Royal Family Knitters And Tales About Posh Houses

Seeing that its the wedding of the year tomorrow and the annual day out at Wembley for MUFC.  I have  decided to give you have a free read of another one of my characters from the book that wants publishing soon!

ROYAL FAMILY KNITTERS.

    This is a very strange creature indeed.  Common in all villages, towns and cities. Females seem to out number the males, but there are some exceptions.  They integrate with all members of the social class system and the staple diet seems to be chips. 

I once met a lovely old lady who spent the majority of  her time knitting woolen garments for the Royal family.  It was around the time of  Prince William’s’ birth.  (Showing you’re age there Davy boy! )  The Royal Family knitter decided that Charles and Diana could do with some hand knitted clothes for their new Royal baby.  Never mind the poor and the homeless in Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool or even London.   

The Royal families new arrivals need was far more important.  Well we hadn’t had much of a Summer that year, had we?  The lady was a staunch Socialist and Royalist.  Sorry?  Yes.  I said she was a Royalist Socialist  Her rented council house was full of Royal family Coronation mug souvenirs and she always voted Labour.  She hated the aristocracy and the ruling classes, but the Queen was a good old brick.  No doubt she probably thought:

“Look at all the money she brings into the country?  Imagine having to smell new paint every day.  It must be awful having to eat all those seven course dinners? “    

While we are on the subject about my auntie Elizabeth Windsor.  I once had a conversation in a pub (where else?) with a woman who claimed that she had the Queen’s personal phone number:

 “They have got to give it you, you know.” 

“Who?”

Says I. 

“British Telecom,”

Says she.

“They are compelled by law to give you any phone number you ask for.” 

“Oh right.”  Is there any chance of you giving me Pamela Andersons phone number?”

I thought of asking her if she knew God’s email address?  But I decided not to bother.   One could of asked pertinent questions like the following:

1.     Why when it’s Winter, does it take so long for you to turn the outside lights on up in yonder sky?

2.      Do you have problems paying the leccy (electricity) bill like we do down here?

I digress. 

Apparently there is more chance of you dialing any number at random, and the queen picking up the phone receiver, than you have of winning the Lotto!  You can just imagine it can’t you. 

“Hello Elizabeth Regina Windsor here, who am I talking too?”

“It’s me.  Do you and the Duke of Edinburgh fancy popping round for a nice cup of tea and some custard creams?”

Royal Family Knitters often have strange political beliefs.  Some of them believe in the nationalization of the banks, a free national health service, no nuclear weapons and the repatriation for all foreign people.  One election they will vote Labour and Conservative the next.  I think it’s that multi-headed monster they call democracy thingamajig.  Right Mr Hitler!  Labour preserves the health service and builds council houses.  Conservatives let you buy your council houses, cheap rates (no services) and give you permanent holidays on the dole.  Royal Family knitter believes in a revolution and redistribution of eighty percent of the wealth, owned by three percent of the country.  The House of Lords will be disbanded immediately.  But the queen can stay.  She does brings a lot of money into the country, and she even lets you PAY to walk round her house.

I once went to Sandringham (the queen’s posh country smallholding in Norfolk,) suffering from food poisoning.  A very big cook (Little Chef) had poisoned me the afternoon before.   It was a lovely summer’s 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 shufty and mosey round her majesty’s regal pad.  We walked along roped off pathways, and viewed the queens sun faded furniture, pottery and some of her “bling”. 

The Majolica pots were horrible.  If  I had seen them on a car boot sale I wouldn’t 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 Hilda and Eddie Yates, and Elsie Tanner. 

Talking of  Sandringham and posh houses.  I once helped build half a golf course (the other nine already existed).  I said one morning to a digger driver:

 “Did you have a good weekend Bill?” 

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 tail-backs 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 shit!  I wouldn’t mind there wasn’t even an effing bar to get a pint!” 

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!”  Perhaps they might become Royal Family Knitters?