Cosmo Ludovik Fawkes-Hunte, 13th Earl of Kinmuck
Well, gut me with a Gurkha’s kukri and simmer my innards in a robust sauce, Boris has only gone and prorogued Parliament! I was having a lunchtime drink over billiards at the club when Johnny Dalrymple, the Viscount of Boyndie, told me.
Never let it be said that the landed gentry stick together. Old Johnny’s only got 12,000 acres and two mistresses and could only afford to join me in Eton when his family pawned some Apostle spoons. He’s practically a commoner. Got some damned funny 
ideas, Johnny, about separation of powers, the rule of law, and parliamentary sovereignty (his family got a bit of French education a couple of generations back and they haven’t managed to breed the worst of it out yet).
“This prorogation business will please you, Kinmuck!” he thundered, looking at me as if he thought having a despot as prime minister could possibly be a bad thing. I told him he had me all wrong, I was totally against it.
“Never thought I’d see the day when you stood up for the rights of Parliament,” he sneered.
“What you’re forgetting, Johnny,” I said, while he was settling down to play his shot, “Is that prorogation involves a temporary suspension of Parliament. I want to see Johnson close the Commons permanently and shift power back where it belongs, to the Queen and the House of Lords!” At which point he put his cue right through the cloth.
“Aha!” I said. “You forfeit the game!” He protested that was hardly fair, he having been 30 points ahead at the time.
“But Boyndie,” I said. “Remember what they taught us at Eton – a win is a win, by fair means or foul!”
He nodded sadly, and said: “Recently, that has become only too apparent.”
Then he knocked me unconscious with the spider rest and stole my whisky. Tremendous fellow.
View from the Midden with Jock Alexander of MTV (Meikle Wartle Television)
It’s been an automotive wik in the village. I da’ ken aboot you, but efter the last few days absorbing the latest political news I did find masel’ gripped by a strong urge tae burn the papers, switch aff the news, get in ma car and drive as far awa’ as possible. I didnae, cos even wi’ my Massey Ferguson ga’an’ flat oot it wid tak me some weeks tae get as far as Kennethmont, but I wis interested tae see that the Highland village of Gairloch his got the highest rate of driving test passes in the country – 86.5% compared wi’ the national average of 45.8%.
In fact, it’s rumoured that fowk fae as far awa’ as Birmingham are coming up to Gairloch jist to sit their test there.
Fowk think it’s easier tae get a pass in rural areas because of the relative lack of things fit sometimes mak’ driving tricky in the big cities – things lik one-way systems, ither cars, and bobbies. Files it’s certainly true that here in Meikle Wartle, there’s nane o’ them tae worry aboot, I widnae necessarily say it’s easier driving here.
The roads aroon’ the village are like oor village meenister, rarely glimpsed, hard tae follow, and holier than onyb’dy could wint. Their traditional twisty-twostiness means car sickness is rife, and we’ve a helluva lot mair trees an aminals fit ye’ve tae swerve tae avoid. Unless, of course, yer needing some firewood or a very fresh supper. Cheerio!
Cava Kenny Cordiner, the football pundit who’s an ex-pro rogue!
Old Kenny is no stranger to the bookie, and I mean that laterally – his name’s Stevie Kirkwood and we played under-15s together. We often shoot the brie about sporting bets I wished I’d stuck a tenner on, like England’s 500-1 heroics in the Botham Test. Well, even that suspicious occasion was trumpeted on Sunday when England stuffed the Austrians.
I was listening to it on the wireless and couldn’t not believe my eyes when Ben Stokes started clubbering the Ozzie bowlers to all five corners of the ground. When he finally smacked the winning runs, the commentators was saying it was “the greatest innings ever seen”, so it was a shame I’d only listened to it. It was like croquet’s very own David and Goliath story, except this time, David won.
While it’s been a great week for the croquet, for my most favouritist sport, football, it has been quite theophilus. I feel sorrow for Bury fans, who seen their club get booted out of the league on Tuesday.
What must it feel like to see the club you love sent to the droll dumbs because they was rubbish at counting the pennies? We could always ask a Rangers fan, I suppose. Fellow Lancastershire club Bolton Wanderers nearly went the same way, though they was saved at the eleventy-first hour by a takeover bid.
When I seen all this in the paper I felt like I was reading the Financial Times, especially seeing as my loon Zander had spilt his Ribena on the P&J.
