That scrawny wee PC was standing beside it. He’d changed out of his police clobber and into a cheap-and-shiny-looking Prince Charlie kilt outfit that he must’ve hired from someonewho hated him. And thought he was three sizes larger. PC Scrawny McCrapKilt pulled out a chair so his boot-faced girlfriend could sit with their fellow non-Tories.
Susan – traitor, quisling, betrayer – adopted a soothing voice. ‘It’s only for a couple of hours.’
‘But I don’twantto sit on Michael Heseltine!’
And the soothing tone vanished, replaced by one made of frozen reinforced concrete: ‘You will sit on Michael Heseltine and like it!’
Michael Heseltine looked as if he’d been on a dirty protest – with multiple gravy, wine, and other assorted stains smeared across him. All the plates cleared away, in favour of tea, coffee, and teeny plates of petits fours.
And the speeches droned on and on and on...
Roberta topped up her glass with yet another hefty slug of shiraz as the father-of-the-bride kept going – standing behind the top table in his morning-suit finery. A chunky monkey with greying sideburns and suspiciously dark hair. Like he’d dipped most of his head in a bucket of Just for Men. Or shoe polish.
Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott: which had to be one of the most Tory names to ever Tory a Tory. He had one of those accents where every last trace of Scottishness had been sandblasted off by whatever poncy private education his Mater and Pater had spaffed a chunk of the family fortune on. ‘...who I’m sure you’ll agree, looked absolutely beautiful.’
That drew a round of approving harrumphs from the wedding crowd, punctuated by the occasional tinging of glasses.
‘You know, when I started out, all those years ago, I never could have dreamed that I’d be privileged enough to have aknighthoodconferred upon me by Her Majesty.’ The smug git paused for applause, and actually got some.
Not from Roberta, though. She just took another swig of red, and went, ‘Wank, wank, wank, wank...’ Like a muttering penguin.
‘Or to have had thehonourof serving my country as Under-Secretary of State for Trade and Industry during Sir John Major’s time as Prime Minister.’
Assorted hurrahs from the company.
‘Ohh look at me being all wanky.’
‘That I would have had thepleasureof being head of our glorious local Conservative Party.’
Full-on whoops erupted from the crowd.
Another swig of shiraz. ‘Glorious bunch of heartless bastards, more like.’
Susan glared at her. ‘Robbie!’
‘And best of all: to have been your MP for these last thirty years!’
And the crowd goes wild. Cheering. Clapping. Hooting like the bunch of baboons they were.
Ego suitably fed, Sir Just-for-Men finally waved them into silence. ‘Of course, I have one more person to thank for their invaluable help in putting this glorious day together.’
Sitting next to him, the mother-of-the-bride preened a bit, getting ready to take all the credit going. She wasn’t exactly a spring chicken, but there was still a bit of bite about her. The same strong athletic frame as her daughter, if a little on the plump side. Mind you, that just meant you had more to grab onto between the sheets, didn’t it? Bet she went like a jackhammer when you got her going. Skin that lovely nut-brown colour that only comes with properly exotic holidays.
But Sir Scumbag didn’t introduceher, instead he gestured down the table to an auld mannie with a military moustacheand all his own hair – grey and white, like a badger’s ghost. A patrician’s air about him, as he sat there in full Highland get-up.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, Lord Oliver William Fitzroy-Galbraith.’
Which had to be the Toriest nameof all time.
The mother-of-the-bride’s face sagged at being passed over for Lord Oggildy-Boggildy, but the wedding guests exploded into whoops and cheers again as the old git waved in acknowledgement.
‘Who has sogenerouslyallowed us to use his estate, chapel, and castle, to celebrate Adriana and Douglas’s big day.’
Which was a bit rich, given the place was a hotel and had probably cost a fortune to hire. Bet the old git hadn’t even given them mates’ rates. But then Sir Stinky McHairDye was clearly one of those crawly-bumlick types, who just loved sucking up to the aristocracy.
More hoorahs and hoorays from the other crawly-bumlicks – all of which Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith brushed off with what was probably well-practised modesty.
Roberta topped up her glass and made penguin noises again: ‘Wank, wank, wank, wank...’
