HE'S BEHIND YOU

My kitchen

Since Bert left the KNOB*, I had hoped that they might have given me his place as First Triangle, but I am sadly disappointed. The male chauvinistic German schweinhunde are only keeping me on as general dogsbody, fetching and carrying for the orchestra, oiling their valves, wiping their finger rings and cleaning spittle off their bell ends. They let me do my 'ting' when one of them needs to go for a tinkle. Oh! That it should have come to this! That bounder Bert has abandoned me without so much as an Auf Wiedersehen Pet, and I sit in the inglenook fireplace cleaning out mouthpieces with my tears and one of Bert's old socks.

Dietmar and Manfred, Second Trombone and Flugelhorn respectively, are particularly mean to me. They were preparing to play at the New Year's Party at the German Permanent Representation to the EU and even gave me their lederhosen to clean. The ignominy! I polished them with Marmite, that'll teach them.

A better use for the instruments in my humble opinion

Baron von Hardeep, the current orchestra director, who was once so kind to me and treated me like his own daughter, has turned evil and wicked. Dietmar and Manfred are his new favourites and they can't do a thing wrong as far as he is concerned. Only McButtons, the orchestra's gopher and my confidante, wipes my tears. "Dinnae fash, hen," he reassures me. "We're - I mean they're - all gonnae die." It doesn't make me feel a lot better, but it's somewhere to rest my aching feet. He makes a great pouffe.

Talking of which, last Saturday afternoon Dietmar came flouncing in, clapping his hands.

"Great news, schatzi," he trilled. " We have just learned zat Prince von Mandelson is at tonight's New Year Party ze guest of honour to be."

When I had deconstructed his words and put them back in the right order, I expressed my great surprise.

"Prince von Mandelson? But he is no longer European Commissioner. Why is he to Brussels coming - I mean coming to Brussels?"

Dietmar struck a queenly pose and straightened his tiara.

"Because, Schatzi, rumour has it he is looking for a vife!" he giggled, camply.

"A wife! That cannot be, Dietmar! Everybody knows Prince Mandelson is .... "

Dietmar gave me an arch look. "Your point being?"

"He'll never look twice at you, Dietmar. You're too .... German."

The Teutonic Twat minced across the kitchen. "Haff you not seen Bruno? Er ist ein huge success, and he is only Austrian. I sink I vould make a wunderbar hausfrau" he primped. "I can kuchen, I can singen, I can ze trombone spielen UND I can ficken until ze cows home are coming. I vill make sure he notices me at ze party, I vill very lewd noise in his direction mit mein trombone be making."

"I think you mean LOUD noise."

"I know vot I said."


When he had flounced off, I took my feet off McButtons and threw another script on the fire. "Oh McButtons," I sighed. "We won't ever get a chance to meet the Prince."

"Bonnie Prince Peter ...." sniffed McButtons, "Fecking gorgeous so he is. I'd do him." I picked up a tarnished old trumpet and blew it, just to clear out the tubes. There was a puff of dust, a flash, a strong smell of Benson & Hedges, and a middle-aged woman in a slightly too short sparkly dress and fishnets teetered through the smoke in white stilettoes.

"Hello darlings," coughed Mrs Pouncer, straightening the sunglasses on her head. "I'm here to make your dreams come true. You SHALL go to the ball!"

She pronounced a few words in a strange tongue, it might have been Hebrew, and pointed her cigarette holder at a coal scuttle in the corner. "Boosh!" it transformed into a black stretch Merc. She then pointed her ciggie at the array of rusty instruments lined up for cleaning. "Whoosh!" they morphed, in a CGI fashion, into the UpTown Horns.

The Uptown Horns

"Now, get there before the KNOB and steal their thunder!" instructed Mrs Pouncer. McButtons and I looked at each other.

"But we can't go to a ball dressed like this!" I cried. I was wearing my Polish cleaning-lady style headscarf and a winceyette nightgown, and McButtons was still dressed as the Artful Dodger from a previous gig.

Mrs Pouncer apologised for the oversight, and waved her wand at us absently before starting to fade. Suddenly I was dressed head to foot in turquoise Max Mara and McButtons was in the full sporran.

The invitation card was addressed to "Dame W. Twanky" but anyone can make a mistake


McButtons ready to do the Gay Gordons

Mrs Pouncer popping out for some fags yesterday

"Milady?" said McButtons in a very poor attempt at a Cockney accent, opening the rear door of the limo.

"Thank you, Parker," I breathed in my best imitation of Mrs Pouncer, and stepped inside, followed by my new band along with their instruments. "Awfully nice of you chaps to help out," I thanked them.

"That's OK ma'am, Mick and the boys laid us off for the winter."

McButtons got behind the wheel and the limo glided off under its own steam, which was handy, as he can't drive. Mrs Pouncer materialized once more.

"Darlings, I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed on, it's all the temazepam. I forgot to tell you to be home before .... oh dammit, where have they gone?"

TO BE CONTINUED

* Kurt Nachtnebel Oompah Band