8:59am Tuesday 26th August 2008
By Telegraph & Argus
When you promised me a Bank Holiday weekend away, I wasn’t expecting this,” said Thelma Gusset (pronounced “Gussay”), the fragrant women’s editor of the T&A, witheringly.
“Oh, get away with you!” said The Scribbler. “How can you possibly be not enjoying yourself? We’re getting down with the kids, which I believe is what they say these days.”
“You might be getting down with the kids,” sniffed Thelma. “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”
They were both knee-deep in mud. The Scribbler had had the foresight to bring along his old fishing waders, but despite his exhortations for Thelma to “be prepared to get mucky”, she was wearing a pair of high heels most unsuitable for the weather and the surroundings.
When she had turned up in said high heels, a skirt so short that even The Scribbler was scandalised, and a low-cut top, she’d hissed fiercely, “When you said we might get mucky I thought... well, you know... romantic weekend away and all that...”
The weekend away was a trip to the Leeds Festival at Bramham, where The Scribbler hoped to reconnect with his inner teenager and get back his mojo. He wasn’t sure what his mojo actually was, or whether he had permanently lost it or merely misplaced it, but he was pretty sure that not having a mojo was a bad thing, and he desperately wanted it back.
“You do realise we are far too old for this,” said Thelma as they tramped through a field that bore more than a passing resemblance to the old photographs she’d seen of the Somme. “People are staring at us.”
“Nonsense,” declared The Scribbler. As well as his waders he was wearing an old Osmonds T-shirt that he’d found in Oxfam for 25p, and a trilby that made him look, he thought, like that Tommy Doherty fellow who was the lead singer with popular beat combo the Babycham Wombles, or somesuch. He raised his trilby at a gaggle of giggling teenage girls and said loudly, “Whassup?”
“Scribs!” hissed Thelma. “Stop it! You’re embarrassing me!”
“Shut your trap, ho,” he said, clicking his fingers together.
“Pardon?” she said, scandalised.
“I’m trying to blend in!” he whispered. “Can’t you just cut loose and enjoy yourself, momma?”
“What?” said Thelma, getting angrier and more mystified by the moment.
“Sheesh,” said The Scribbler, shaking his head at a couple of Goths who were poking at the mud with twigs. “This square is really doing my swede in, guys. She’s, like, giving me a bad trip. Er, innit.”
“That’s it,” said Thelma. “I don’t care what you say, I’m going home.”
“Aw, Thelma!” said The Scribbler. “Come on, Rage Against The Machine are starting in a bit. They’re, like, wicked.”
“So are you!” sobbed Thelma, storming away from him through the mud. “You’re a horrible, horrible man and I want to go home.”
The Scribbler sighed. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. He gave a thumbs-up to a heavy metaller with long hair and a beard, shouted, “Fandabidozi, mate!” and ran after Thelma as best he could in the quagmire.
Three hours later they slumped into the seats of the Boilermaker’s Arms snug. Boris cocked them an intrigued eyebrow as he brought over their drinks. “Have you been in an accident?” he asked.
“Just trying to rekindle my lost youth,” sighed The Scribbler. “I should have known better.”
“Never mind,” said Boris. “It’s hotpot-and-darts night.”
The Scribbler considered this. On balance, he thought, you could keep your Metallica. “Lovely!” he said.
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