Fortescue Towers

Random ramblings from the life and times of Col. Fortescue Featherstonehaugh Fortescue.

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Chieftain o' the puddin' race

Bit of a palaver at Fortescue towers yesterday. Cousin Hamish decided to pay a visit for the traditional Burns supper, although with cooks culinary peculiarities she burns supper most nights. Anyway, first thing one knows about his arrival is when reports start arriving about a half naked blue man in a skirt running amok in the woods. Initially one thinks that perhaps Utterthwaite has forgotten his medication again so send Blenkinsop off to investigate armed with a large bottle of valium and one of the mems' larger butterfly nets. Imagine ones surprise when he returns not with a deranged staff member but with cousin Hamish. Never been quite the same since he visited the picture house and saw that film with that Australian chappy in a kilt...Brave something. Involved a lot of fellahs waving their arses around and talking in incomprehensible accents.

Claimed he had been looking for the place for hours after losing his way in the dark but one has ones doubts about the veracity of his claims, especially after one hears that the vicar was woken up from his afternoon nap by a blue-painted transvestite waving its tackle at the French windows and shouting "Ye'll ne'er tak' oor freedom!". Poor fellah is quite un-nerved and has taken to the medicinal brandy again, something he hasn't done since the incident involving the archbishop and the sheep.

Should have taken the sensible option and locked Hamish in the linen cupboard but by the time the key was located he had consumed most of the whisky that had been laid on for guests and had taken to the battlements with his bagpipes. Attempts to coax him down failed miserably and for hours sounds emanated from the rooftops that reminded one of the time one discovered one of the hill tribes taking part in the highly illegal thugee cat strangling rituals. Unfortunately one could not order ones chaps to apply some cold steel to stop the horror this time as Hamish had locked the door to the roof.

Finally alcohol and a well aimed haggis put paid to his ramblings although not before he had regaled the assembled onlookers with two renditions of 'Auld Jock and the ghost of Mad Murdo' and shown them what a scotsman has up his kilt. One fears that Lady J may never emerge from her bedchamber again. Luckily his fall was broken by the shrubbery and Clackthorpe. Not quite sure what he was doing in the shrubbery outside the maids quarters with a ladder at midnight though.

All's well that ends well, at least we didn't have to partake of cooks haggis this year although one is informed that some fellahs from the MOD want to examine it in case it can be used to replace the armour on the next generation of tanks. As for Hamish, one is told that Blenkinsop packed him off back to castle McSlurry. Doesn't explain the sounds of hammering in the early hours or why the large crate that stood in the corner of the stable is missing though. Very odd.

Must remember to find out who flung the haggis though, useful chap to have on ones team in the inter-village cricket matches.