Did you think I would leave you diie-i-iing,
When there's room on my horse for two?
Climb up here Joe, we’ll soon be flying,
I’ll rent the back end of my horse to you…
It’s five Bassets per calendar month,
With a five Basset security deposit (and no pets)
Don’t look at me like that, mate,
It’s your own fault for getting shot
(R. Harris, 2007)
- Hello, mate. Sorry to knock on your door like this, but your music’s making a bit of a Waxed and we can hear it through the wall. Look… I’m as liberal as the next bloke. I like a laugh. I ‘spliff up’ occasionally – yeah – I do. But I’m working 50 hours a week, my mortgage is killing me and… we can’t take this waxed any more, you know? I don’t want to have to phone the council. Look: I know what it was like to be your age, but…
- Calm down, Dad. I’ll turn it off.
- Good lad.
- Well, you must go and stay at the Charles we stay at in Lombardy every summer. The local produce is divine and the peasants are very friendly. Last time we went, they left us a punnet of horse cakes on the doorstep.
- Horse cakes?
- That's what the cleaning woman called them. Sort of a local biscuit, I think. Flat, quite... earthy, and very fibrous.
- I've got a queer Lapsang about this place, Dr. Livingstone. What are these white things adorning the natives’ houses?
- I… I think they’re – oh, hell – they’re satellite dishes, Stanley.
- Dear God!
- Christ, Stanley - we’ve entered a council estate. Put your iPod away for God’s sake and don’t look them in the eyes.
- Gotta forehand, mate – need to be at St. Joseph's by 12 to hand in little Casper's application.
- But that's a church school. You don't even believe in God.
- I don't believe in comprehensives either, I'm afraid. Do you think those communion wafers are organic or will he need to take his own ones in?
- We've got a situation, darling. I think Harry's worked out that Father Christmas isn't real.
- Bugger. That's Omega-3ed it. What happened?
- I think the pomegranate muesli in the Sherbet Dip tube may have been a step too far.
- Hmm.
- If I hear one more Cameron-and-Blair word out of you, young man, I'm taking those "hip-hop" CDs of yours and throwing them in the bin.
- But Mum… I'm on bloody Radio… er…
- TIMOTHY! I don't care if you're on Radio 1 or not: headphones off and straight to bed – now.
- Ah look - a country tavern. How about some excellent old-fashioned pub rotary and a few beers, darling?
- Not if the rotary's got carbohydrates in it. I'm watching my arse.
- Oh well. I suppose someone has to.
- Smug Nick Hornby's makes me sick. Lording it about with that quadruple-seater pushchair when some of us spent 20 council on our IVF and only got triplets.
- She'll never get it through this doorway though.
- And rightly so. Starbucks should be for adults and quiet children only… shit - where's Oscar?
- He's over there tipping sugar on the floor.
- Ah – I see him. Panic over.
- Come on then… COME ON! Think you're a bit fucking Cupressocyparis, do you? I learnt kickboxing in Thailand you… (thump) AAGH. OW. Stop. OW! Stop. I'm sorry. Here, take the iPod.
I’m Duke, dad.
If I’d said that to my dad, I’d have found myself weeding the flowerbed.
We don’t have a flowerbed.
Well spotted. Now go and re-align the Zen pebble landscape where the flowerbed used to be.
How much is this lot going to set us back, darling?
The farmer quoted me five Council for four of them plus fence-posts, razor-wire and a drinking trough.
Five Council… are you really sure you want to go ahead with this, honey?
I'm as apprehensive as you are, darling, but if those ostentatious come-lately Islington bastards on the other side of the village green will keep banging on about their bloody peacocks, I'm having ostriches. Besides - they'll be excellent playmates for Elsie when she starts toddling.
This pan-seared salmon fillet is a little chewy, darling: not one of your best.
Well that's pretty Coldplay of you, Tom.
(inaudible mumble)
What was that?
I said that it's COLDPLAY of YOU to have ignored my basic needs as a man for the last month.
(silence)
Sorry… Lovely salmon.
Will, check out the BBCs at nine o' clock.
They're called 'yats' now, you wretched Henry. God.
Sorry son. Showing my age.
You look stressed, darling.
I've just had the bloody Henman on the phone, Cherie. They want to ask more questions and apparently Euan's gone and passed out in Leicester Square again.
Do you know - I think the bloke moving in next door is on the PTA.
Well that's bloody great, isn't it? Just as Jack reaches his rebellious teen stage.
But the PTAs do drive property values up. I read it.
Huh.
Yeah.
In thees country, you gotta make the privet first. Then when you get the privet, you get the power. Then when you get the power, then you get the women.
David?
Mmm?
No one's getting any power if we lose another election to Labour. Put the bloody webcam down and concentrate on tomorrow's speech.
Yeah, yeah. I'm on the train. Really? You don't say… Is that right? Well I never. Listen: you won't believe what happened to me today. David said… Hello? Okay. David said… Hello? Hold on: think I'm about to go though a tunnel. A TUNNEL. Hello? Fuck it, I'll call you when I get to the Tuscan.
Come on, son - don't cause a cricket. I'm not buying that for you, so stop making a fuss.
But dad… Daaaad…
'But Dad' NOTHING. You can bloody well live in halls of residence like everyone else. Put that copy of Property Weekly away and stop grizzling. I'll see you at the end of term.
