Tally ho

Hello sweeties

Gosh what a perfectly dreadful time it has been lately. London has been absolutely sardined with cousins from the country down here protesting about the horrid hunting ban. Now I adore spending time with the rosy-cheeked in-laws when I am in the sticks but town is town and country’s country. Darlings I do believe there hasn’t been so much tweed in the big smoke since they came down to pick up the ragamuffins during the Blitz. So I’m told by the elders.

I cannot blame them for getting so red in the face though. Well, redder. Those ghastly lefties are trying to ban something they simply don’t understand. How many of them know the joy of a good ride in the morning, the thrill of something powerful between your legs and an exciting climax? Bally few of them, that’s how many. In fact if old Teflon Tony knew that particular joy then we might all be better off.

Tristram Tuffington-Bart is organising an anti-anti-hunt ball down at his mother’s place and it should be a splendid evening. He says there will be a full-scale hunt through the old stately pile, except we will be chasing chaps dressed up as leftie Labourites and when we catch them we will whip them within an inch of their Bolshie lives. Pippi van Muflin, being soppy old Pippi, is worried that these poor coves might get hurt but Tristram says it’s ok because they will be local peasants who are only too happy to do it for £20, a glass of mulled wine and the chance of a glimpse of Lady Tuffer’s celebrated bosom.

There will be a collection for the Ferry Two — that silly oaf Otis and his drug-addled mother who got themselves up in front of the beak last week — and Johnny Roxburgh will be raffling off some of his hounds to raise bail money for anyone else who gets themselves nickered, or whatever the expression is that the working classes use. First prize is two slobbering foxhounds guaranteed to rip your postman’s arm off and shake him like a rag-doll. Second prize is four dogs. Mieow.

Oh and there will be lashings and lashings of shampoo. Do you really think I’d go to the trouble of being driven all the way down to Hampshire if there wasn’t a shipload of Bolly to make the thing bearable? Darlings, you should know Lady P better than that. Much as I adore being in the saddle, it hardly compares to the bliss of Bolly. God put peasants on this earth to pick grapes and it would be pretty churlish of their betters not to fully enjoy the sweaty labours of the rustics. Bottom’s up.

Of course, the lefties don’t understand the joy of champers — they are all brown ale, sandwiches and overactive armpits. So how can these heathens possibly understand hunting — or the beautiful game as Tristram T-B calls it? They think it is just a bunch of bloodthirsty toffs chasing poor little foxes so that their hounds can rip them to pieces. Such poppycock. It is a bunch of bloodthirsty toffs chasing poor little foxes so that their hounds can rip them to pieces and then they can enjoy a good bucket of Bolly after it. The Labourites just can’t understand the difference. No proper upbringing, you see

Mind you darlings, a decent upbringing is no guarantee of class. Every stately home has a tradesman’s entrance, as my old aunt Agatha used to say. Take that slutlette Tara Palmer-Tomkinson for example. She is as close to Royalty as Camilla’s cat but as near to the gutter as a tramp at the theatre.

She’s been ballyhooing it with the rest of them about hunting but I happen to know that she’s never been on a horse in her life. She has a fizzog like Shergar and has had more rides than Lester Piggott but she wouldn’t know a bridle from a groom. In fact, Henny’s brother Marcus rides out with the Beaufort and he tells me that la P-T is always first in the queue for the riding crops but never swings her leg over anything that can’t ask for Vaseline and gin. Oh, did I say that out loud?

So there you have it. If the lefties have their way and ban a perfectly innocent pastime like hunting then all the riding crops, whips and knee-length leather boots will be left at the disposal of Tara P-T and her nymphosexual chums. Do you really want that, chaps?

Toodlepip

We didn’t start the Parly

Sheena Easton, Weir’s Way, Donald Dewar, Paul McStay,

Jimmy Spankie, Jimmy Krankie, Billy Connolly

Lorraine Kelly, Banquo’s ghost, Willie Carson, Sunday Post

Jimmy Shand, Burntisland, Dougie Donnelly

Denis Law, Thane o’ Cawdor, Carol Smillie, Harry Lauder

Border tart, Braveheart, Daniel Nardini

Arnold Clark, Rob Roy, Jackie Bird, Peter McCloy

Fran and Anna, Fyffye’s banana, Shereen Nanjiani

We didn’t start the Parly

Costs were always rising

Because of bad advising

We didn’t start the Parly

No they didn’t cost it

So we nearly lost it

The Fraser Report

It wisnae Donald

And it wisnae me

It wisnae Henry

And it wisnae me

It wisnae Steele

And it wisnae me

It wisnae Miralles

And it wisnae me

It wisnae naebody

But it wisnae me

Oor parliament’s finished

The builders have finished,

Well sort of.

We’ve aw moved in,

More or less.

They’ve cleaned up the mess,

Well most o’ it.

Noo everyone’s happy,

Happy-ish.

It was cheap at £440 million

It…..

Ach forget it.

A welcome to wee Nicola

Nicola Sturgeon

Nippy sweetie

Make-up done

By Balfour Beatty

Nicola Sturgeon

Nippy sweetie

Goes like a bunny

Says toilet graffiti

The stinky has hit the fan

Howya

Me typing might not be all that great today on account of how I’m writing this from under me bed. I figure it’s the only place to be in case there’s a Paddy Wagon at me front door and a bunch of plods offering me a lift to the cop shop to help with their enquiries.

Jaysus I couldn’t believe it. The dog and bone went off before the bleedin cockrel and I thought it was someone phoning to say me old ma had finally bought the potato farm. Sure and if it wasn’t worse than that. It was only after being Jamie Spencer, better call him Jamie X, telling me that the bleedin rozzers had been arresting every jockey that they could lay their dirty hands on. Keep your Alan Whickers on I told him, the plods are as much use as tits on a bull, they’ll not be knowing who they’re after.

Sure and didn’t he then tell me that they had nicked Keiren. Fergal Lynch too and that useless fekker Darren Williams. Beef news begorrah, steal me Jaffas and call me skinny. The stinky has hit the fan right enough. I told them we couldn’t get away with fixing races forever. Not with shaggin eejits like Williams who doesn’t know the end that eats from the end that browns the stuff. His idea of “making it look good” is to fall off the fekker. He’d be as well holding up a big bleedin sign saying “not trying”.

Anyways, Jamie X tells me that the rozzers are banging down doors like nuns at the greengrocers when there’s a banana sale on. Poor Keiren was dragged out still wearing his Postman Pat jammies and thrown in the Paddy wagon with barely a chance to scratch his bitch-bag. Terrible so it is, treating a champion jockey like he’s some sort of bleedin criminal. Which he is I suppose but it’s its still pure diabolical.

As for me self I was so shocked it fair put me off me scran. It was a full 15 minutes before I could pull meself together enough to rustle up half a pig between a few rolls. I tell youse it took all me resolve to force meself to take a few sausages to keep the bacon company. Me aul fella always said you needed to eat when you find yourself in times of trouble. Or maybe that was Simon and Garfunkel. Anyways it explains how me aul fella had an arse on him the size of Cork, always in bleedin trouble he was.

Jamie X says they’ve lifted Mr Burke and that was a teeny bit of a worry on account of how I rode a couple of ‘tactical’ races for him. Ah come on, the little O’Farrells have as much right to Crimbo presents as the next brat. If I remember rightly, a favourite helped itself to two packets of bourbons and a couple of cans of Guinness half an hour before the off and it didn’t seem to quite agree with the nag. Had the absolute scutters after the finish so it did. Some of Mr Burke’s acquaintances had a bundle on the second favourite so they were happy enough despite the fact that the nag shat all over their Armani loafers.

I’ve been telling Keiren for years that he had to get better at the cheating or he’d be caught like Wayne Rooney in an aul folk’s home. Sure and I’ve passed on a few of the finer tricks of the trade but sometimes that caffler Keiren is as obvious as a priest with a tub of Vaseline. He may be the puppy’s privates when he’s trying to win but he can be a feckin eejit when he’s being ‘unlucky’.

So that’s why I’m lying here under me bed with the bleedin Z Cars tune going through me head. I’ve got an economy-sized box of Jaffas for company but I’ll need to send out for reinforcements before the evening news. Sure and I’d be eating anyways but I’ve got the fear they will drag me off to the nick and try and starve me till I spill me bleedin guts. Half an hour and I’d even be telling them about Coole Abbey and that little doxie from Kelso. Jaysus.

Feck, the fear is sure putting an appetite on me. Hungry? I could eat an Arab’s arse through a hail of missiles.

See youse at the track (or in the jail).

Fred O’Farrell.