The Agent Bertram Christmas Message by William Frederick
Dear readers, friends, and even the folk to whom I owe a few quid, Christmas is on us once again. I will not bore your socks off with a load of tosh about this great country of ours here in the UK. I wont tell you how strong, loyal and dedicated is our important relationship with our brothers and sisters in the United States, including President Elect Donald.
I will take a moment to tell you that a bunch of shit kicking, clueless, pinko wimps have been running the European Union and that they got into power by stealth, aided by slimy blood sucking lawyers. But their days are numbered. They are done for. It is only a matter of time. They are yesterdays men (and women).
We look forward to a new era of prosperity and freedom for both the UK and our chums in the USA. Freedom to not say what is politically correct, freedom to call a spade a spade!
Happy Christmas to one and all! The plum pudding is singing in the copper kettle, the brandy awaits and a huge jug of cream has… dammit! Tiddles has made off with the blooming cream! Come back Tiddles right now this very moment or you will be a fur hat by new year!
God bless us one and all this Christmas! Merry Christmas everybody!
William Frederick, on the BBC
I’m a British chap. Well, someone has to be, don’t they? In the UK we have the BBC. The BBC are our national broadcaster, funded by the good old TV Licence paying public. The BBC are known for constantly whining on and on about their funding. “How can we produce quality output without another £100 kazillion quid (compounded up of course, year on year, just like what the bankers do). It’s only what we deserve for our balanced, tolerant and enlightened, artistic genius”. This author disagrees.
I used to be a supporter of the BBC but now I have slipped away from them and joined the ever growing throng of people that think they are nothing but a great big fat waste of money. (Or what our American cousins would call a boondoggle). No longer do the BBC stand for truth, honesty and fair play. Now they have their own political agenda. The BBC have become the home of the luvvie. A club for posturing leftie do-gooders. A shrine for the lacklustre. A haven where interns (the useless offspring of the well connected) stand around all day, drinking lattes. You can identify an intern very easily by simply asking their name, which will be something like Lettice, Peregrine, Epiphany or Rafferty. Of course, if you listen to their ‘heads-of’ (everyone at the BBC is the ‘head of’ something or other), they are all fabulous and we should consider ourselves grateful to have them. …Okay Yah! What’s more they are criminally over paid! (See comments for clarification)
Let’s take a look at some of the issues that have recently made off with my goat. The Beeb or Aunty (to use their 1970s sobriquets) is a nationalised broadcasting organisation that used to be known for its quality output. This must be true because Whoopi Goldberg used to say so in one of their self-advertisements.
That quality has at the very least become questionable and some would say that it has simply gone, which will become more apparent as I progress through the following few topics.
Hooded Crow (aka Hoodie) attacks the home of William Frederick! (Author and decent chap).
On Monday, Beloved had a frantic cleaning frenzy which included washing most of the windows in our home. Whilst this was occurring, I of course, snuck off and lurked by my Froggie Pond, threatening the Dragonfly Larvae with dire consequences should I catch them with my specialist equipment, a tea strainer taped to a walking pole. I chanced to notice a Hooded Crow raucously cackling at me from a large tree nearby. “Kwark… Kwark…” the Hoodie said. This translates as, “I’m going to crap all over your windows, fatty!” On my return, I was duly impressed at Beloved’s progress and made appropriate noises when I sidled in from our wilderness garden. “Cor!… Wow!…” and “Phew!” said I approvingly.
The place was punishingly tidy and clinically cleansed in a way that only the fairer sex can achieve. The windows were so clean we could see for miles, well, at least as far as the hills over the other side of the loch and that’s quite far enough for me. Any further and you’re into the realms of Johnny Foreigner!
Yesterday we ventured north and drove our trusty steed up to Oban, filled it with food and wine and came back again. A sensible sort of foray done on a day when we thought that Oban might be quiet and devoid of kids running around like a hoard of horrid little snot goblins. It wasn’t and I was soon knee deep in screaming kids.
Agent Bertram called to Buckingham Palace!
It was a Saturday
It was early morning and someone was knocking on Agent Bertram’s front door. ‘This can’t be good. It has to be bloomin’ Buckingham Palace. If I’m wanted at the Palace, it’s always on a bloody Saturday, in my own time,’ thought Agent Bertram dragging his dressing gown over his crumpled nightshirt and stumping downstairs to the front door. ‘The one day that I get to have a nice lie in and then traipse around the shops with my Beloved… and that’s the day they choose to knock on the front door at eight in the morning just when normal decent folk are settling down to a few more zeds! However, as traipsing around the shops looking for wedding paraphernalia is not quite my idea of heaven, this could be a blessing in disguise…‘
Outside, standing on the front step of Bertram’s Gower Street home in London’s Bloomsbury area, was a middle-aged man dressed in a chauffeur’s outfit. He, being from Buckingham Palace, looked immaculate. Bertram scowled at him and glanced over his shoulder towards a Bentley Mulsanne car that positively oozed the colour black. This black was so deep and the paintwork so scratch-free that if it were not for the colourful Royal Crest on the passenger door, subtly announcing the vehicle’s provenance, it would have been difficult to determine if the car was really there at all.
“Something’s up at The Palace then, eh?” ventured Bertram speculatively.
“I can see why you are Her Majesty’s Special Agent… and I am merely the chauffeur,” drawled the man in the thickest of soupy tones.