Windsor Castle (Marylebone)

Mr Brown (Mrs Brown)

Call me a bearded, fawning Jock if you like, but never question my sense of duty. I can assure you that the poor wee lassie whose grief I was charged with shouldering would tell you what devotion means, devotion to a person, devotion to duty. Oh, and, in my case, devotion to a good boozer.

I'm getting on a bit now of course, retired if you will, but I'm proud that I never shirked my responsibilities to her majesty, nor felt any less pride, or compunction to abandon her memory despite the century that's passed since.

My poor wee Vicky; how she loved her Albert. How I adored her, after he died. The big English twot.

Eventually, she went the same way as beardy and I started coming here to the Windsor Castle - alone. And since that first pint of pale ale, I'll no be told to drink anywhere else. Loyalty. there can be no more honourable trait in a kilted man. Oh, maybe apart from devotion. And deference to God-given authority, like the church and upper classes.

The walls in this pub are a museum to a glorious, imperial past. For a man of my inclination to subservience - that kind of nostalgia is no a bad thing.

Kings and queens everywhere, pictures of their handsome majesties most recent and - of course - grainy old shots of my precious Victoria herself. Not to mention toy soldiers. Aye, this is the place for me alright, the perfect pub for a 160 year old still prepared to doth his cap.

I've no need for male nor female company. I'm content to be here solo, with my pint, my memories and the commercial radio station which pumps out a stream of advertisements to complement the regal ambiance.

Supping my beer I often find myself drifting back to those heady days when men were men, when ladies knew how to carry themselves and the monarchy retained its rightful place in hearts of the proletariat.

* Drifts off into semi-conscious, dreamy nostalgia *

Queen Victoria: Oh Mr Brown, you really shouldn't have brought the horses round; I'm not ready for this yet. Albert's only been gone five years.

Mr Brown: Come now, your majesty, I've been tasked with looking after ye, and that's what I'll dae. Get yer royal a**e on board afore I slap it wi my bare, hairy hands. + Queen smirks coyly +

Pub Radio: You could save up to 20 per cent on your car insurance when you buy from elephant on-line?

* Drifts back in *

........Ah, Victoria and me horse-riding, and even cheaper car insurance. Takes me back.

* Drifts off again *

Queen Victoria: Mr Brown, I really will not have you talking to me like that. And I fail to see how that task is going to assuage my grief.

Mr Brown: Ah, weeesht woman! I know what's best for ye. Noo, get on yer knees and suck hard. And take yer crown off; ye'll dae me an injury.

Pub radio: Got a flat roof? C**t's gonna leak. Ronson roof s***e. Use it or get wet. Don't say I didn't warn you – C**T

* Drifts back in *

..... Ahhhh....Knees and sucking and dripping flat roofs

* Drifts off again *

Mr Brown: woman, will ye please stick your rump a bit higher in the air. There's no way I can get in a good shot if you're not willing to raise your game.

Queen Victoria: Oh really! You are Brown in name and in nature, you filthy Scotch savage.

Pub radio: Book your fortnight in Butlins before the end of December and you could win a new Ford Tippex. You working class vermin.

* Drifts back in *

....Ah, brown, a**e, Tippex....

Mr Brown's rating for the Windsor Castle - 6 / 10

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  “,….. Why didn’t they live to be 100?Huh? Well, they woz running round all day, hunting mammoths, eating berries,..rumping their little hearts out. No boozing or smoking. They must have been fit as fiddles. Yer Neanderthalls……….I’ll tell you why, it’s … Continue reading →