It had been one of George’s favourite birthdays, ever. Dave had given him a new house, called Dorneywood, (not Dorkywood, as PC Collins, who followed George everywhere, had called it). George had been driven there in the shiny new car that Dave had given him. George knew that he must be doing very well in his new job for Dave to give him so many presents.
For tea, Frances had baked a cake for George. It was a sponge cake, with THREE layers. There had been raspberry jam in between the bottom layer and the middle layer, and blueberry jam between the middle layer and the top layer. George had been quite giddy trying to decide which bit was his favourite.
Last year, at his birthday, Frances had arranged some entertainment for George. His friend Theresa had dressed up as Sophie Tucker, and when she sang ‘Man I Love’, George had been so pleased that he knocked over his dandelion and burdock. Frances had already told him that Theresa was too busy this year, because she was now the home secretary. George seemed to have lots of secretaries at home, but didn’t remember seeing Theresa. Perhaps she had worn a wig to look like Ms Tucker.
George was just having his second helping of Viennetta ice cream, when he thought that the entertainment had arrived. His new friend Vince came into the room, looking very cross and started shouting. He partly spoke in Polish, which George didn’t understand, and partly in English, which George didn’t understand. George was clapping his hands and laughing, and breathlessly said to Frances, “He’s very funny isn’t he? But I’m not sure who he’s meant to be!”
“I’ll tell you who I’m fucking meant to be,” said Vince, “you great gormless, public school, bottom feeding twat! Your worst fucking nightmare, that’s who I’m meant to fucking be!”
By this time George was laughing so much he thought that he might be sick!
“First of all they put a useless fucking wassock like you in charge of the fucking economy”, continued Vince, becoming even redder, “then I have to report to you, even though you don’t know your fucking six times table,” (this bit wasn’t true, noted George), “then I find out that my department does fuck all, and then, to put the icing on the shit, you fucking cut my fucking budget more than that of any other fucking department!”
George still, couldn’t recognise who Vince was impersonating. He thought that it might be one of these ‘alternative’ comedians, who George didn’t much care for, on account of them being nasty to Mrs Thatcher.
“Well!” said Vince, who was clearly just getting into the swing of things, “I’m going to make sure that everyone knows what a double-dealing, mendacious, fucking stupid sack of shit you are. I know, for a fucking fact, that you don’t have a fucking clue what’s in your fucking budget, and you are the most incompetent fucking boob in a fucking Tory front fucking bench of prize ball sacks! And no, I don’t want any fucking ‘scrummy cake’, and you can stick your trifle up your fucking arse!”
With that, Vince turned round and stomped out.
“Priceless!” shouted George, tears streaming down his face, “Frances, remind me to thank Dr Cable in person at tomorrow’s meeting, please.”
George telephoned and asked Mr Sutcliffe, the butler, to tip Vince a fiver on the way out if he hadn’t already left. George got his favourite pen from his pocket, and wrote “eight times six is seventy six” on his napkin.