Oh, My Days!

 It always bemuses me, when one ventures into supermarkets during the period between Christmas and New Year, that the ‘special offer’ shelves are filled with cleaning products. What weird marketing theory is that all about? Is it that the Great British Public falls into slatternly behaviour during the festive season and it is now imperative we crack open various bottles and sprays of disinfectant/bleach/surface cleaners and tackle our dark and dank crevices and corners in preparation of welcoming the New Year? (Mention the words ‘crevice nozzle’ - as in the vacuum cleaner attachment - to Lord Malarkey and he will snigger and titter like a school boy finding a rude word in a dictionary. No idea why.) Anyway, I haven’t stocked up on cleaning products because a) I like to think I keep a relatively clean and tidy house already and b) I have too much important reading and writing to do at the moment. Nell and I have today completed the reading of this: ‘Tackle!’ by Jilly Cooper. I am a big

 On Boxing Day morning I was overcome by a fit of pique regarding the whole commercialisation of Christmas, and the general media push that puts pressure on everyone to have a ‘perfect’ day by wearing matching jumpers and choosing an innovative theme for their dinner table - ‘Scandinavian gonks, anyone? Oh no, that is soooooo last year.’ This resulted in me denuding the house of all its Christmas regalia and turning it back to normal. It felt like the lifting of an enormous, dark, heavy cloud. It has also made dusting much easier.  The truth is, I suppose, that although I loved Christmas as a child, because I was governed by the whole ‘it’s the birthday of Baby Jesus!’ mythology (being a Sunday School go-er and an innocent who believed everything she was told), as an adult I do not like what Christmas has since become. Are people excited on Christmas morning because of the anticipation of rushing off to church to celebrate an important date in the Christian calendar? Are they heck. The

  Christmas Eve. A time of peace and calm before the excitement of the Christmas Day celebrations. For making time to sit down and take stock, for checking that everything is ready. A time of anticipation and making wishes, of looking forward and starting a celebration. Or, if you are the residents of the newly resurrected Much Malarkey Manor, a time for all hands to the decking of the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la la la la la laaaaaaa! The local villagers, hearing the news that Much Malarkey Manor is once again open for business, trudge up the snow-covered hill to help with the moving of furniture, the unpacking of boxes and to take down the enormous Big Top Yurt which, quite frankly, has been a bit of an eyesore for the past year. They also want a bit of a nosey around the new house, and they also know that come lunchtime, Mrs Slocombe will be serving up a lovely leek and potato soup with cheese on toast, and mince pies and cream for pudding. Mrs Slocombe is in her el

  And there we have it. The stories of the Ghosts of Much Malarkey Manor have been told. ‘Do you think it’s worked?’ says Mrs Pumphrey, as the last of the audience leaves the Big Top Yurt and the cast of the Christmas Story 2023 set about clearing the stage away in preparation for their after-show party. ‘Do you think the ghosts will be able to stay on in the new Manor?’ ‘I don’t know,’ admits Mrs Miggins. ‘I mean, I thought the stories were told well and we did our best as we always do, but only time will tell. We’ll just have to wait until we can move into the new Manor and that won’t be for a while yet.’ Call it serendipity, call it coincidence, call it a spooky coming together of time and events (or call it a timely manipulation of a plot point, it you like) but at that VERY moment, the project manager of the new Manor build appears through the curtains of the Big Top. ‘Yoo hoo!’ she calls. ‘I thought I’d wait until your performance was over before popping in. I bring glad

  There’s a bit of a kerfuffle in the wings of the stage during the change of scene and Mrs Miggins goes to investigate. ‘What’s happening?’ she says. ‘Where’s William Shakespeare? He’s supposed to be telling the story of Brian, the last ghost.’ ‘He’s locked himself in the shepherd’s hut library and is refusing to come out,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘I’ve tried beating the door down with a stick so I can drag him out by the ears, but he’s blocked it with something heavy. He keeps wailing that he isn’t a cat murderer and he’s sorry about Francis Bacon.’ ‘Oh, good grief,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Now what? The last thing I need is a self-pitying bard.’ She can see the ghost of Brian the Caveman already on stage, clearly eager to hear the recounting of his story. He is looking towards her, eyes bright and expectant. She knows she can’t let him down. He is the oldest resident ghost of Much Malarkey Manor and so, more than most, deserves to be heard because his roots to the land are much deeper and

  ‘Aaah!’ says Tango Pete, tangoing himself into position on the stage. ‘The Nineteen Eighties! What a decade! The music, the films, the economic boom and bust – ‘He-Man and the Masters of the Universe’ for heaven’s sake! And in the midst of it all, my uncle the Right Honourable Peter Sanspantaloon, M.P for Cymbeline-on-the-Wold and political advisor for the too-near-to-the-knuckle-of-truth political satire TV sit-com, ‘Yes, Minister.’ ‘I do like that sitcom,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Of course, it’s total fabrication and Government would NEVER be run as it is portrayed in the programme, because THAT would be a SCANDAL.’ ‘Hmmmmm,’ says the ever-cynical Mrs Miggins. Tango Pete is shimmying around the stage and looking wholly incongruous against the Victorian parlour theme, but eventually he settles in the chair and opens his storybook. ‘This is the story of my uncle’s claim to fame,’ begins Tango Pete, wishing he’d worn his crushed velour rather than sequinned trousers because the se

  The ghost of Lady Pumphrey de Gloria sails into the performance space like a magnificent galleon with the wind at her back, closely followed by our own Mrs Pumphrey who is dressed up to the nines and beyond, determined to do her glamorous ancestor proud. Mrs Pumphrey arranges herself in the chair and opens her storybook. ‘Imagine yourselves back in the glory times of Regency England,’ she begins. ‘When life was for living and enjoying to the full, when frocks were as wide as they were tall, wigs were big enough to hide a sheep in and roister-doister was the theme of the gentry.’ She pauses whilst the audience imagines, then, after a suitable amount of time, she continues. ‘Lady Pumphrey de Gloria was a renowned beauty of the Royal Court. Her company was sought by the rich and famous, her grace and elegance copied by all, and even though many tried, no one came close to the size and sway of her false rump. Every week she turned down at least three proposals of marriage, and ever

  Following the revelation that William Shakespeare is a thief, plagiarist and cat murderer, but now stuffed and a bit tipsy on free gluhwein and apple streusel, the audience return to their seats, and the cast resume their Victorian ghost story telling performance. Ptolemy Pheasant arranges his lengthy tail feathers in the armchair, decides it is all too uncomfortable and begins to relate the story of his ancestor, Ptolemy Bysshe Keats Pheasante, standing up. ‘Ptolemy Bysshe Keats Pheasante, like all his ancestors before him and those after, was a romantic, a charmer, an appreciator of all things beautiful,’ begins Ptolemy. ‘And he chose to express his sensibilities via the medium of poetry, mostly because it allowed him to waft around in frilly shirts and avoid doing any hard graft that might get his wings dirty. As with all young pheasants of his time, he travelled abroad on tour, collecting artefacts and treasures from fine European cities, to bring home and inspire him to writ

Because the Lady Author has been waffling on a bit and her fingers are feeling a bit R.S.I with all the frantic typing, the story of Bamber Robert Wilson as narrated by Bambino Bobble Wilson cracks on apace. ‘My esteemed ancestor had the great misfortune,’ he begins, ‘of being the cat of William Shakespeare's household. And let me tell you, Shakespeare wasn’t a cat person.’ In the wings, William Shakespeare has the decency to blush, but he knows, like all great writers, that the truth of life must be told, unless you are a talentless gutter-press louse like Omid Scobie and are in it purely for the money and media exposure. I digress… ‘No, life in the Shakespeare household for Bamber Robert Wilson was far from the luxury you might think,’ says Bambino. ‘Not a tin of tuna nor comfy cat bed in sight. He was forced to catch his own food and sleep on a cold stone floor. But now he wants to wreak his revenge and reveal exactly what Shakespeare got up to during his so-called ‘missin

  A figure in a cerise and grey tracksuit was sitting in the armchair. It was 1978, the Winter of Discontent, when worker strikes were common, the three-day week was in force and electricity was more off than on in order to conserve fuel supplies. And here we are, forty-five years later, plus ca change… Anyway, Mrs Miggins has stepped forward to tell the story of her aunt - Tricia Miggins, who like her, turns out to be a bit of feisty bird. ‘It was the last Girl Guide meeting before Christmas,’ begins Mrs Miggins. ‘And Tricia Miggins’ troop was in the middle of making Christingles for the service at Church on Christmas Eve. They were having to be a bit careful because last year’s Christingles proved to be somewhat of a fire hazard. This year, then, instead of real candles to represent the Light of the World, they were making some very realistic pretend candles from red wax crayons with a yellow crepe paper flame stuck on top. Honestly, you could barely tell the difference! The Gu

  As the shadows of Captain Poo fade, the figure in the armchair transforms from a weary soldier fed up with the futility of war into that of a hen dressed in an elegant Edwardian costume which has seen better days – it is Lizabettina, the Edwardian ancestor of Mrs Slocombe. Mrs Slocombe, it has to be said, it thrilled to be playing a part that isn’t the chief cook and bottle washer she is usually lumbered with. She thinks she could grow used to dressing up in upper class finery and having other people wait on her instead. But all is not what it seems. Although Lady of the Manor Lizabettina Slocombe’s fortunes have fallen on hard times. ‘My ancestor ghost,’ begins Mrs Slocombe, nodding towards the chair on the other side of the fire where Lizabettina is perched ‘is Lizabettina Slocombe, the wife of Lord Slocombe who was descended from a very wealthy family. It is the Slocombe’s who came into the possession of Much Malarkey Manor in 1920s when, free from the horrors of the Great War,

  The main lights dim and a soft spotlight focuses on a large armchair set against a back drop of a Victorian parlour. In the armchair sits Mrs Poo. She is dressed as her ancestor, Captain Poo, in army uniform, and even has a small moustache attached to her upper beak because she felt it added to the armed forces vibe. The ghost of Captain Poo is perched on the footstool at her feet. She is wondering if the presence of the small moustache is wholly necessary but does not say anything because her focus is on hearing her story being told, for when her story is told, the memory of her life will not fade. Mrs Poo opens a large storybook. ‘It is 1917 and Captain Poo of the Queen’s Own Yorkshire Dragoons, was sitting in a trench bunker. It was freezing – ice lined the trenches and the soldiers were permanently wet and cold. They were running short of supplies and all wishing this war would come to an end. To make matters seem worse, it was Christmas Eve and everyone was missing their fam