I have been a lot of things over the years: fashion icon, washing machine repair man, sock journalist and lots of other jobs that we have all forgotten because it was nonsense. What I mean to tell you all though is that deep down I have only ever been one thing. I am Bruntingthorpe.
Yes, all those family holidays you spent down in Leicestershire were actually on top of me. I was and am that village and civil parish in the Harborough district. You know St Mary’s Church? Remember that time you lit a candle for Gary Wilmot? That was me. Bruntingthorpe Aerodrome, formerly RAF Bruntingthorpe? When you flew a whizzler through the spine net at four thousand kelvins? That’s me. The hamlet that is Upper Bruntingthorpe, where you learned sanskrit and made a paper mache paprika hut? Also me.
It feels good to be able to tell you all of this because it has been weighing on my mind for so long. You are never quite sure how people will take this kind of information. I am not expecting an immediate response so do take all the time you require in order to process this stark and shocking revelation. It may not be as quite as shocking as the time Chris found out he wasn’t actually Kelly Jones from the Stereophonics (see http://pouringbeans.com/may-review-a-review-of-may/) yet it will still take a bit of getting used to. People may openly mock you in the street or call you names because of your association with me.
“Oi, your mate is that village isn’t he? You’re such a Bruntingthorpe dork! What a Bruntingdork!” they’ll say. “Look out it’s the Brunter Boy Crew! You’re a jar of lemon clementines!”
I can only apologise for the abuse you may receive for this. They are clearly jealous because they do not wield (WIELD!) as much power as someone such as myself. Have you seen the size of my aerodrome? It really packs the crowds in, especially during the summer months.
You may be wondering how it is that one person can be a small village in the Midlands and you can go on wondering, sunshine, because I am not at liberty to be divulging secrets such as those. All you need to know is that I am doing a grand old job and will continue to do so as long as I am needed by the world.
Also check out their website www.village-web.co.uk because it is a scream from start to finish.
20 comments on “I am Bruntingthorpe”
You are Bruntingthorpe, aren’t you? You’re a massive Bruntingthorpe. The only thing more massive than the amount that you’re Bruntingthorpe is your massive aerodrome. And Kev’s house.
That’s true, Kevin added an extension to his house which eventually found its way down to Bruntingthorpe and my beloved aerodrome.
It’s his now.
Wait, are you saying that Kev annexed you?
He annexed part of me, a rather important part too. I’ll never forgive him.
WHERE DO THE DROMES FLY NOW?!?
Your dromes have been grounded, denied access to the aer by Kev’s careless roofing-over of Leicestershire. What a shit.
What an absolute comedy bronze he is. What a stylus amongst men. Bloody pith picker.
Oh dear, there’s that toxic masculinity bubbling out again.
Calm down, before you eat a whole bag of sugar…all at the same time.
I drove back down to London on the M1 yesterday. It was strange being indoors between Nottingham and Rugby, where Kev’s roof extends across large parts of the East Midlands, but I did like the carpet he’d fitted.
I have no qualms (QUALMS!) with his choice of upholstery, it’s remarkable in every sense of the word, it is the annexing of property that is not his that I am troubled by.
I did reach for the sugar but I’ve put it down now.
Indeed, I was very content (CONTENT!) with the upholstery. Are you sure he annexed property that wasn’t his? I’m pretty sure Leicestershire was part of his back garden before he built on it, and had been ever since he’d turned Lincolnshire into his new garage.
We’d have to get the plans out to find who owns what and what now, and why. I’ll have my legal team look into it.
He did own a lot of everything and still does.
If anyone will find the answer, you (and your legal team) will. You’re not known as Ian “Bruntingthorpe “Conveyancer Extraordinaire” McIver” McIver for nothing.
Do you remember when I had all those other names? I had so many names and I can only recall a few. That was 2007 Ian let loose again, the knob.
Yeah. It’s not like you have a lot of names now, is it? Other than Hotter Otter and Sham Of A Fib and… well, all the other ones.
There’s still a lot but not AS MUCH LOT as 2007 Ian. You can’t have too much lot because you cross a line.
The lot line?
The lot line. Never cross the lot line.
How about the some line? Can I cross that?
You can cross the some line. That’s acceptable. There are far too many lines these days.
I hopped over the none line (or the “nay nonny no nen line”, if you prefer) years ago and never bothered stepping back. It’s just not worth it.
That’s because you’re all about the opposite of none, you are all about the excess. Unless you’re roundhouse kicking a frog in the chops whilst simultaneously necking a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale and smoking a pizza you’re not yourself.