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As a moderate man, little annoys me or arouses my displeasure.
However… to say that I don’t much care for either yobbos or soccer would be a quiet way of pinpointing the two things that are most likely to make me not so quietly burst a blood vessel. When both phenomena are thrust upon us together – and for a lengthy period when you can neither open a newspaper nor turn on a television without being assaulted by the sight of yobbos either playing the damn game or, even worse, talking about it, then you have a perfect representation of this Brigadier’s worst nightmare. What is even more disturbing is when people you would usually consider to be normal start adopting yobbo tendencies to make the real yobbos feel at ease. What could be more sickening than our Prime Minister dignifying this ghastly festival by flying two England flags from his official car - or the Leader of the Opposition (an Old Etonian no less) turning up at the yobbiest of yobbo parties hosted by the Beckhams.
Add to this scenario, the fact that our feisty nineteen-year-old granddaughter Jessica is billeted with us at ‘The Barracks’ having spent her gap year doing voluntary work in Rio de Janeiro – and you’ll have an idea of how uncomfortable life has become for yours sincerely.
Even my dear wife Arabella sees me as a bit of a ‘stick in the mud’ and, the other evening, to make my discomfort complete, she helped Jessica paint the St. George’s flag on her face. This was in preparation for Jessica being allowed to take our old bone-rattling family Bentley down to a Mojacar beach-bar to watch England play Sweden on a giant screen in front of a seething mass of half-naked British hooligans. I was fortunately spared the indignity after the match of watching Jessica parade the car along the promenade with an entire ‘look-alike’ cast of Eastenders draped from its windows and running boards.
At the time of going to press, it seems that both Spain and England will be going into the last stages of the competition and of course the longer either or both stay in it the more extreme and unpleasant the behaviour along the Carboneras to Garrucha seafront will become. Let us just pray that we are not heading for an England versus Spain final, which could produce a devastation not seen since the invasion of the Moors!
Seven Veils
Talking of which we have just lived through Mierda del Mar’s annual Moors and Christians fiesta. This involves one day of celebrating the arrival of the Moors and a second day of greater celebration as the Christians unceremoniously kick them out. It is quite a spectacle and it seems as though at least half the town dress up as Moors or Christians and take part in the various re-enactments of this part of Mierda’s history. This year was given added interest when Arabella made an accidental appearance towards the end of the celebrations as a member of the Grand Vizier’s harem.
It’s difficult to explain quite how it happened but I’m sure that if she hadn’t changed out of her gardening clothes into something she considered more suitable, and she hadn’t also been quite so near the ‘Tio Grossero’ sangria fountain, the family would have been spared a lot of embarrassment. As it was, she was thrust into a wagon with the other members of the harem and was about to be paraded through the streets to be ceremonially ‘scorned’ by town officials, townspeople and the usual collection of unwashed tourists. Fortunately, at this stage, the Grand Vizier himself – played by Jesus, the male half of our live-in couple at ‘The Barracks’- stepped in to attempt her release. This involved some awkward ad-libbing between him and the Archbishop of Mierda del Mar who also happened to be known to us as one of the Guardia officers who had been debagged a couple of weeks ago by Tizzie and Tottie, our normally docile Great Danes. Finally, with the promise of further invitations to ‘The Barracks’ for a few malt whisky sundowners, Arabella was returned to us with very little harm done.
Barbed Wire
In the last issue, you may remember I promised to keep you informed about the correspondence that my younger brother Harry had initiated with the ex-Education Secretary Ruth Kelly who had been revealed as a self-flagellating member of Opus Dei. As a fellow believer in corporal mortification he was disappointed - not to say even slightly offended – to be denied the courtesy of a reply.
The particular devices she uses to keep her faith up to scratch are still therefore somewhat of a mystery. However, my old chum Tarquin, who knows most of the civil servants in the Education Department, tells me that they favour a theory that when she was at her dynamic debating best, a pair of barbed wire knickers were never far from the despatch box.
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