Racing away from the politically correct PCs

by Mostyn (off of Dinsmore & Mostyn)

It has been brought to my attention that the fragrant Mr Belm has struck up some agreement or other to which it is agreed that Dinsmore and myself are able to contribute to this Villager thingummyjig.

I am, of course, delighted, as monies are a little scarce of late, given that the recent court case(s) have placed considerable strain on the monthly allowance I receive from Father.

I would have began earlier but for last week’s jaunt out. Being two upstanding and perhaps even rakish British gentlemen of the old school, Dinsmore and I are also members of “society” (as I believe the ghastly word now is). So we saw it fit to descend upon Royal Ascot racecourse last week for the usual annual rounds of gambling and sexual intercourse.

There were, of course, a great number of fine and well-dressed ladies about, and Dinsmore was in his element; sipping champagne with a devil-may-care attitude and a haughtily raised eyebrow – enough to make most of the ladies moisten their undergarments, at any road, considering Dinsmore’s somewhat remarkable aptitude for charming these aforementioned ladies.

Father, too, was feeling a little spicy (he had insisted on accompanying ourselves). Though on a strict diet of medications, Father had been drinking heavily since 3 of the o’clock the previous afternoon, and the mixture of gin-shandies, b*rbiturates, h*roin and other anti-psychotic medications was a little too much for Father, who forgot himself for some brief moments, and proceeded to get more than a little “sporty”.

Being the UK’s Politically Incorrect Midget-Tossing champion five years in a row from 1977-79, Father was feeling a tadge nostalgic and attempted to grab hold of BBC television pundit Willy Carson by the buttocks and throw him across the length of the Royal Enclosure, all whilst the poor Mr Carson was attempting a piece-to-camera.

But by a stroke of good fortune, Lady Claire Balding intervened by tw*tting Father round the face with Willy’s hole-poking stick. Lady Claire, yesterday:

(The BBC, it has to be said, coped splendidly, inserting some VT of a man waffling on about waistcoat buttons, in order to shield the Carson-tossing incident from the general viewing public).

Annoyed at having his fun and his freedoms interfered with, Father sulked loudly, shaking his jowls and murmuring “political correctness gone mad… political correctness gone mad” before threatening to expose his unmentionables to the crowd.

But he has a point, does he not? You can’t do anything these days, be it midget-tossing or setting fire to poor people who prefer to whinge rather than do a decent day’s work (and yes, I still think that drinking your employer’s Pimm’s whilst on the job is adequate provocation for setting fire to someone, Mr Judge).

Anyhow… Dinsmore (sad to be taken away from the ladies) and I tried to drag Father back to our motor vehicle, but he eluded us, only to spy popular Mancunian bookmaker Fred Done (of BetFred). Father rugby-tackle him to the ground, before attempting to strangle him with perfumed cheese wire in retribution for an incident in 1967 when Fred allegedly “nobbled” Father’s horse, Tripod, losing him that year’s St Gerry’s Grand Leger.

But the police were never likely to take the view that Father’s behaviour was justified, especially as:

(a) Father has never owned a horse called Tripod;
(b) a horse named Tripod was never entered in St Gerry’s Grand Leger in 1967 and;
(c) the St Gerry’s Grand Leger is made up.

On realising this, Dinsmore turned the other way, whistling suavely, whilst I went and hid in a horse box.

Our getaway plans, however, were thwarted by a stampede of race horses spooked by Lady Claire’s over-generous thighs:

Following tomorrow’s court case, I am certain I shall return to muse further on these pages (they can’t keep us any more than 42 days).

In the meaningtimes, if you should find yourself in our charming rural village of Fennybough amid a perusal of the British countryside, I do advise you to pop in to “Mostopia” (Father’s gothic gaff) for scones, Pimm’s and the like.

Until next time; be careful out there…