THE Court of the Lord Lyon lurks behind New Register House. It’s not just the home the of Lord Lyon, but also Rothesay Herald of Arms, Unicorn Pursuivant of Arms, and a couple of Pursuivant Extraordinaries. I think they keep them in a cupboard for emergencies.
Robert the Bruce set the court up back in the 14th century. In the heart of Edinburgh, just along from M&S and Primark, Game Of Thrones is hiding in plain sight.
The Lord Lyon can sort out any problems you may have with your heraldry. I know. Hardly a day goes past when I think, jings, look at the state of my coat of arms. My supporters are dodgy and my Latin motto’s gone mouldy. Must take myself along to a Pursuivant for a quick once over on the old quartering of the shield.
Of course, I don’t. Peasants like thee and me have no right to the fancy bling of a silken banner above our heads on the field of battle, which basically is what a coat of arms was, or as I like to look at it, brand recognition for aristocratic homicidal maniacs in the Middle Ages.
If you make up a coat of arms, then the Lord Lyon’s lawyers will have something to say about it, and that’s mainly, take that down, laddie, or I take your castle back, and he can.
A coat of arms, granted and assured by one of the oldest heraldic courts in Europe is something money alone can’t buy.
Snobbery is a serious business.
At the height of the hoohah about a certain Mr Donald Trump and his golf course shenanigans, the Tango Man was forever flying into Dyce aboard his executive jet, a predictably garish aeronautical nightmare with a plane hiding under it. It was slathered with the Trump name, and emblazoned with a coat of arms, certainly not granted by anything remotely pursuivant.
When the Ego landed, the last thing he expected to be faced with was the 21st century legal representative of a medieval court rocking up to announce that either he paints that travesty out, or the plane gets impounded.
Cue a spluttering temper tantrum that would have made any mother threaten to send said toddler to bed with no supper, but his high powered lawyers said no, the guy with the job title that sounds like it’s come out of Harry Potter is right, boss, that’s the law.
The fancy jet with the fake heraldry had to wheels up and lurk beyond the reach of Rothesay Herald of Arms.
Teenage son’s a cereal offender
The teenage son has a habit which appears to be a common trait of the predator. He sources food in one place, but prefers to carry his prey away to eat later. Tigers have been known to hide entire antelopes up trees. We know they’ve done it, because antelopes are a bit rubbish at climbing trees.
Cereal bowls, now, they very rarely spontaneously decide to hide under beds, and yet, in the room of the teenage male, it’s a fairly safe bet that at any time, random crockery will be lurking under there.
I managed to fish out the remains of one of his last hunts. I believe it may have been Weetabix. Another horrible reminder of the Republican candidate.
How does Weetabix get to that consistency? Seriously, once that stuff dries nothing short of a blow from a mace or a concerted battering from a pneumatic drill loosens it off. We could use this stuff to fix bridges. Oh, hello, Forth Road Bridge . . .
Potholes need a filling breakfast
Never mind the Forth Road Bridge, we could use magic Weetabix to fix potholes. Surely its worth a try? Now that I’m driving a car that works and is shiny to a ridiculous degree, the state of our roads is of much greater interest to me.
The old Rover was only one step away from a Second World War tank in build spec. Hitting potholes conjured up images of Soviet tanks hurtling toward the Panzers at Kursk. It felt fairly heroic. I could practically hear the Red Army Choir singing me on to victory.
Not now, my friends. This dainty lady senses potholes like a pampered princess rumbles booby trapped mattresses.There’s a pothole on the bridge at Great Junction Street that’s easily big enough to hide Donald Trump, his plane and the entire court of the Lord Lyon.Think I’ll sneak out under cover of darkness to try the Weetabix solution . . .
Hark! The Herald did a grand job
I hold no brief nor regard for the fanciful fol-de-rols of the nobility, but every time the snarling tangerine appears, and he’s doing it with distressing regularity, it’s good to remember that rainy morning in Aberdeen when the ghosts of Robert the Bruce’s heralds stood behind their lawyer as he slam-dunked possibly the most repellent man who has ever run for President, and I’m including Nixon. Go Herald Pursuivant.