A Rather Posh Smallholding.

I once went to Sandringham (the queen’s posh country smallholding in Norfolk,) suffering from food poisoning.  No she hadn't invited us for a :

"Nice cup of tea."

 A very big cook (Little Chef) had poisoned me the afternoon before.   It was a lovely Summers day, so we decided to go and see how the other half live.  The queen’s herbaceous borders made wonderful sick depositories.

 I stood wrenching and vomiting while tourists passed by with expressions of horror.  Not one person asked me:

“Are you alright mate?” 

or:

“There, there”.  

They just looked horrified as if to say:

“That scruffy Northerner is fetching up in the queen’s borders.  

Send for the beef eaters and take him to the tower of London.” 

Eventually I recovered and went for a saunter and mosey round her majesty’s regal pad.  We walked along roped off pathways (in the house!), and viewed the queens sun faded furniture, pottery and some of her “bling”.  The Majolica pots looked horrible.  If  I had seen them on a car boot sale I would not have paid a fiver for them.  They were worth about a quarter of a million, or a two up and two down ex agricultural labourers cottage in Cheshire.   The diamond encrusted Faberge eggs were nice though and would have looked good on our sideboard, underneath the flying ducks on the Muriel! (Mural).  Bring back Stan and Hilda and Eddie Yates, and the 'tart with a heart', Elsie Tanner. 

Talking of Elsie Tanner.

I once met (queued up for a signed autograph picture for me dear old mum) Pat Phoenix at the local agricultural show.  Her stand (a chair and a decorating table) was situated opposite the beer tent.  Some of the locals were stood outside shouting:

“Elsie, Elsie.  Lend us a tanner.”  

Pat Phoenix just smiled and said:

"Young man.  Flattery will get you nowhere”. 

She was sheer class. 

Talking of  Sandringham and posh houses. 

I once helped build half a golf course (the other nine holes already existed).  I said one morning to a digger driver:

"Did you have a good weekend Bill?”  Not his real name.

He replied: 

“Not really".  

We went to that Chatsworth House in Derbyshire. 

It was a bank holiday and the world and his wife had decided to visit.  The traffic tailbacks went back for miles.

We eventually got inside and it was full of snobby twonks (he didn’t say twonks).  

The house was full of old furniture and paintings.  She likes that kind of sh*t!  I wouldn’t mind there wasn’t even an effing bar to get a pint!” 

Yes he was so right.  The upper classes could have really learned from the proletariat “great unwashed” who built their stately piles for them.  They could have experienced Formica, Caramac, Stylophones and flat packed wardrobes.  I thought to myself: 

“It’s good that working class people have cultural experiences on their days off!”  

I didn't really.  I just laughed.  See you later folks!