Meanwhile make-believe notes from Nairn's infamous make-believe character (thanks Pookie):
I) When Mr. Boneyard suggested going out on his yacht, I accepted. His name’s Barnard, but having met him, ‘Boneyard’ is more appropriate, and the yacht is a dingy with aspirations of grandeur.
“Fetch me a drink…” I crooned, and as he tottered off below decks, I gazed desperately into the darkness of the harbour, with it’s little boats bumping together.
“Lager or cider?” he barked, as I leapt nimbly into the freezing water, my thoughts only of home.
Sadly, the pink velour tracksuit I had chosen to wear, quickly became waterlogged, dragging me deeper and deeper into the abyss…
II) She couldn’t resist the idea of being perched aboard a yacht, clutching a pina colada, or something equally classy. But being stone cold sober and in a state of shock, words failed the former glamour model, as she climbed aboard the good ship ‘petit pois’. The aperitifs consisted of cans rather than bottles - not a drop of bubbly in sight. There was only one thing for it. If only she hadn’t been wearing a huge pink sponge!
III) “Fetch me a drink, Mr. B…” she crooned, breathing a huge sigh of relief as the ageing car salesman disappeared below decks. What to do? What to do? She looked wildly about her for a means of escape. There were plenty of other boats in the harbour, but most of them even more ridiculous than this so-called yacht she had been invited onto, by that fiend in human shape, Adrian Barnard, or Mr. Boneyard, as she had mentally renamed him.
“Lager or cider?” he bellowed. She rolled her eyes. Just when she had thought things couldn’t get any worse! There wasn’t any point in answering. She had to act now and fast, or her entire evening would be in ruins. And what, she pondered in horror - what if someone were to see her aboard this crate, clutching a can of Strongbow, making inane chit-chat with a man who could barely speak? That was it. Her mind was made up.
Adrian Barnard appeared on deck just in time to see his date disappearing over the edge of his boat and into the harbour.
“Pookie…!” he screamed in alarm.
“Pookie! Don’t worry, I’ll save you…!”
“Fetch me a drink…” I crooned, and as he tottered off below decks, I gazed desperately into the darkness of the harbour, with it’s little boats bumping together.
“Lager or cider?” he barked, as I leapt nimbly into the freezing water, my thoughts only of home.
Sadly, the pink velour tracksuit I had chosen to wear, quickly became waterlogged, dragging me deeper and deeper into the abyss…
II) She couldn’t resist the idea of being perched aboard a yacht, clutching a pina colada, or something equally classy. But being stone cold sober and in a state of shock, words failed the former glamour model, as she climbed aboard the good ship ‘petit pois’. The aperitifs consisted of cans rather than bottles - not a drop of bubbly in sight. There was only one thing for it. If only she hadn’t been wearing a huge pink sponge!
III) “Fetch me a drink, Mr. B…” she crooned, breathing a huge sigh of relief as the ageing car salesman disappeared below decks. What to do? What to do? She looked wildly about her for a means of escape. There were plenty of other boats in the harbour, but most of them even more ridiculous than this so-called yacht she had been invited onto, by that fiend in human shape, Adrian Barnard, or Mr. Boneyard, as she had mentally renamed him.
“Lager or cider?” he bellowed. She rolled her eyes. Just when she had thought things couldn’t get any worse! There wasn’t any point in answering. She had to act now and fast, or her entire evening would be in ruins. And what, she pondered in horror - what if someone were to see her aboard this crate, clutching a can of Strongbow, making inane chit-chat with a man who could barely speak? That was it. Her mind was made up.
Adrian Barnard appeared on deck just in time to see his date disappearing over the edge of his boat and into the harbour.
“Pookie…!” he screamed in alarm.
“Pookie! Don’t worry, I’ll save you…!”
