That dick Musters!

Something awful happened at the weekend. I was having a lovely meal with my wife when, suddenly (as if from nowhere), that dick Musters appeared.

We were staying in a lovely boutique B&B in Berwick on Tweed. The best B&B in town and possibly the whole of England. Berwick is indeed in England but most of the time it feels more like Scotland. Folks there have a very distinctive and strong Scottish dialect. It can be rather confusing and, in hindsight (a great thing, apparently!), the boy Musters, easily confused at the best of times, should never have been exposed to the place. It rather tipped him over the edge and he forgot his place.

Let me give you an example. Take this guy here. I cropped his head off for legal reasons. What do you notice about him?

Yes, he's wearing Union Jack shorts. An awful business at the best of times but hear this! This guy had the strongest possible Scottish accent you could imagine. Musters kept looking at the shorts and listening to the accent in abject befuddlement. Eventually I had to move him along physically in case he caused an international incident.

And so, that night, in real life, my wife and I were having a chat between courses with our lovely hostess, Celia, who, it must be said, straddled the line between eccentricity and madness very precariously. We were discussing this strange border nature of Berwick and Musters pipes in with:

"It's confusing all right. You hear really strong Scottish accents coming from people wearing Rangers strips".

Celia looked briefly confused by his comment but continued anyway with a strange tale involving Doddington cheese and William Morris wallpaper.

When she left, my wife said nothing of the incident but gave me a look which quite clearly said:

"Don't you ever bring that dick Musters out with us again."