Having slipped Parslow the groundsman a couple of jazz cigarettes, Wayward Brother Uncle Robin managed to infiltrate the inner sanctum of Randall Towers today, breezing into the Great Hall, emanating the distinctive aroma of patchouli, his Afghan coat flapping behind him. The Marquess of Prestberries’ younger brother never failed to make an entrance.
“Hi Cats,” he huskily said, “I need you to give me some positive vibes – you dig?” he asked, shifting from foot to foot in his open toed sandals. I considered the wisdom of wearing this type of footwear in December.
“It’s like, my Astrological Freak Out in a week’s time. Good times. The only real bummer is that I haven’t got any food. I couldn’t score a turkey, could I? It’s just that I’m pretty short of bread and the man is really sticking it to me at the moment. I know my niece usually has a well-stocked freezer…”
At this point, Lady Barton St Mary, having heard the commotion being made by Thatcher, the vicious guard dog prevented from doing its job by our corrupt groundsman, entered the hall. Uncle Robin suddenly fell quiet, staring at her ladyship, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down beneath his white goatee beard. He managed to compose himself and broke into his trademark charismatic smile.
“Hey, beautiful Lady, it’s me, Uncle Robin,” he explained unnecessarily, spreading his arms in a messianic way.
“I’m in need of some real heavy help from my groovy niece,” he continued, “I can tell by your aura you’re ready to light up my life and introduce some peace and love into the cosmos.”
Lady BSM folded her arms and stared levelly at Wayward Uncle Robin.
“What do you want?” she asked him sternly. He explained his predicament.
With the slightest of smiles, she waved her hand.
“I’m sure Mrs Dallimore can accommodate you,” she said.
Uncle Robin skipped forward and embraced Lady BSM in a bear hug.
“You are one cool aristo chick, baby,” he murmured, smiling benignly.
Whilst Mrs Dallimore was summoned from below stairs, Wayward Uncle Robin took the opportunity to explain his Astrological Happening, an annual event that coincided with Christmas but ‘wasn’t tied down with all the heavy Jesus rap’, as he described it. He showed me a few photographs from previous ‘happenings’, mainly involving him and a selection of ladies in their sixties. I would have preferred it if they’d taken the photos before removing their clothes, but you can’t have everything.
Five minutes later, he was skipping off down the drive, turkey crown swinging in his duffle bag, ‘laying some skin’ on Benfield the butler as he passed by.
Having left behind his small volume of beatnik poems and some king size cigarette papers, I suspect he may be returning soon.
In the meantime, let’s hope Wayward Uncle Robin enjoys the turkey as well as the company of some scantily clad sexagenarians during this festive period.
Far out, man.