‘Fiskerton, I cannot find my reading glasses. Read me some juicy bits from The Daily Telegrope, will you?’
It is 2023, Aubyn Xerxes Arbuthnot De’Ath, 4th Baron Lindum, of Lindum Towers in the County of Lincolnshire, continues to create chaos all around him. Read all about his divorce, his preparations for the coronation of the new King, how Covid lays him low, how he acquires a cat, and how he exploits his tenants.
His faithful butler, Archie Fiskerton, tries to manage both triumph and disaster, and Martin Scopwick, the erstwhile pig boy, proves himself to be extremely resourceful.
This is the third book in the Lord Lindum series. Its predecessor, Lord Lindum’s Anus Mirabilis won the Chill with a Book Satire of the Year Award.
Press Reviews
‘An outrageous affront to decency – Liable to deprave and corrupt’
The Lincoln Bugle
‘Unbridled laughter‘
The Gainsborough Trumpet
‘Not for children, the faint-hearted, pregnant mothers, or the clergy’
The Sleaford Trombone
‘Laughed so much I had an accident’
The Brigg Tuba
‘Scandalously Funny’
The Skegness Euphonium
‘Depressingly Hilarious’
The Mablethorpe Cornet
‘Appointed to be read in churches’
The Boston Cloister
An Extract from the book
‘Fiskerton, I cannot find my reading glasses. Read me some juicy bits from The Daily Telegrope, will you?’
‘Of course, your lordship. Now, let me see, what have we here? Ah yes. It appears that there is a dearth of tomatoes in the supermarkets.’
‘To what is this catastrophe ascribed.’
‘To bad weather in Morocco and Spain.’
‘And there no tomatoes to be had even in Waitrose.’
‘I fear not your lordship.’
‘Not even for ready money?’
‘Not even for ready money.’
‘It is the End Times. Are there other signs and portents?’
‘ ASDA are rationing lettuces – three lettuces per person.’
‘The end is nigh.’
‘And Morrisons – two cucumbers each.’
‘Behold fond man: see here thy certain doom.’
‘Perhaps not yet, your Lordship. Thanks to the diligence and foresight of Mr Scampton, your lordship’s hothouses will be able to furnish the house with ample salad vegetables despite the time of year and the weather in Morocco. There will even be a surplus. Perhaps we can donate some of the produce to the poor?’
‘Have you taken leave of your senses, man. Who do you take me for? Saint Francis of Assisi? No, no, no. Now off you go and make sure that every lettuce, every cucumber, every tomato, every radish and every pea is accounted for. I know what the proletariat are like. Give ‘em a scally onion and they’ll demand a gazpacho.’
