At the other end of the table, in his rather splendid evening attire, his beard tucked into his waistcoat is our interviewer Boff. Hail Fellows! and welcome again to another of our interviews, with one of Twitter's more mysterious and enigmatic characters. I was so pleased she agreed to do the interview I hopped on a plane to Germany before the Wombles had even got out of bed. To be fair all the spring cleaning had worn them out, so today I'm flying solo, literally. Ladies and Gentlemen, I am very pleased to present to you our darling Vole Queen. "Oh Boffy", exclaims the queen, "Don't sit all the way down there, come and sit a bit closer" she says patting an embroidered chair next to her own. Boff moves up just in time to receive an incoming bourbon freshly dipped in burgundy.
"mmmm, I do love Bourbons", says Boff, "I know you do, that's why I got them in especially", winks the Queen, "so come on then Boff, what questions have you got for me? don't hold back, ask anything, well, almost anything, a girl's got to have some mysteries you know". Indeed agrees, Boff, ferreting for a small piece of folded paper in his jacket, so then, ahem *clears throat* I wanted to begin, by asking you about your accession to the throne of becoming Queen of the Voles, was it a smooth journey or have there been a few bumps?
Gosh! It was a blood-soaked, whisker torn, fur ripped bash. Hold on! Is this a metaphor for my upbringing because if it was then... well, it definitely applies to that as well. I always thought I would do very well in prison because of the boarding experience. Whatever they say about public school, it sets you up bloody well for incarceration. I'd be 'Big Voley' of Block C in no time, brushing the new girl's hair, piercing ears, smuggling in illicit goods, getting snogged by Dirty Jane Dorey. Sorry, that was school again...
The Vole Queen politely dabs a nap-kin at the corners of her mouth, while Boff just sits there agog. "Dirty Jane Dorey??" Boff says in bewilderment. "Oh you are sweet aren't you Boff" says the Vole Queen gently tweaking his nose. "I thought it was your persona on Twitter, but you are actually quite bashful aren't you? Marvellous" says the Vole Queen as she pours another glass of Burgundy, "so what else do you have for me?" ahem, yes, of cause you're not opposed to a bit of skullduggery yourself, have you dug any good skulls lately?
I've bedded a few old men in my time. Hold on, this is a metaphor again for sex isn't it. Boffers, it is all about sex and Bourbons for you isn't it? Well, how about this one then. George V in Paris at age 15 waking up in a corset with my passport on the reproduced sideboard (awfully shoddy in places that utter dive) and a card from old Louis, Duke of Anjou with something naughty on it. Now there's a Bourbon story for you.
"I see", says Boff, still wide-eyed. "You've met a few famous faces then, can I just check you haven't got Shakespear's skull have you?" to which the Vole Queen lets out a screech of laughter, before cupping Boff's face, oh you are a silly boy. "Okay, so lets take a step back then", says Boff, "what about when you were the Vole Princess, did you have a fun upbringing?"
I refer you to Question one Mr Moatman. Madness ran rife but a good single malt was always available, and that's very important. Voles are quite partial to Argberg and breakfast, you can't fault a Dalwhinnie. I had too much freedom and ran amok all over Somerset, Dorset, Hampshire, and naturally London or cause, and the folks spent a lot of time in Grand Cayman, a particularly hedonistic island. Silver sands beach saw a lot of vole action I can tell you.
I almost married a Lord, but saw sense at the last minute. He was a raging alcoholic and I didn't fancy him at all. Actually, we met at the Priory in one of Eric Clapton's counselling groups where the diminutive Clapton taught me to primal scream in the gorse bushes, outside the cleaner's portakabin.
"Ah, I bet he thought you were 'wonderful tonight', ahem", says Boff. To which the Vole Queen shoots Boff a quizzical look. "Don't be fatuous Boff it's not becoming of you darling", she replies before popping another Bourbon into Boff's whiskered face. mmmm yum! I also wanted to ask you how you came to end up in Bavaria, writing your memoirs while running a silver smithery on the side?
Well, marrying for love and spending your inheritance in a bit of a rush means that the uppers are never far away from the scuppers. The bailiffs are not in the least bit interested in the distressed gentry Boff, however pretty; and they are so touchy! That case of Bandol Rose was NOT a bribe. Dearest Husband does something awfully tame in Bavaria. My silversmithing days are on hold because everything to do with it is tiresomely toxic, sharp and deadly. Not the best things to have around small baba's.
Boff concurs, yes safety first, very wise. "mmmm yes, there is even an acidic bath disarmingly labeled 'pickle'. You don't want that with your cold Sunday leftovers" notes the Vole Queen as she begins peeling some exotic looking fruit. "I also wanted to ask what's Bavaria like? aside from being full of Bavarians?"
It's jolly pretty, and I san see the Alps from my writing room. On a fine day, if I stand on one leg, and squint attractively around a bolster thingy. They are very big on meat in Bavaria. I've been offered so many sausages it has become quite the norm. Lots of Bayern Munich footie players with too much money and not enough delicacy. We are in the countryside, which makes me happy. Endless stretches of green and woods galore. Full of werewolves and Krampus lives just over but one. Lycanthropes have particularly good comic timing actually.
The very mention of werewolves sets Boff off. He starts regaling the Vole Queen about his knowledge of Hammer Horror and how all werewolves should look like Oliver Reed, not pretty boy teen boyband members. They all drink at the same pub in the Eastend of London he says, tapping his nose. "Oh I quite agree" says the Vole Queen, "I do like a hirsute gent, provided he's well groomed. It's not the dark ages" she says, "no need for tangles and knots in this day and age". Indeed, and what have the locals made of you? have you got into any scrapes while navigating your way around German high society?
Yes, well. I'm known as the English Madam, and if this was Georgian London it would be an accurate moniker, but those days are sadly far behind me. The villagers are good sports and we converse with hand gestures, lots of bright smiles and my utterly broken German. One of my favourite things is to shout 'Schmetterling' and 'verkauf, verkauf', really loudly as I drive through the village. Such a fun language Boff.
I never thought I would any good at motherhood, but producing two who are remarkably gorgeous, it's the best thing I've ever done. They both have too many names but you have to be prepared for anything in life. So if Georgiana (Georgie) marries to the side and hefts a title about, then that's fine. If she becomes a vegan who loves the ladies, she can be Georgie and Edward is a Ted so, he could easily be an American politician or a series of lectures. The world is his cyber crab.
"Well, it is important to keep all your options open, so I quite agree, and Georgie is very cute to be fair", says Boff. "At least I would say she clearly takes after her mother". "Oh Boff" says the Vole Queen, "I take it all back, you're not the least bit bashful, you're an old smoothy charmer. Good, I much prefer the latter, it means we can have a good giggle". The Vole Queen tops up Boff's glass, "now, more questions or are we about done?" "Almost" replies Boff, so I wanted to ask what tricks of the trade you will be teaching the younglings to help them battle their way through this high society?
Well, obviously the elephant trick, you know with the turned out trouser pockets and Albert extending to the floor. Once I was at a Burns Night given by the Royal Engineers. On the top table seated next to a randy Major, whose terrifying wife glared at me all night and then pointedly refused 'a little tart' because she'd had enough of tarts already that night. Blisteringly unfair it was Boff! anyway, the Major began to let off steam to the extent that he welcomed Piper and Haggis, in a most elephantine way. It escalated very quickly after that.
"Blimey!, I don't know about 'the elephant', but I did learn the trick with the 'three cups' at an early age and it's stood me in good stead down the years. I'll show you it later on" says Boff. I also wanted to ask what future plans you have? As an accomplished pensmith and global navigator, there must be plans you have for us all yet?
I'm not awfully good at being without funds, I'm terrible with money I'm afraid. Ever hopeful that the three book deal will appear on the wings of a dove and then, sweetly, Harvery Fiercestein, rings and cajoles me with a huge film offer and lots of net and a huge gross. I have this Scorpio ascendant, which makes me terribly vengeful but only on the inside. So I plot lots of dreadful things and only write about them. I had this idea to recruit lots of urchins and train them to be pickpockets and thieves, operating out of the Stews in East London. I've heard a chap called Fagin was pretty good at it and I've put out feelers but complete radio silence thus far.
I'm terribly sorry to hear that. I personally blame the invention of modern medicine for the decline in Dickensian street urchins, but I'm sure if you were to offer them a zero hours contract with the false hope of employment at the end of it, you may get a few eager applicants. Least, that's what I would try. Perhaps we can close our interview then by asking you to tell us something unexpected about yourself which we didn't know?
At age 15 I was invited by the Third (German and youngest) mistress of Sheik Azmi Azzam to accompany her to Berlin on his jet. There I stayed with some adorable nudists called Brust in West Berlin before that ghastly wall came down. They both worked and I was left to my own devices much of the time, trying to work out German TV that was, even more, bemusing then and wrestling with Black Bread and schnapps.
The phone trills one afternoon and the most delightful Englishman is on the other end. We get talking as you do and he invites me on a tour of East Berlin, which sounded jolly exciting. He flashed his 'something' at Checkpoint Charlie and in we went. Fascinating, like driving into the past, but the best thing was being trailed by these two thugs in raincoats and cheap trilbys, JUST like the secret polic in Tintin books. I was a bit giddy and kept asking if they knew Captain Haddock but to no avail. I sneaked a look at this Oxford-educated Johnnie's passport, who spoke seven languages, and noted he had written down his profession as 'Travelling salesman'. I do believe I had unwittingly taken on a tour of East Berlin by one of our spooks.
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