'll be lucky," said Jinty: "the Chief Constable, Duncan Doubleday is in cahoots wi him, an so's that MSP wha chairs the Policing and Security Committee in the Scottish Parliament, ye'll ken him, Sir Faslane MacFarlane – oh he dusnae use the Sir bit noo, but ah ken fi some o Iver's papers ah fund in the loft – oh, ah cannae tell ye whit aw else a fund, it'd mak yer hair staun oan end – that he still owns vast estates in the North West an a couple o Islands, and earns a packet, though he wears a cloth bunnet an talks like he's the reincarnation o John MacLean!" and Madeleine chipped in: "and from what Duncan Doubleday has told me," which made Jinty look queerly at her, obviously wondering how on earth Madeleine could possibly be on intimate acquaintanceship with the Chief Constable, "he and Elginbrod and MacFarlane are related, cousins I think, and they are in some kind of Brotherhood, a bit like the Masons, called The Ring of Gold!" and "aha!" cried Jinty, that's it, The Ring of Gold! my Iver was the Treasurer, there's a hale filin cabinet stuffed fu' o bank statements an tax returns an membership lists, bit ah coodny mak heid nor tail o it, ah thocht it wis a Boolin Club or suchlike, they only hud a few hunner in the bank, bit fae whit ye'se huv sed, those'll be the public accoonts, the richt anes'll be hidden somewhaur else," then Madeleine said: "we'll I'm doing something," and took out her phone and in a few minutes had told the Police Call-Handler that she believed a child was at imminent risk of sexual assault and shortly after we heard the siren and saw the flashing lights of a police car as it pulled up in the street below, opposite Elginbrod's hoose; but the twa officers stertit running backassforwards up the hill towards us, hauncuffs at the ready an calling on their radios for back-up, sae we scarpered, pronto!
(Editor's Note: our Morningside Correspondent, Miss Nancy Rathbone, together with Madame Madeleine de Parmentier and Mrs Janet Askew-Pemberton, all claiming to be residents of Morningside, was arrested by Police Scotland yesterday and charged with the ancient offence of Smookeeking – which, for our English readers, means Night Peeping, or invading the privacy of others by watching through windows from the shadows! this is a serious offence and until such time as Miss Rathbone and her accomplices can prove their innocence, this newspaper will not be publishing any more of her contributions; we apologise unreservedly to those innocent residents whose privacy was invaded by these three snooping women and trust that when they are found guilty in a Court of Law they will be punished with the full severity which their crimes warrant; the offence of Smookeeking carries a maximum sentence of Transportation for Life to the Scottish Colony of Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, Canada – signed on behalf of the Publishers by Praline MacFarlane, Editor-in Chief)
Still Ramblin up-hill an doon-dale Aroonaboot Morningside
by Nancy Rathbone
Mrs Askew-Pemberton hud tooken a guid grasp o the binoculars an fair wrested them fi Madeleine an quickly found the object of our comments; she gasped: "that's that bastardin swellheid Elginbrod – he's the ane wha led Iver astray – well, no strictly troo, ah suspect he wis aye thon wey inclined, but Elginbrod egged him oan!" it was a surprise when she dropped her clipped Pan Loaf voice and reverted tae the tongue o her roots: Burdiehoose! she hud stertit an noo she continued: "he wis a Slavi," she said, "am urny racist, it's whit memburs o the Rooshan Orthodontix Church ca' theirsels, his full name wis Ivan Erminovitch Rostropovitch, which wis a moothful fer abdy else, sae when he wis Naturally-sized he chinged it tae sumpn mair ordinary, Iver Novello Pemberton, an when we goat wedded he added ma name, Askew and gied it a hyphen, as he sed: 'whit cood be mair ordinary and British a name than Askew-Pemberton?' an it helped him get his fit oan the ledder at the Royal, weel that an tellin abdy that he'd been tae Gordanstoon wi Prince Cherlie! oh he cood spin yarns like a Harris Tweed weaver, but he met his match wi that Elginbrod; noo therr's a sleazy fucker if ye want ane; efter he keeled ower – an bye the wey, it wis in bed, like it sed in the peppers, bit no wur merrit bed an no wi me – ah used tae be a midwife at Elsie Inglis an a still hae freens in the NHS an a goat telt he wis in bed wi sum fifteen-year-auld buoy, whae wis dressed as a schill-gurl an had his will up Iver's bum and when he hud the hert attack, his mussels gaed intae spasm so the para-medics coodny pull the buoy oot, an they hud tae pit the baith o thum on ane stretcher an tak thum tae A&E so the docs cood dae it; an ah ken fur a fack thon Elginbrod fund oot Iver's predisposition and used that tae reel him in, an it wis Elginbrod wha persuadit Iver tae invest millions o the Bank's money into dodgy schemes, so when the crash came it wis like a car-smash fur Iver, his hale life went doon the tubes; oh we goat the hoose wi his severince pey, but he kept runnin efter Elginbrod an a woodnae be surprised if there wis drugs tae – lik smack an crack an skunk an goad kens whit else – it wis thae an shaggin we buoys wot kilt 'im bit he wis deid afore that, an Elginbrod wis just clearin oot the garbage; it dusnae tak a pardigm shift o viewpoint tae come up wi an alternative tae the Polis Report tae the Fiscal that sed it wis a combined hert attack an stroke brought on by unusual exertion, unusual ma erse! av proof that he wis shaggin an bein shagged by young kids several times a week an twice on Sundays, they sed nae drugs in his system but he wis snorklin white powder for ten or fifteen years afore, nah! it's like yer chance o findin a virgin in a whoore-hoose oan Hogmanay! zero-pint-zero!"
Tae be continued agen
Rambles Aroonaboot Morningside an The Braid Hills
by Nancy Rathbone
Weel, in response tae requests fi readers, wha fondly recalled last year's eclectic series o Walks Aroonaboot Morningside, me an ma trusty wee freen, Hector the Sausage Dug, hae embarked oan a further range o Rambles an this week's taks us intae The Braid Hills; noo, no mony fowk ken that the origin o the name Braid isnae frae a use o the Scotch pronunciation o the wurd broad as braid, bit rather fi Henri de Brad, a Norman wha wis Sheriff o Embra in the 12th century an owned an estate oan the lower slopes an jist as de Brus was respelt Bruce, so de Brad cam aboot tae be Braid so, as it happens, tho they urny as high as the nearby Pentlands, the Braid Hills offer sum fine views oot tae the Forth an Fife, ye micht catch sight o pufflings makin fer the Isle o May or The Bass Rock but efter derk, an possessed wi ma nicht-sicht binoculars, they huv loats o oppertunity tae see nature close up; weel, oan ma walk yestern nicht, me an Hector wis accompanied by Madame de Parmentier (she's no goat a dug bit she'll whiles tak a shottie wi Hector's lead) and Mrs Askew-Pemberton (wha's weel kent in Morningside oan accoont o her late husband Iver bein a Director o the Royal Bank when it crashed an wis biled oot by Gordon Broon, PM at the time - wi his golden haunshake, the Askew-Pemberton's wis able tae buy Monifieth Hoose in ane o the best streets in Morningside; ah dinny begrudge them, they wis shunned by aw the RBS customers in Embra but bein as hoo ah've aye been wi the Bank o Scotland, ah wisnae personally affected an Madeleine keeps her dosh in a pillowcase in her attic, tho it's unlikely the Revenue will come efter her, some o her clients bein top names in the city!, so we set aff efter dusk, each o us hain a wee knapsack wi the essentials; ah'll no tak up space wi directions o oor ramble, the attached map shows the route we took an is self explanatory: efter a bit o a hike, an feelin a wee bittie weyworn, we reached a grassy knoll whaur we set wursels doon fer a fag an a nip an surveyed the city, wi lichts springin intae life aw ower, it wis a bonny sicht; then ah pulled oot ma binoculars an swept the scene, until somethin close by took ma attention – ah kent the hoose an ah kent wha bides in it: that evil, schemin, spongin, oops, ah almost swore in print, which is sumthin ah never dae, bit sich wis ma intense dislike oh the maun that ah peered intae his lit up rooms an eventually spotted him: Martin Elginbrod QC WS OBE! wha's erse he licked tae get that last yin ah cannae say, but it must've bin a richt royal ane! but there the swellheid wis, as large as life staunin in the windae an starin richt at me – ah nearly frapped ma binoculars but the sicht wis sae unnexpectit that ah kept a ticht haud on them an focussed till he wis pin sharp: he wis neckit! well, as much as ah cood see, he seemed tae hae a muckle sporran hung in front o his privates, an wis pleyin wi it, so ah haunded the binoculars tae Madeleine an askit her tae hae a keek; she let oot a whustle, which surprised me, ah didny think wimmin cood whustle, ah ken ah cannae, an then she said: "he's gettin a BJ," which baffled me, so she explained an ah wis disgusted: "wha'd want a thing like that in their gub?" ah askit her an she laughed: "oh, well, not me for sure, but I'm a Dominatrix and submit to no man, but many women take it, even if they don't like it, and of course gay men, submissives, or some guys switch," and Mrs Askew-Pemberton coughed, and said: "excuse me, but I couldn't help overhearing, I hope you don't think me nosey, but I think I know what you meant by BJ – my husband spent most of his life In The Cupboard, and I don't mean as a Bank Manager," an she gied a nervous wee laugh, "it was only after he died that I found out about his Secret Life;" hur sentences wis peppered wi italics an pregnant pauses but ah thocht tae masel: "methinx hur an me's oan commin grund as regerds the Weasel Shagger!"
To Be Continued
Burds in ma Winter Gairden
by Nancy Rathbone
Them as kens me, wull be aware o the situation o ma back gairden: tho ah bide in a wee cul-de-sac, wur hooses huv a handy lane aff the main road that accesses wur back gairdens an mine dusnae hae a gate since the day ma summerhoos wis delivered an the bhoys whit brocht it hud tae remove the gate tae get it in; well, efter ah gied them baith coffee an even a tip when they'd finished the wurk, the cheeky buggers didnae pit the gate back an left it in the lane, frae whaur it disappeared – stolen, is the wurd that best describes it! onyhoo an hooanever, the summerhoos is ma latebra, or retreat, an it's whaur a dae ma richtin durin the dey, oan ma wee Ollivetti portable, bein as hoo there's nae electricity in it an naebdy's bin minded tae gie me a present o a portable laptop, huh! so bye-an-bye ah took up watchin nature frae ma hide an developed an interest in burd-watchin: noo, but am urny a swellheid! am nae itcher, ah cannae name aw the burds that visit ma gairden, apairt frae corbies, and blackburds, an robins an sichlike, but nanetheless, ah fair enjoy ma hairmless pursuit an speshully in winter, ah hae burd-feederrs hingin frae the branches o ma trees tae attract me feathered freens; noo, a couple o nichts ago, there ah wis, in ma summerhoos wi a flask o hot toddy an some shortie, fur ma usual nicht-cap afore prayers an bed, when a noo an unexpectit burd entered: it wis thon wee dumpy burd wha works in the Morningside Library and she wis accompanied by that skinny lad wha works in the Dominion Cinema! imagine ma surprise as they stertit tae mak use o ane o ma benches fur their winchin! noo, ah ken Glesca fowk describe us Edinbuggers as wearin fur coats an nae knickers, but imagine ma surprise when this burd in question lifts up her skirt tae reveal that she wis wearin nae knickers – in sub zero temperatures! she probably didnae huv aa semmit oan tae – even wi'oot ma nicht-sicht binoculars ah cood see her big bum gleamin bricht in the moonlicht, a pair o white buttocks, until the laddie goat in the wey an aw ah cood espy wis his, cos he drapt his breeks roon his ankles, took ahaud o her big-moonlik bumcheeks an got stertit! ah wis that astonished, ah gulped doon a hale mugfu' o ma toddy an near choked! bein a loyal member o the Neebourhood Watch, ah kept my eyes – an ma binoculars – glued tae them, but thankfully it didnae tak lang fur him tae feenish his bizness, efter which they sat cuddled thegither oan ma bench an shared a fag, they kissed a bit an his hauns were up her jumper fur a while, an then the burd looked at her watch an said sumthin unprintable – this is a femly pepper an the editor dusnae tolerate smut – an she took oot her phone an ah cood hear her say, no that ah wis deliberately eavesdrappin, mind: "aye, mammy, ah've jist feenished work, oo've bin herd at it oan the stock-takin but am headin hame noo, ah'll catch the bus in five meenits," the brazen hussy has sum barefaced cheek tae lie tae hur mither like thon – it made me appreciate the fact that ah've nae weans o ma ain, an no maun tae – the sicht o their couplin wis near enough tae mak a decent, God-fearing boady boulk an if thon's whit it taks tae get babbs am glad tae be an ould maid; bit efter they left ah noticed ma next door neebour, Madame Madeleine de Parmentier pittin oot her milk boattle, sae ah called oot tae hur, an she cam roon tae ma gairden an jined me in the summerhoos an we shared sum o the Laphroaig ah keep there fur emergencies; noo, she's quite fastidious an she asked me fur a oshibori – a thocht she wis wantin tae borry ma secateurs or strimmer, but it wis a damp cloth tae wipe her hauns afore takkin some o ma sultana cake, she must come intae contact wi a lot o boadily fluids, but ah dinnae want tae think whaur they much come fi; so a gied her the wee face-cloth ah use tae wipe awa the condensation on the inside o the windaes, an that seemed fine by hur – well, ah telt her whit ah'd inadvertently been exposed tae an she commiserated, confiding that the doonside o her profession is that she hus tae be exposed tae the sicht o awfy mony strange men's nekkit boadies – but ah think she wis referrin tae her day joab as a Pathologist, rether than her nicht-time sideline as a Dominatrix, though ah suppose that must hae it's fair share o unpleasant sichts, like thon Chief Constable, the abominable Duncan Doubleday; she did sey that when they're lyin oan their backs, her still livin customers, no the deid anes, maist men's erect penises look like a kin o miniature Leanin Too'er o Pisa or thae wee caterpillars that raise their front hauf tae reach a leaf; she said "it's a wonder that the population keeps growing, if the ones I see are representative of the rest," an wi thon profound thocht in wur minds tae ponder, we said guidnicht and went intae wur ain hooses; ah did ma nightly ablutions an pit oan ma noo nichtie, an knelt by ma bed as ah've dun ever since ah wiz a wee chit o a lassie, but that nicht ah gied thanks tae the lord that ma boadie hus never hud tae mak contact wi either the Leanin Too'er o Pisa, or a hairy caterpillar, an wi that, pit oot ma licht an had the soondest sleep ah've hud fur a lang time; ah wonder if that burd's been in ma gairden afore wi that particular cock-robin, or ithers – she seemed tae ken her wey aboot it wi ower much familiarity, either she possesses prescience or experience – ah'll keep watch ower the next few nichts, just in case!
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