Monologue – 20 Feb 2017
Jennifer is planning a party akin to a Babylonian orgy. We’re going to show Miranda Elliott, said Jennifer. Aha said Brian cleverly. I’ve worked it out. This is all about Miranda isn’t it? We’re going to keep the party local and lovely, said Jennifer. So lucky old Miranda can look forward to one of Tom’s sausages atop an upcycled scone washed down with a glass of Grundy cider wrung out of Joe’s truss. The replies to the Home Farm invitations are coming in thick and fast. Thick and fast – oh, Chris Carter and Alice.
Miranda’s struggling with Ambridge’s 24 hour party culture. The poor cow is wandering around Borsetshire desperately trying to find something to do. She’s got Justin under constant surveillance but once she’d locked him in the downstairs lavatory with a copy of Top Gear magazine she went to Underwoods. Lilian had ransacked the cork wedge and satin undercracker department and eaten all the olives. She went to the pub, drank some of what they pretend is Shiraz (it’s not really Shiraz, as she quickly noticed, it’s Ribena but Kenton’s stuck a plaster over the label and written Shee-ra on it) but Lilian was in there too, showing Jolene the lingerie she got out of the reduced to clear box. The stains should come out if I put it on a boil wash with a bit of bleach and I’ll just use loads of Febreze, darling. Miranda had a whinge at the lack of culture in Ambridge. Oh, Miranda. Check out Clarrie’s rubber gloves at the dairy. There’s bloody loads of it in there.
Then, in an effort to avoid Lilian’s stalking, she ambled over to the stables to annoy Shula. Miranda suggested that she installs hot showers. I prefer rubbing down the old-fashioned way, Shula said. Yes, said Miranda, but you don’t half ponk a bit. Have you never heard of Sanex?
Still at the stables, Anisha was complaining about a rude client. “I’ve learnt to take no notice of bigotry”, said Alastair, the white wealthy middle class privately educated middle-aged professional. Yes, it must be hell for you, Alastair. Your idea of bigotry is when you suspect Waitrose of deliberately running down the Stichelton.
Harrassment Burns has added cardboard ripping to his busy policeman’s life of bunting hunting and managing the cricket team. He hasn’t found the bunting and the cricket team hate him but he’s dead, dead good at cardboard. He’s decided to field a mixed team next season. I think he’s talking about cricket but it could be a really involved euphemism.
The driving lessons with Freddie aren’t going tremendously well. Every time Kenton asks him to find the biting point Freddie bites him, he can’t tell his left from his right and he says a three-point turn isn’t called a three point turn any more. Apparently it’s called a backy forward backy forward backy forward crash. At first Kenton thought that Freddie was having a problem with a girl and said whatever you’ve done, I’ve done it with bells on. Which sounds both noisy and deeply uncomfortable. Who is he, Timothy Claypole? Anyway Kenton has agreed to wear a Joules gilet, a neckerchief and a Boden skirt to impersonate Elizabeth at parents evening. He’s going to look like Mrs Doubtfire. Nope, can’t see anything going wrong with that. As long as he steers clear of tents.
In another sceheme that is just absolutely bound not to fail in any way shape or form Eddie has decied that “we’re sitting on a little gold mine clarriluv” and they should open a b and b. This all came about after the departure of Eric and Bex who had such a lovely time when they stayed. No not that Eric and Bex, the other ones. You know. The ones we think we like becasue we always think they’re the ones with the Volvo, but it’s not them. It’s the other ones. You do know. They’ve got a daschund and his mother’s in a wheelchair. She can’t stick prawns and he looks a bit like Ian McCaskill. You do know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Clarrie pointed out that it wasn’t their goldmine to be sitting on and said absolutely not no way jose forget it no niet. So the first guests will arrive soon to enjoy the Grundy’s unique blend of overcrowding, ferrets and faux bonhomie. The comedy opportunities of the Grundy’s operating outside their social sphere is just the gift that keeps on giving. How long will it be before Joe clambers into a guest’s bed or loses his ferrets? Oh hold my aching sides. The End!
