'A Brief Note from Bert Beach' - by Richard Riding

(Translated from the original hand-written scrawl)

Dear Olive Neilson,

Old what-his-name has reminded me that it is your whats-it birthday. My wife, what’s-her-name, joins me in wishing you a very happy day out there in Florence and we’ll both be raising a glass of Meths to you both on the day.

We are still here in Chelsea Manor Street, but the house isn’t. My son, what’s-his-name, was looking for a gas leak in the wife’s lower regions but couldn’t light the blow-lamp. In the darkness of her voluminous nether garments he began to suffocate and asked for a match. Just as I lit the match – boooooooom, but even noisier than that! The wife was found in Glebe Place, totally intact and still wearing her mahogany jodhpurs and divers helmet, but doing handstands on the roof of No 48; at old Keith what-his-name’s old what’s-it studio. We still haven’t found our son. The whole thing is a bit of a mystery because we are not on the gas. Must have been someone the missus ate.

Since the house was blowed up we have been living in my 1957 Dormobile van just outside where the house used to be. The van has clocked up 99,000 miles, 18 times, and I think it is coming up for its first set of new tyres. I thought I had the ringing in the ears – tetanus I think they call it, but it was the wheel rims on the pavement. I don’t drive on the roads no more, they’re too dangerous nowadays, specially down them one-way streets where everyone except me is driving in the wrong direction.

The lads here send their regards. Albert is now 113 – deaf as a post, blind as a bat and he’s got that Altz-thing-a-me’s disease, and unlike me can’t remember anything. He now does my accounts and the odd bit of welding. Johnnie is 98, weighs 35 stone and died in 1986 and again in 1994. I don’t think you know the other lads, in any case they’re all inside, watching the telly.

The building trade is not what it used to be. I remember the days when we had at least eight jobs on the go and never got round to finishing any of them. We used to do a lot of work for Mr Ewart but his wife, whats-her-name, set their son on me the last time I went round to fix something. I think she’s married to a parrot now.

Anyway Olive, if you ever want any work done over there in Florence let me know in good time – as I said, the van is not what it used to be – never was come to think of it. We can fix anything, good and proper. The missus is still doing handstands round in Glebe Place but I know she’ll join me in wishing you all the best.

Yours,

Bert Beach
(By Royal Disappointment to Prince Albert)