Liz has been very amused by the recent press speculation that she and Camilla don’t
get on. What the press does not know is that Liz and Camilla are the best of friends,
and actively seek out each other’s company. They have been meeting at least once
a week for a night out at the ‘Festering Ferret’ just outside Staines for a number
of years, and like to (metaphorically) let their hair down on these occasions.
I am often invited along, partly as advisor, but also as chaperone lest things get
out of hand.
Liz is usually attired in a headscarf and dark glasses, resembling a latter day Greta
Garbo, and, of course, and is never recognised. Who, after all, would expect to see
the reigning monarch sitting in the snug of a suburban public house on a Wednesday
evening, puffing on a Benson and Hedges, and quaffing from a pint of Guiness?
They were in fine form recently, acting out the roles so inaccurately given to them
by the Daily Mail. “Oi, you slag”, said Liz, (imagine a slightly softer Bob Hoskins
voice), “you ain’t good enough for my Charley, and you won’t never be.” Camilla,
who, as I have mentioned before, tends to immaturity, tries to keep a straight face
as she replies, “Shut it, you cow”, (not such a good mimic, I fear, imagine 1930’s
film attempts at cockney), “or I’ll slice the bleeding umbilical cord now”. Unfortunately,
she finds this so funny that she loses control, and guffaws uproariously (a sound
that covers 5 octaves), and sprays rum and peppermint cordial out of her nostrils.
I warn her not to attract too much attention to herself. It would be awful if the
public and the press were to find out about these meetings. The publican has been
very kind to us over the years, in providing anonymity, and it would be unfair to
him to remove this source of income, not to mention the other customers who would
desert should their privacy be threatened – I glance round at a well known bishop
who had been enjoying a vodka and cocaine cocktail with his young companion, and
think I detect a worried frown appear briefly.
Liz is far better at keeping a straight face. She has had years of practice, and
is notorious for giving others the giggles. I remember the time that she called the
president of Portugal ‘an ugly twat’ when being introduced to him. I barely managed
to maintain my dignity, but poor Philip turned purple, wet himself, and had to withdraw.
The great thing is that these utterances are so unexpected that the recipient and
others within earshot always assume that they have misheard.
“Anyway, darling”, Liz continues, “I can’t possibly come to the wedding – I don’t
have a thing to wear.”
Liz: "Eeeh! I've pissed meself!"
Friday, March 18, 2005 1:08:00 PM
Vicus Scurra said...
Thanks, me duck, I am afraid that you will have to explain that reference to my North
American readers (a Mrs Trellis of North Wisconsin).
Friday, March 18, 2005 1:22:00 PM
Mark Gamon said...
lord. That Trellis woman puts herself about a bit, don' she?
Friday, March 18, 2005 8:49:00 PM
I have offered Liz the use of the jeweled waders with matching gown gloves and tiara,
and was prepared to send them along. Some bitch at customs has seen fit to confiscate
them, something about interests of National Security or some such rubbish. Vicus,
is there anything you and your vast influence can do to remedy the situation?
Friday, March 18, 2005 9:59:00 PM
that liz woman wanted to borrow my tiara - not bloody likely. don't you have to pay
the odd bob towards her nic-nacs ?
Friday, March 18, 2005 11:29:00 PM
Mystic mog said...
Luv it, luv it,luv it - best I've read since Scary - will read back with interest
- thanks for the guffaw
Saturday, March 19, 2005 12:23:00 AM
Vicus Scurra said...
You see, Broomhilda, Liz has got it into her head that your 4*gt grandpappy dissed
hers, and she bears that sort of grudge. You will probably read in the weekend newspapers
about some poor cretin from Hampshire who thought (and he is alone in this) that
it would be funny to mock the royal family, and was marched off to the Tower.
There is little that any of us, even her closest pals, can do to influence her when
she gets an idea into her head. Fortunately, there seem to be very few of those.
I try to reason with her, but to no avail, and need to be careful. Anne answered
her back once, and was promptly married off to my idiot cousin Mark.
Saturday, March 19, 2005 1:28:00 AM
Again with grampy - the family beheaded the old bastard and sent them his head. Talk
about holding a grudge. I thank you for trying, you are a true gentleman sometimes.