The Angry Corrie 9: Sep-Oct 1992
Intimations of Balmorality
...being a verbatim transcript handed to TAC's
The Duke of Rothesay tugged fitfully at the wispy strands of hair he was using to disguise his John Malkovitch hairline.
"Mumsy, one is a respected authority on all things Conservational. One gives speeches. One makes TV programmes with respected outdoorsmen. One goes and lives on godforsaken Islands and digs peat. One wanders about in kilt and cromach for crying out loud"
The Empress of India was using one of her more casual thrones for the audience but she was still able to look right down the regal nose at her firstborn.
"Yes darling and I am all in favour. I would like you all to have hobbies. The devil makes work for idle hands etc. It's been so good that Eddie has found his niche working with that nice Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber. He's even met Jason Donovan".
Inwardly, the Heir cursed his luck and his limited gene pool and tried to keep his cool.
"But mumsy don't you see what's happening; one has the aforementioned reputation for conservation and one's own mother, the Sovereign, is behaving like some self seeking conniving landowner, screwing the system for public money, ignoring standard practice on deer management..."
"Darling we can't possibly follow the recommended practice on deer. For a start we have to show people that we are the Sovereign. What's the point in being allowed to damn well do what we like if don't damn well do it. Secondly there is your father. You know that if we reduced stag numbers to what the woolly hats want daddy would never hit one in a month of Maundy Mondays. And what would he be like then. He's bad enough as it is. "
The Duke of Rothesay paused. The old bat had a point. The last time the Consort had spent a corpseless day on the moors he had returned blazing and ordered all the family to don their masonic regalia for an inspection. The Heir had let his run into disrepair and he was soundly chastised as only the Consort knew how. The Heir had a suspicion that he had never been forgiven by his father for failing the Chookie Embra Award when he was 15. He changed tack.
"Well surely you don't need to sponge the money from old Magnus to do up the paths and the fences. Can't you sell a racehorse or something ?
As the Heir, he had never had access to the books, but he couldn't help but think there was some spare cash.
"Darling when mumsy shuffles off to the Big Changing of the Guard, you will have to take a more realistic view of fiscal matters. Do you realise how much the pay off for Fergie was? Do you know what your father spends on bloody carriages and shotguns and trips to the theatre? And what about crowns... do you think they grow on trees? "
The Duke of Rothesay had to confess that being a bit of a wildlife and countryside buff he knew that crowns did not grow on trees. There was a knock at the door. Old Jamieson the faithful Ghillie entered doffing his cap and tugging his forelock.
"Ma'am that's the boys with the bulldozer for this new track you were wanting made".
The Heir's exasperation was complete. There had been talk of a new track to take The Nation's Favourite Granny and her drinks trolley to some picnic spot on the banks of Loch Muick. The track was to be a massive scar on the landscape but he had thought he had forestalled it. He had even suggested that on the 2 or 3 times a year when the old soak wanted to go there she could be flown in by The Marquess of Buccleuch.
"I'm sorry darling," the Sovereign explained, "your idea was no good. We can't have Andy's helicopter scaring the grouse and the deer when your father's trying to pot them. Anyway, darling, don't you think you're taking this whole Scotch thing a bit too far anyway. Remember you are the Duke of Cornwall as well. Why don't you make us a nice clotted cream tea and then we'll play at smugglers?