[Ann Drysdale]

Look, Philip – here it comes. Dead March, trundle-trundle. Waste of resources? Waste of horses! Ooh - wicked thought. Wish one had had the foresight to tell it to one’s Marines. Last-minute change, lads. Special request from your commander-in-chief. Our little secret. Bit of Beethoven, just to get it a-going, then straight into Bonnie Dundee. Kipling knew - by the brand on my withers, the finest of tunes… Triple time. King’s Troop regimental canter. The way of the Warhorse... Bliss! And - off she goes! Hurrah!

No stopping her now. It’s what she would have wanted, eh, Philip?



Note. Sounds best read aloud - in The Voice...

[Nigel Mace]

Oh Ann - we are amused! Brilliant.

[John Whitworth]

Yes Ann. You have triumphantly transformed another dud Staggers Competition. A racing certainty IF you enter it. Promise you will. Thirty quid would buy all sorts of things. Three bottles of Oliver Cromwell gin at all good Aldi Superstores. A silver medal winner as used by Royalty, it's the goods, Ann. Get pissed as the rich do. Of course the blessed Margaret drank Scotch whisky, but she's gone to the great Saloon Bar in the sky, whereas we...

[Jerome Betts]

That would be D. G. Rossetti's Gold Bar perhaps, John?

The Blesséd Margaret leaned out
From the gold bar of Heaven.
‘Why has my handbag lost its clout?
My neighbour here’s Nye Bevan!’

[John Whitworth]

I think they would have got on surprisingly well, Jerome. She liked an amusing, sexy man and she didn't pack a horsewhip. And they both liked a good stiff drink. As for Nye he saved his real bile for Public School softies like Hugh Gaitskill. Or was it Gaitskell?