Big knickers. Now that I have your attention, a silk and lace pair from Queen Victoria’s knicker drawer were snapped up by a private collector (presumably male and he’ll need watching) at Lyon & Turnbull’s auction in Edinburgh. Old Queen Vic’s knicks were among her smalls under the hammer. She died in 1901.
Smalls? Although Her Maj, who has loitered in bronze at the foot of Leith Walk for yonks, was a big wifie, half of Edinburgh’s women would be pushed to squeeze into them. It’s the buns and booze that breed the big bums.
More than you’ll ever know, it grieves me to see the Scotsman Hotel in trouble, reportedly for sale. My workplace for a lifetime, from day one it never seemed to me to fit into a hotel guise. Uncomfortable in its unbecoming clothes.
I won’t bore you again with the fascinating account of the one and only retirement party held in what was then the marbled front office of the venerable edifice.
How touching of my employers and colleagues to send me off into my dotage in such style.
So what now for this historic pile? Surely a plaque where I sat and churned out countless epics.
Who needs St Paul’s? The Luftwaffe evidently thought there was a need for it. They spared it in the Blitz. Or was that by the grace of God?
Anyway, the landmark cathedral has been in the news again, protesters camping on its doorsteps. Something’s afoot with this shrine to western civilisation run by senior clerics most of them with their heads stuck up their own backsides. Over-exposed on television.
They’re doing a mass moody, resigning in droves over the protest. They’ve been asking “What would Jesus do?” and even he doesn’t have the answer.
But it’s getting them on the telly. The BBC, their religious affairs correspondent Robert Piggot, no relation to Lester and particularly perplexed, are giving it excessive air time when most viewers don’t give a damn. Forgive me if I have sinned.