Now we know for sure Boris Johnson and his bosom-buddies are oot-n-oot snobs.
Amid this week’s stooshie about his Downing Street flat getting an £88,000 tart-up come reports of the horrendously snooty words of his bidie-in, Carrie Symonds. Apparently the quine declared the place had to be blitzed to get rid of Theresa May’s “John Lewis furniture nightmare”. Fit’s ‘at? Come again? A craiter too posh even for the favourite store of the poshos, like the Rubislaw Denners? Sacrilege. Chuck her in the tower.
Dootless she’s essential to her Bojo for an understanding of, and compassion for, the poor and deprived in society – especially the bad-taste middle classes. Barring the wedding ring, she’s our “First Lady.” We should be that prood.
Rumour has it one of their new armchairs cost a thochtie short of £6,000. Helpmaboab. But who am I to titter when I lost ma heidie in Archibalds one memorable afternoon in 1994, days after I and my second hubby had bought a West End detached, to include my mum? (She actually never liked it. Claimed my sun-soaked kitchen was “a haven for dust”.)
Suffice to say, I ended up paying (for years) a whopping (in those days) £3,000 for two armchairs and two double sofas in dark green velour. And yes, I still have them. Nearly 30 years old yet still – what should I say – presentable. (I once bought a white leather settee. Disaster – looked like a mucky shammie within the year.) And yes, still superbly comfy. Must have been made by super-master upholsterers.
It’s actually a minor miracle the suite remains in such fine fettle given the fact that, since they were toddlers, the grand-Toots have heaved oot the many seat and back cushions to use as trampolines/castle walls/beds/tunnels/you name it. And they’ve spilled their spaghetti hoops doon the side of my precious velour, not to mention wipin’ their pizza handies on it. Result? I just dicht it doon with a wee bit of soap and water, replace the cushions, and everything looks as good as… Archibalds 1994. Now that’s what I call quality.
However, my quine (mother of the trampoliners) has persuaded me that, since I’m doing a few improvements to the hoose, I should grab the nettle, launch masellie into the 2020s, and buy a new suite. Mummy, daddy. Jigglemecreditcard.
Checked oot a few shoppies and my £3,000 from all those years ago would now barely buy me a cheapo settee. But I need the lot and I need them sturdy – strong enough to withstand two now thumpingly older grandchildren, still delighting in heavin’ oot the seats and backs to make their forts, castles and trampolines. Say they: “Nana, we really, really wouldn’t jump on your new suite,” ie they definitely would.
Then again. Do I need to lash oot on new sofas and settees good enough to last three decades? Until I’m… 103? Or would I be perfectly happy with the Archibalds True Survivor oldie, with the indestructible upholstery? Ticky-bets my great-grandchildren will adore it!
Oscar ceremony spoiled by wokeness
I’m not sure what being “woke” means. I do know I’m a bittie fed up of it, especially when the Oscar ceremony on Sunday seemed woke-soaked. I get a bittie cheesed off with all these arty-farty folk I’ve never heard of telling me how to live my life. What a delight, therefore, for Anthony Hopkins not only to win Best Actor, and not turn up for the ceremony – with all its “empowering” (yawn) speeches. He couldn’t even be bothered getting oot o’ his scratcher in Wales to make a brief Zooming speech of thanks. Luuuv it. An absence that spoke a million meaningful words.
Sad farewell to fearless Molly Forbes
So sad to hear about the death of the redoubtable Molly Forbes – the fearless pensioner who fought the bullying and harassment of Donald Trump. He was determined to force her out of her beloved home at Balmedie, but she was not for moving. What a star.
What a wonderful story-teller she was; twinkly eyes, always ready to laugh. Then she lived in a council flat, but was hugely excited to be moving to what she named “Paradise” – a static home on other son Michael’s land by the sea. Truly a superb little place close to the beach. Life looked good. However, then the Trump Machine moved into Menie, determined to get rid of Michael and his mum, claiming their land was an eyesore. The fight took its toll on the old woman, yet she still survived until the grand old age of 96, having won her very own D-day.
RIP also to two colleagues, of whom I have golden memories. Former Aberdeen Journals’ production director Frank Benzie, who passed away aged 79. A classic north-east lad o’ parts, he won a place at Robert Gordon’s College, became an apprentice printer then rose through the ranks. The great loss also of Aberdeen Journals photographer Jim Love, who was 90. A gentle giant of a man, he made every job we reporters covered with him an absolute delight. I’m thinking of all three up there now, enjoying a sing-a-long with Frank’s namesake and favourite, Sinatra.
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