Chapter 3 #2
Michael Heseltine looked as if he’d been on a dirty protest – with multiple gravy, wine, and other assorted stains smeared across him. All the plates cleared away, in favour of tea, coffee, and teeny plates of petits fours.
And the speeches droned on and on and on . . .
Roberta topped up her glass with yet another hefty slug of shiraz as the father-of-the-bride kept going – standing behind the top table in his morning-suit finery.
A chunky monkey with greying sideburns and suspiciously dark hair.
Like he’d dipped most of his head in a bucket of Just for Men. Or shoe polish.
Sir Reginald Bradbury-Scott: which had to be one of the most Tory names to ever Tory a Tory.
He had one of those accents where every last trace of Scottishness had been sandblasted off by whatever poncy private education his Mater and Pater had spaffed a chunk of the family fortune on.
‘. . . who I’m sure you’ll agree, looked absolutely beautiful. ’
That drew a round of approving harrumphs from the wedding crowd, punctuated by the occasional tinging of glasses.
‘You know, when I started out, all those years ago, I never could have dreamed that I’d be privileged enough to have a knighthood conferred upon me by Her Majesty.’ The smug git paused for applause, and actually got some.
Not from Roberta, though. She just took another swig of red, and went, ‘Wank, wank, wank, wank . . .’ Like a muttering penguin.
‘Or to have had the honour of serving my country as Under-Secretary of State for Trade and Industry during Sir John Major’s time as Prime Minister.’
Assorted hurrahs from the company.
‘Ohh look at me being all wanky.’
‘That I would have had the pleasure of being head of our glorious local Conservative Party.’
Full-on whoops erupted from the crowd.
Another swig of shiraz. ‘Glorious bunch of heartless bastards, more like.’
Susan glared at her. ‘Robbie!’
‘And best of all: to have been your MP for these last thirty years!’
And the crowd goes wild. Cheering. Clapping. Hooting like the bunch of baboons they were.
Ego suitably fed, Sir Just-for-Men finally waved them into silence. ‘Of course, I have one more person to thank for their invaluable help in putting this glorious day together.’
Sitting next to him, the mother-of-the-bride preened a bit, getting ready to take all the credit going.
She wasn’t exactly a spring chicken, but there was still a bit of bite about her.
The same strong athletic frame as her daughter, if a little on the plump side.
Mind you, that just meant you had more to grab onto between the sheets, didn’t it?
Bet she went like a jackhammer when you got her going.
Skin that lovely nut-brown colour that only comes with properly exotic holidays.
But Sir Scumbag didn’t introduce her, instead he gestured down the table to an auld mannie with a military moustache and all his own hair – grey and white, like a badger’s ghost. A patrician’s air about him, as he sat there in full Highland get-up.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, Lord Oliver William Fitzroy-Galbraith.’
Which had to be the Toriest name of all time.
The mother-of-the-bride’s face sagged at being passed over for Lord Oggildy-Boggildy, but the wedding guests exploded into whoops and cheers again as the old git waved in acknowledgement.
‘Who has so generously allowed us to use his estate, chapel, and castle, to celebrate Adriana and Douglas’s big day.’
Which was a bit rich, given the place was a hotel and had probably cost a fortune to hire. Bet the old git hadn’t even given them mates’ rates. But then Sir Stinky McHairDye was clearly one of those crawly-bumlick types, who just loved sucking up to the aristocracy.
More hoorahs and hoorays from the other crawly-bumlicks – all of which Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith brushed off with what was probably well-practised modesty.
Roberta topped up her glass and made penguin noises again: ‘Wank, wank, wank, wank . . .’
‘So, ladies, gentlemen, and assorted Terrible Trotskyites, please be upstanding and toast the health of our benefactor, Lord Fitzroy-Galbraith!’
Everyone clambered to their feet, glasses raised.
Well, everyone except Roberta, because there was no way in a cold and frosty hell that she was toasting another Tory cocknugget.
Instead, she stayed sitting, arms folded, muttering yet more penguiny wanks as some anonymous toady launched into a cry of, ‘Speech!’
It was answered by another toady, meaning it had to be mating season for them. ‘SPEEEECH!’
Then they were all at it. A frog chorus of toadies. ‘Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech!’
Until, finally, the old git, Lord Thingummy-Whatsit, creaked his way to his feet and hushed them with his hands.
Silence settled across the room, all those eager wee faces turned to the Arch Tory.
He cleared his throat and, in a firm baritone, bestowed upon them the benefit of whatever passed for wisdom with this lot. ‘When I first ran for parliament in 1970, it was a sign of great things to come!’
The toadies cheered.
And Roberta folded forward and banged her head off Michael Heseltine.
It was going to be a long, long night.