Flying the flag
One is, as regular readers will know, a patriotic chap. Loyal to Queen and country and always ready to fly the flag. Thus, with the rapidly approaching jamboree of sporting prowess that is the World Cup one thought one had better show ones support and fly the flag from ones car as so many other patriotic fellahs are doing. However, one feels that maybe one should have made it clear to Blenkinsop, gentlemans gentleman since 1947 that one required a small flag to fly from ones vehicle.
Imagine ones surprise then when emerging from Fortescue Towers for a jaunt to ones club to avoid the Mem' who had been at the medicinal brandy one discovered that the Bentley had sprouted a flagpole which was not too distant a relative to the one on the parade ground we used to hoist Cuthbertson Jnr to the top of on a regular basis when one was a junior officer. How the daft old beggar had managed to climb to the top of the East wing to cut it down evades one, especially after all his complaints about the damp in his wooden leg.
Of course, one would have had him remove it forthwith but the Mem' had roused from her inebriated fug and had managed to find the keys to the gun cupboard once more so one was forced to flee rather hastily lest a few ounces of buck shot perforate the upholstery.
Now one finds oneself in the rather awkward position of being up in front of ones fellow magistrates for dangerous driving. It's jolly well not on. A chap tries to be patriotic and show his support and is hauled up in front of the beak for his trouble.
All one can say is that surely that at least one of the village cycling club, the verger and the local bobby should have been able to see one pootling down the road. After all, the flagpole was large enough as was the flag and they really have no excuse for not seeing one and one did stop to help rescue them from the village duck pond.