Bellbottoms And Bare Chests

05/25/2005

With some considerable difficulty, and Celeste’s arm lock that brings murmurs of admiration from the gentlemen, the Admiral Daiseybank is persuaded to retire. From the drawing room I can hear the tinkling of the ivories and dearest Dottie’s clear, sweet singing voice, followed by some surprising raunchy laughter, as, in the dining room cigars and Ardbegs are selected. We men drift through to the library where Charlie holds forth on “The Float”, the £13billion windfall stolen annually by banks by delaying transfers between themselves. The float is more or less enshrined in the UK constitution and certainly by years of Tory rule and is now coming under the sound bight spotlight of President Blair demanding change or else. As chairman of McAllisters, the his family bank, Charlie is threatening to claim erosion of his human rights at the European Court. I think I am with the President on this one! Herr Hoch talks of his business “Hoch Houses” of which I have been completely ignorant, but has brought his invitation from Dottie. Apparently, these hi-tech structures of glass and wood arrive on the back of huge lorries accompanied by a couple of vans full of Bavarian technicians who assemble the kits with surgeon-like skill, finishing the whole house in half the time it takes the average Scottish builder to hitch up his trousers and pull a spade from the back of his ex-BT transit. Hans Hoch’s photos are most impressive; Dottie has been thinking of using Hoch Houses to provide much needed affordable housing and holiday accommodation for the Argyll glens, I am not sure if they can be considered “affordable” as some of them seem to come in at £400K! At about 2.00am, our pleasant conversations are brought to an abrupt halt by screams from the drawing room, we rush to the aid of the ladies, I am last to arrive encumbered by my heavy canvas spats. The guests are staring open-mouthed through the french windows at the amazing sight of Admiral Daiseybank, her chest bared Amazon like, wearing bellbottoms and jaunty sailor’s hat, dancing the Hornpipe round the blazing wreckage of James and The Countess’s Roller on the sacred front lawn. Oh, double bloody bollocks! Thank god, we only have church parade to get through and the whole sodding lot of them can piss off. Yours Aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.