Oh calamity! We’re fast running out of men and machines. A dearth of planes and ships (ah, yes, that criminally costly item lying at Rosyth, it’s called an aircraft carrier) but out Ministry of Doddering Defence have somehow, as if by magic, found the funds.
Up for grabs, a four-year contract worth a million and a half quid to provide teuchterish regalia, a whole heathery wardrobe. The works . . . kilts, trews, gaiters, plaids, shawls.
All that clobber. Who, in the name of the wee man, is going to wear it? Are they going to bring back Bonnie Prince Charlie’s army from the dead? Perchance, have the Ministry of Dodderers on the quiet negotiated a strictly confidential agreement with Slippery Salmond? The world wants to know.
Should we be taking so much bull from Spain? They’re now stinging Brits 40 quid every time they cross the border into Gibraltar, where they rightly live. Should we bomb the Spanish capital in retaliation?
They know their onions, granted, but they don’t know their economy, which is in an even worse state than ours. Bomb Madrid, did you say? Sounds incredible but so does the sinking (by the Spanish navy) of our trawler fleet. Calm down, lads, calm down.
By way of reprisal I’m banning in the house anything by Julio Iglesias and, going to the extreme, the My Fair Lady soundtrack because of The Rain in Spain.
Afterwords . . .
. . . Jenny Eclair bringing a festive smile to your face: “I’m up in Edinburgh performing at the Fringe. I’m staying at an incredibly smart flat which I think someone booked by accident. I’m expecting to be evicted halfway through, when they find out they’ve given me the wrong house.”