Dibbler
The prophet’s mantle, ere his flight began, dropped on the world a bare warning to man.
Ancient portents do vex me, readers. Thumbing through the Dibbliathon recently (a dusty tome chronicling my family’s, ahem, exploits), I espied this harrowing passage, mysteriously scribbled into the back of the book: “Yea there shall come from the House of Dibbler one who shall squander the ancestral legacy on gaming, wenches and leather undergarments. Behold, when this Beast returns to the ancestral seat at Nether Crapington, then shall the ancient prophecy be invoked.”
Readers, I have just moved into a cottage on our old Nether Crapington estate! I was forced to vacate my Mayfair lodgings on account of a disastrous plunge on Amy Winehouse at last spring’s Mercury Awards. I suspect I may have tipped her to you in this very column.
To pay the debts, I have flogged not only my priceless collection of Etruscan porn but, tragically, my cherished set of engraved Mayan felching spatulas. Gone too is the Regency wardrobe: my entire plumage now consists solely of 18 seemingly unfloggable leather thongs.
But what of the prophecy? If it’s of the gnashing teeth and untold vexation variety, I think I can wing it. But I fear a more specific fate. I remember an occasion in early nipperhood when my nanny, enraged by a bite I gave to her nose, which subsequently became gangrenous and had to be lopped off, looked me square in the eye and hissed: “Master Dibbler as it is told, your time will come.”
Little did I know, as I chewed happily on nanny’s cartilage, that my countless misdeeds might return to bite me on the arse. But, as they say, the nipper is the father of the man and this boychuk is overdue a serious bollocking.
Lesser mortals would bury their heads in the sand at this point. But I am not a mortal. I am a Dibbler, last of the Gloucestershire Dibblers, granted dibbling rights by Edward III in 1306 (till the practice was outlawed three days later). Instead I have buried my head in a betting analysis of this summer’s Mojo Awards.
My bod in the music industry tells me that Radiohead are certs to plunder the best album prize. He tells me they’re a ‘pop’ group and that ‘pop’ groups win this sort of thing. Ho hum, time to reduce the asking price on those thongs. Meanwhile I shall turn my analytical powers to the Dibbliathon and attempt to unravel the riddle of my doom. Pray that there’s a column next issue…
Fleet Foxes
