Re: Last Words
The Highlander
wrote:
>On Sat, 23 Sep 2006 09:59:17 GMT, Claire
><claire....@ntlworld.com> wrote:
>
>>
>>> Well, gentlemen, you are about to see a baked Appel.
>>> Executed in electric chair in New York.
>>> - George Appel, d. 1928
>>
>>Ah, fancy leaving on a pun! :-)
>
>The best two fingers you can give to authority considering the
>circumstance. Also 'Bugger Bognor' was not a bad one by George V.
No, no! George V's last words were "Damn you!" Falsely reported by his
personal physician, Dr. Moran, as "How stands the Empire?" Right up
there with Hyacinth Bucket's memorable question to her vicar: "What is
the missionary position like in China?"
Dr. Moran, in that inimitably snotty English way, actually helped the
poor old bugger off with an injection so that his death would be
reported by The Times first and not by the common, workingclass press;
according to his memoirs, wherein he revealed the King's real last
words.
Those were the days when the King enjoyed the same status as the
Emperor Hirohito (god-like) and idiots like my great-uncle Walter wore
a top hat when the Monarch was "in Town" (code for "London").
Source: My grandmother, a rabid fighter for women's rights, who
loathed Walter for his belief that democracy was creeping communism,
with a near-pathological passion.
All my family, myself included, could accurately be described as
"extreme". My great-grand uncle, a close friend of Queen Mary and a
man who loved eating, was famous for an occasion when, escorting her
to the table and smelling the food, he lunged foward and got jammed in
the doorway with her until a footman got them unstuck.
She forgave him because everyone else, including the King, thought the
incident was "frightfully amusing" - Queen Mary was utterly devoid of
any sense of humour and was well in the lead for the "Most Boring
Woman in Britain" title. I thought my great-grand uncle sounded like a
greedy arsehole, but no one was interested in hearing my opinion.
My great aunt Effie and Queen Mary had something in common; both were
believed to own fabulous collections of valuable items.
When both died, Queen Mary's collection was found to consist of rare
treasures like a cup marked "A Souvenir of Braemar!", a handkerchief
complete with dried snot that Queen Victoria had once blown her nose
in and then discarded, and similar bric-a-brac.
In case you think I'm inventing all this nonsense, my great aunt Maud
once told me that when the old Prince of Wales (he of Mrs. Simpson
fame) visited India where Maud then lived with her husband, a judge in
Lahore, (when she wasn't running away with young sailors), the Prince
was out on a tiger shoot one day and confided to his hosts that he
needed to go to the bathroom.
He was escorted to a thunderbox (a complete portable bathroom in a
chest) set up in the middle of a bamboo grove and guarded by turbanned
Sikhs with drawn swords at intervals around the grove, to ensure that
no uninvited eye might witness the evacuation of the Royal Bowel.
Once the Royal Bowel had delivered its contents, said Maud, the Prince
rang a little bell as previously instructed and at the sound of the
tinkling signal, a bevy of bearers rushed forward to bear his offering
away with reverent hands, covered with a silk cloth like some Holy
Relic, allegedly to be buried in closely guarded secret, but much more
likely to be bronzed and mounted in the Governor-General's study as a
delightful souvenir of a wonderful day spent murdering unsuspecting
tigers, she said.
Great Aunt Effie's collection had been expensive to collect; it also
consisted of valuable treasures, such as a bottle of water from the
River Jordan; a "guaranteed" piece of the True Cross and a branch
carefully cut from the alleged Burning Bush - Jerusalem had obviously
seen her coming and had taken full advantage of her pilgrimage!
The best part was secretly enjoying the rage and disappointment of all
those family members who had spent years kissing her arse in the hope
of being left something valuable once she had shuffled off this mortal
coil. Cunning old bitch; she was famous for moving people who
displeased her out of her will, and then reinstating them once they
had crawled and kissed arse sufficiently to be allowed back in.
She lived in a huge house in the far northwest of Scotland and spent
her time painting the same seascape picture over and over; each copy
being graciously awarded to some lucky family member for Christmas,
and usually consigned immediately to the attic.
Aunt Effie's lair: It now belongs to my cousin.
http://tinyurl.com/f47mv
One of the more athletic activities engaged in by family members was
when Aunt Effie's vintage Roll-Royce was sighted coming up the drive,
with her seated like a minor goddess in a glass compartment and her
poor chauffeur; James MacKay; the first dead man I ever saw; probably
from catching a chill because he sat out in the open with only a
windshield to protect himself from the rain and snow when driving her
around. Aunt Effie did not believe in wasting money on frivolous
extras.
The athletic activity was the frantic rush to get the picture out of
the attic and hung above the fireplace before Aunt Effie crossed the
threshold. Some cousins called Kerr were excommunicated permanently
when they were not home when Aunt Effie arrived and pushed her way
past the maid, telling her to go and make tea immediately as the trek
from the car to the front door had been harrowing and she was
freezing, while poor James Mackay stood outside in the rain, stamping
his feet and blowing on his fingers to restore the circulation and
never saw a warm cup of tea as he was merely the appliance that drove
the car.
When the maid returned with the tea, Aunt Effie wanted to know where
the precious gift of her seascape had been hung and the maid was
unable to tell her and asked, "What did it look like, Madam?"
Aunt Effie described it in detail and the maid, relieved, said
eagerly, "Oh I know that picture; it's kept in the woodshed!" Aunt
Effie left in a rage, taking the painting with her; the Kerrs were
advised by a sharp note written before she left of their permanent
disqualification from a life of wealth and ease and in an act of
rather sickening revenge, the Kerrs fired the poor maid.
It has always been a matter of puzzlement to me why the citizenry
didn't rise up in outrage and guillotine us all!
This was the same woman who once handed my uncle and me a glass
containing a barely visible hint of whisky at the bottom with the
injunction, "Now don't just gulp that down like you usually do!", at
which my uncle bravely held his up to the light and said, "My, it's
awfully small for its age, Aunt Effie!" while I disgraced myself by
collapsing in helpless laughter instead of looking disapproving,
becoming hysterical when he advised me, "Whatever you do, don't sniff
it or it'll evaporate before you get a taste." She asked him
suspiciously what he had said to cause me to make a fool of myself,
but he lied brillantly about it going my head.
I had nothing to lose; she thought I was completely useless; pretty
much the general opinion of my family, and the only thing she would
ever have given me was the back of her hand. As for my uncle, she had
a soft spot for him, as otherwise we'd never have seen a glass, let
alone be offered one moistened with actual whisky.
I guess she knew that if I were in her will, I would have had that
bottle of Jordan water down to Sotheby's in a flash and blown the
ensuing fortune on riotous living, like buying a bucketful of sweets
instead of investing it in stacks of Bibles with coloured pictures of
Jesus raising dead lepers to give away to the Greater Unwashed.
Royalty had some interesting dangers awaiting them in the old days.
One of the saddest was the Japanese Royal family; when a little
princess fell into a shallow ornamental gold fish pool, striking her
head on a stone and knocking herself unconscious. She lay there and
drowned as not one of the fifty or so witnesses dared touch her or
help her in any way, as the penalty for laying a hand on any member of
the Royal Family was instant beheading...
When the king gave a speech on the radio - pronounced "RAh-dio" in the
Highlands in those days - we were all stood to attention. I remember
my shock when I first went to a cinema, to see the ungrateful
proletariat pouring out the door during the playing of the National
Anthem and wondering why the police didn't arrest them.
I do hope these reminiscences are of some interest; my children are
enthralled by them as they think they sound like something from the
Middle Ages and having been raised in democratic Canada, can scarcely
believe that such things could have been allowed to happen. I must say
I often wonder about that myself.
The Highlander
Faodaidh nach ionann na beachdan anns
an post seo agus beachdan a' Ghàidheil.
The views expressed in this post are
not necessarily those of The Highlander.