He had the hump, did our Dave, for he was an ungulate of the dromedary variety and not a bachtrian. Having abandoned his master in the car park of the Doon Bingo & Social Club the previous evening in search of the finest quality golden brown, unfortunately for him he had been unable to score. Now hunched in the doorway of a 24 hour convenience store, the sweat poured from him like mealy mouthed platitudes from a politician, for it too was indigestible.
Meanwhile back at Burwood Towers, the weather forecast was not promising. A warm front of hot fetid breath bubbling up from the south, a spectacle of tumescence worthy of the burgeoning ego of Colonel Gaddafi, was about to collide with a cold front of wet libdem wobbles from the west. Scorchio it was not, and indeed, all Hell could break loose at any moment. The Lord Of The Manor and famous interstellar explorer The Hon. Rogers Wintington-Smythe MP, DSO & BOC awoke asleepily from his torpid slumbers, overflowed out of bed and, be-trousered, shambling stumbled to the water closet. "Phrrrrrrmmph" went the exhuming of last night's Octopi Vindaloo, falling away like a tropical mudslide, followed, but luckily for him not followed through with, a mighty "Blooooooooooooooooorch". "Feck, for I needed that" said Rogers. Now four pounds lighter, our hero lurched back across the upper landing, staggered down the stairs and walked on down the hall. He went into the room where his sister lived, and...then he....paid a visit to his brother, and then he...He walked on down the hall, and...oh no, hang on a minute, let me turn that cd off.
After watching blearily and soon after leerily the ample heaving bosom of Mrs Shreeves displacing many litres of air while she toiled over M'lud's breakfast of six mugs of disgustingly sweet tea to chase down three Smoked Kippers with a side of order of "I'll be back by Tuesday". followed by seven slices of toast topped with crushed beetle and marmite marmalade, Rogers plucked betwixt his fagstained fingers enough wiry hair from his ear lobes to knit one and two fifths mittens. They don't wash too well though.
Some time later, after a little snooze and much farting, Rogers took his morning constitutional on the Upper Lawn, the scene of many a daydream, some still sticky. On the horizon our hero could vaguely discern the ensuing battle between the hot fetid breath and the cold wet wobbles. It did not look at all pleasant. "Therebe strange portents I wouldn't wonder" he muttered to himself through a still lingering smog of stale beer and curry. "Blooorch", a scratchit gassy man he was that morn.
At that moment, Clegg, the fawning obsequious retainer appeared in the distance on the Lower Lawn, a shotgun casually slung over his round wimpy shoulders. Shoulders that looked like they could bear no responsibility at all. "Ah, m'lud" he hollered, although it would be hard to differentiate his shouting from his usual weedy tones, "Therebe some sort of monster trying to get into the grounds." "What sort of monster? If it's edible I'll 'ave it fur me tea!" Bellowed His Lardship. "I dunno" wimpered Clegg "...but judging from it's shifty look and the track marks on its legs, I'd say it was no good for the eating." "Better off it then Cleggy, ya fuckwit, but don't lay a finger on it 'til I get there." Now his gander was goosed by the imminent pleasures of filling something, anything, with plentiful piles of lead shot, Rogers charged back to the house and pulled out a huge blunderbuss of a shotgun from the pile of small arms under the kitchen table. "You can never be too careful these days" he used to say, for "...you never know what useless bunch of workshy gross so-called relatives might be visiting next hoping to get in the will."
Eyes aflame with bloodlust, the twenty three stones of His Lardship thundered across the Upper Lawn, down the many steps to the Lower Lawn and was soon beside his loathed retainer Clegg, a man as thick in the head as an elephant's leg. "Clegg" Rogers wheezed, coagulating greasy sweat dripping lumpily off the end of his garrulous nose "..where's the prey then, ya sack'o'shit?" "Over there m'lud" whined the sap, pointing to a clearly distressed dromedary. "Dave, is that you?" said Rogers, recognising the heroin addled mess that was his steed of choice back in those heady days of exploration and exploitation....mmmm the exploitation, oh the joy.....
Next...a camel in rehab is not a pretty sight, the England cricket team astound the nation with a routine and very dull victory, seven beans make five, Chili Paneer and Kadai Aloo Baingan is a dinner from heaven.
In memory of that marvellous English eccentric Viv Stanshall
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