NOW that Prince Harry has left the army and is contemplating his future, Michael Tierney imagines a vist to the broo…
Now that Prince Harry has announced he is leaving the British armed forces, it is rumoured he will be signing on in Maryhill, Glasgow. This will probably be his first encounter with the broo…
Welfare Adviser: Hullo, son. I take it this your first time on the sausage?
Prince Harry: Pardon me, good knight. A sausage? Totes amaze. Bloody good suggestion. Don’t mind if I do. Chuck it on a bap. Don’t be shy with the HP. Could do with a stiff. Bit damn peckish on the chopper getting up here to granmama’s wee estate. Totes disrevelled.
PH: Scotland… Anyways, random. Back to my sausage.
WA: The sausage roll, ya daftie. The dole. Now, you can get all kinds of things. Mattresses, bed covers, sheets…
PH: The dole? Like, rings a bloody bell. Monaco nightclub? Art gallery in Kazakhstan? Guy’s been there. Don’t mind if I do, what. Always on the hunt for a spare mattress… Bants!
WA: We offer money advice… Income Support. Council Tax Benefit. Credit Unions.
PH: OK, yo. Hilarious. How about I run the whole bloody lot through the British Virgin Islands, there’s a chap? I’m thinking high-yield stuff. Comprehensive returns and all that. No idea how to do it all, but there’s chums who do that sort of thing for the bloody love of it. And maybe a couple of sovereigns in their direction. Snarf. A bloody Lordship. You know the drill, McTavish.
WA: My name’s not McTavish. It’s…
PH: Damn sorry, Jockward…
WA: Between you and me, I heard you’re planning a year away or something like that. To be honest, once you’re on the sausage you need to be here every coupla weeks to see what’s available. Nae bumpin yer gums now. That’s the deal for everyone. Rules is rules, silver spoon up yer arse or no’. And you need to apply for jobs every week even when there’s none available. Know whit I mean? Now we don’t want you on any side jobs either.
PH: No patronage. Understand. Sweet. Pick up the phone, Poppy. Deal direct. No e-mails. Servants not allowed deep fried Ferrero Rocher. Nudge, nudge. Nuff said.
WA: Havin’ said that, between me, you and the lamppost I do a wee bit of slab work myself. Cash in hand. Straight in the old hipster, Ginger. Don’t say a word to the missus otherwise it’ll be right up the bingo wi’ a bottle of Aldi’s Chardonnay. You do any painting or widwork, an’ that?
PH: Not much of a painter myself, Sweaty… but I don’t mind the odd Constable.
WA: Christ on a bike, son, keep that language doon a bit in here. You can’t be bringing the polis intae this. Don’t be a grass. That’s fighting talk up here. Likely tae get you fitted for cement wellies an’ drapt baws first in that canal. Take it fae me. I did a ten stretch in the Bar-L cause of some wee grassing nebby b*stard like you sung like a canary over a wee Post Office job I took on.
PH: You were a Postmaster?
WA: A bank robber. But I’m trying to keep it aw’ quiet.
PH: Hilarious! What I meant was I’m taking a year orf and going to bloody well Africa to contemplate a little more before one decides what to do with the rest of one’s life. A little spiritual awakening, if you catch my Rorke. A little sub-Saharan campfire and a little skirt if you smell what I’m cooking… Bit of field work, understand me, Brigadoon?
WA: Contemplate? You must be in yer twenties?
PH: Just turned 30, Big Tam.
WA: Tell me about your experience, son? What have you done?
PH: In and out. A couple of tours. Good times, good times.
PH: Oh, um, yes, that too. Was thinking of Las bloody Vegas. Bloody wonderful. Got papped by the old razzi’s, you know. Own fault. Left them a bloody great bare arsed target. Made a right bloody splash back home. Good times, Hamish, good times. Hot bunnies everywhere. Supposed to do all that charity malarkey my brother’s involved in. Big Willie. Married to a real sort. Below the stairs stuff. No one mentions it much. Should have married the sister… she’s got a backside like a fresh ruddy tennis ball.
WA: What kind of work are you interested in?
PH: Sorry, Rob Roy, the old hearing’s going. I swore you said something about bloody work? Snarf! All those exploding thingumy’s in Bouji’s are getting to me. Or was it Mahiki? Or the Cuckoo Club? Bloody hell… the memory’s going too. Good bloody times. I think it was Bodo’s Schloss. Place is fitted out like a bloody Austrian goat shed. Or a ski lodge. Whatev’s. Squippy as.
WA: Listen, the effen sausage, remember?
PH: Trick question! Bants. I just came up for… how do the natives say it? A wee night oot wi the boys. I thought this was where you got the bloody tickets… Look at the size of the bloody queue. Right round the block and back again. Bloody queue’s bigger than at Harrods at Christmas. Good bloody times.
WA: You’re here to discuss what you can contribute to society now that you’re signing on.
PH: Hundred percent, Bonnie Prince… couldn’t have put it better myself. I love to sing… bloody One Direction. Good chaps.
WA: Who are those six guys in camouflage and the watches the size o’ dustbin lids sitting beside you?’
PH: John, Frank, Johnny, Frankie, Johnno and Taffy. Bloody good sorts. SAS and SBS. Bloody SOS if you annoy them! Bite your balls off as soon as look at you.
WA: To protect you up here?’
PH: Good, God, no, Rabbie. Heading out to the Annabel’s of the north tonight. Quick jollop. Meet a few sorts. Love an eighties night and a corned beef thigh. Keep it schtum from Chelsy… Bants. Total bants.
WA: Clatty Pat’s? It’s closed down now son, sorry… Now back to the bloody sausage.
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