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
“Anyway, darling”, Liz continues, “I can’t possibly come to the wedding – I don’t have a thing to wear.”
7 comments:
Liz: "Eeeh! I've pissed meself!"
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).
lord. That Trellis woman puts herself about a bit, don' she?
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?
that liz woman wanted to borrow my tiara - not bloody likely. don't you have to pay the odd bob towards her nic-nacs ?
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.
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.
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