Barbara lay back on her chaise longue, nestling amongst the silk cushions, eyes closed, and murmuring softly, as if in a trance. "Chapter One ... " she - no, no, Mrs Angry, don't tease.
Brian, Brian lay back, not Barbara, of course. (Although as we know, Raine, Countess Spencer, is an awfully good friend and confidante of Brian Coleman, and her sadly departed mother Barbara Cartland must have been inspired, at some point, surely, by her daughter's escort's manly charms, no? No, maybe not. Anyway.
Yes, as you may have heard, the hugely popular former London Assembly Member, former Chair of the Fire Authority, and former Barnet Council Cabinet member Brian Coleman has decided that, in order to reclaim some of the headline grabbing attention he so clearly misses, he must write his memoirs.
What a brilliant idea! Already queues of would be readers are forming outside Waterstones in North Finchley, just opposite Cafe Buzz, where his biggest admirer, parking campaigner and suburban terrorist Helen Michael spends her days making Mrs Angry tuna baguettes, and frightening small children and secret policemen with her posters of Brian Coleman. Ah, I say queues of would be readers ... most of them appear to be shopkeepers brandishing pitchforks and flaming torches ... draw the curtains, Brian.
Councillor Coleman is far too busy to write his own memoirs, of course, and so he has asked Mrs Angry to ghost them for him, and act as his amenuensis: Boswell to his Johnson, if you like. You may be surprised, but in fact Brian and Mrs Angry have formed an intimate new friendship, based on their mutual dislike of organised sport, the Olympics, and Boris Johnson. Yep: we do lunch regularly, now, you know. Of course Mrs Angry picks up the bill, since Brian's on his uppers. Vincenzo is very discreet, slipping him a doggy bag as we leave, worrying about his favourite customer. Ah Signora Angry, he whispers, with a sad face, ... But where were we?
Brian lay back on his chaise longue, nestling amongst the silk cushions, eyes closed, dribbling, and murmuring softly, as if in a trance. Mrs Angry scribbled away in shorthand. She can't remember any, so none of it will make sense, but then no one really wants to know what the old fool is banging on about, do they?
"Chapter One", announced Brian suddenly, in his more usual robust and forthright tone. "The Early Years".
"I was", said Brian, "Without Question, an Exceptionally Beautiful and Talented Baby."
Mrs Angry peered at him over her glasses. 'I think perhaps', she observed, you need to stop talking in Capital Letters, Brian ...'
Brian arrives from outer space'I was not born on earth, of course', he continued, dreamily, 'but brought here by my scientist father, just before the destruction of our planet Krypton, then raised in Kansas by a kindly farmer and his wife, who guided my formative years with the influence of A Strong Moral Compass.
Brian is a good boyIt was clear from the beginning that I had Superhuman Powers, which, upon reaching maturity, I resolved to use for the Benefit of Humanity.
I changed my mind, however, joined the Conservative Party, and went into local politics'.
'Hold on,' interjected Mrs Angry, 'you've skipped a bit ... what about your schooldays, Brian?' QE Boys, wasn't it? Cufflinks, and a spot of unpleasantness behind the bicycle sheds and all that?
Brian teaches his masters a lesson in politics'My school career was one marked by Unsurpassed Academic Achievement and Immense Popularity with both Masters and Boys alike. So well thought of was I, that in later years I was invited back to the old school as Governor ...'
Brian makes a triumphant return to his old school'Dear me, said Mrs Angry, 'And then what happened?
Brian sat up. 'That, Mrs Angry', he snapped, 'will be the subject of the next volume ... Part Two: These People: My life as the Most Important Person in the Entire World, at least inside the Narrow Confines of my Own Imagination.
Mmm, said Mrs Angry: oh look, my pencil's broken. What a shame.
To be continued.
But not in the near future, hopefully.
aaaaaaaaaahh Brian's version of Fifty Shades of Grey no doubt....
ReplyDeleteoh bugger, wish I hadn't wasted a Shades of Grey spoof on Mr Paul Hughes now ... although I'm sure he enjoyed it.
ReplyDeleteBrian sat in the Essex Park parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on the cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the Finchley sun, which were sent back from its cold and shining surface.
ReplyDeleteA paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy net-work, Brian would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Brian was meditating; it might be that the insects brought to mind some recent painful election in his own past life.
Nor was Brian’s gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his affairs.
The laced coat, and the cocked-hat; where were they? He still wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were not THE breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respect like THE coat, but, oh, how different! The mighty cocked-hat was replaced by a modest round one. Brian was no longer a successful politician.
... Mrs Angry raised a laugh thereat, which sounded as though it were genuine.
On hearing this most unexpected sound, Brian looked, first incredulous, and afterwards amazed. He then relapsed into his former state; nor did he rouse himself until his attention was again awakened by the voice of his biographer.
"Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?" inquired Mrs Angry.
"I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper, ma'am," rejoined Brian; "and although I was NOT snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze, laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; such being my prerogative."
"YOUR prerogative!" sneered Mrs Angry, with ineffable contempt.
"I said the word, ma'am," said Brian. "The prerogative of a failed politician is to command!"
'And to-morrow three months it was done!' said Brian, with a sigh. 'It seems a age.'
ReplyDeleteBrian might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of happiness into the short space of twelve weeks; but the sigh--there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh.
Mrs Bumble x
and Moaneybat, I am certainly not publishing such a naughty comment ...
ReplyDeleteNor would I, can't afford the defence costs
ReplyDelete