Pete Sixsmith was attached to Pardew his butler, and the butler seemed contended enough with life in Shildon’s posh bit, Busty Bank. But Palace gold talks loudly and the butler – he may seem ungoldly but his name derives from the French Par Dieu (by God) – is off back down south, gratefully detaching himself from the ruffians and vagabonds of the North East. Let Sixer sound the bugle ….
Some disconcerting news from Sixsmith Towers this morning as I awoke to find…… no Pardew.
The bally butler has whizzed off to Surrey to take up a post at The Crystal Palace, working for a millionaire who is trying to flog his pile off to some American type who is taken by England and all things English.
My morning tea was brought in by Carver, a terribly rough type from the North East who looks like a cross between that Brian London – you know, the boxer chappie – and Scrapper from Bunkerton Castle. He spilled half the old Earl Grey before slamming it on the bedside table and saying something like “I’ll look after the hoose until yaz can find someone else to buttle for you”. My head is spinning already.
I suppose the news will be welcomed down in the village, where the locals throw mud, rotten vegetables and insults at Pardew as he looks for bargains in the village shops. A couple of times they have turned up outside the house with pitchforks and burning torches after he has done something particularly offensive, but I have taken no notice of them. I mean, would you? Next thing they’ll be begging me for more bedding as they seem to have scrawled “Boycoutt the Big House” all over theirs.
Admittedly, he has made some mistakes over the years. That one where he had an altercation with an Irish servant when we visited friends in Humberside did not go down well. Had the red haired Celt responded as I would have expected him to, we would have spent a lengthy period in Casualty.
And then there was that time he was so damned rude to a visiting South American who had arrived to give him a few lessons in how to run a household. Calling him what he did and within earshot of the reptiles from the Parish Newsletter was just not good form. I almost let him go as a result of that, but he was keen to stay.
In fact, I got to feeling that, like the poor, he would always be with us. Nothing wrong with the poor – without them our shirt sponsors would surely collapse – but Pardew didn’t really get on with them and found communication difficult. Maybe it was that rather dreary Croydon whine that alienated them.
For many of them, the end came when he led the village football team to yet another defeat against the village from just down the road, a rather modest place without the ego that our people have about their abode.
The last four times he played them they have lost, once so badly that football was forgotten and the locals took up horse punching instead. I still have a hunter that has a nose as flat as Steve Bruce’s and I hold Pardew responsible for this.
So off he goes, back to where he came from. The villagers will be very keen to see who replaces him as the public face of Sixsmith Towers. The aforementioned Bruce is a possibility but he does tend to go on a bit about losing a previous job because the locals never took to him, rather than his habit of spilling the kedgeree at breakfast.
I may promote internally in order to save some money. I’m afraid that Carver would be a little too much, but Beardsley, one of his minions, may get the job in the short term – although I wouldn’t want to bump into a cove like him if the lights were off. It would give me the collywobbles.
I may even look abroad. There are plenty of Romanians and Bulgarians looking for work in this country and I am sure that they would not take any nonsense from the locals.
In the meantime, it’s goodbye to Pardew, my trusty and faithful servant. You were happy to take all the brickbats that could have been aimed at me and you stood in front of the gates manfully while I lounged around in Barbados.
Greater love hath no man than that he would lay down his last shreds of dignity and integrity for his employer.
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