They travel from far and wide to see this American who’s bought and paid for a royal title; this so-called ‘Lord’ who throws inappropriate remarks at his hotel clientele like confetti at a wedding.  He’s famous for it: or infamous, depending on your point of view.

***

The clientele are all agog with eager curiosity as Lord Archibald Wilson-MacCrae lurches into the restaurant, bow-tie hanging loose, dusky-blue Armani suit creased and dishevelled, white silk scarf hanging limp over his shoulders.

“Your table, my Lord,” gestures the Maitre-d, pulling out a sumptuous dining chair padded in striped gold and crimson.

“Thank you, John: grand job,” speech slurred, wrist flicking impatiently. 

Under the scrutiny of seventeen parties seated randomly around the dining-room, he staggers wildly.  One hand clutches the table-cloth; the other, deep in his pocket, shows off the baby-blue silk lining of his jacket.  His sleeve is smeared with dirt and something else rusty-red.

“Beg pardon, folks; bit drunk; hell of a bad day.”  His left arm makes a sweeping curve toward the picture window and a stunning view of Edinburgh Castle.  “Like it, hmm?  Been to the castle?  Is this your charming wife, sir?  Lovely frock.  Sale rail at Next Clearance, is it?”

The silence is palpable, broken only by the sounds of stifled sniggers and the odd giggle.

A well-bred Scottish accent intervenes. “Come on dear, that’s enough.”  The woman smiles, “Worse for wear, I’m afraid.  A really bad day.  Champagne for our guests please, John, for their trouble?” The Lord’s wife raises a shaped black eyebrow and takes her husband’s arm.

The guests don’t know how dreadful a day their infamous Lord has had.  Nor do they care.  Their grins say they’ve

had their two-penn’orth of the American’s renowned bad behaviour and that’s all that matters.

“Wanna know what happened today?” Lord Wilson-MacCrae hurtles back into the dining-room.  The punters wait expectantly for more insults. One of them looks straight into his dull grey eyes and blinks, as though embarrassed by his fixed expression.

“My son,” he says, “my damned ungrateful son.  Got him an interview for Oxford.  Oxford, d’you hear?  All I ever wanted for him.  Make his old Dad proud.  Push him in the right direction.   Walked him down Princes Street for the train.  Hands me this crumpled piece of damned notepaper and throws himself under a bus.  Right there in front of me. Nothin’ I could do.  Dead as a do-do – extinct, gone – Jesus Christ, I can’t believe it.”  His voice trails off into loud sobs. He leans against the cocktail bar, sways, closes his eyes tight shut. “Eighteen years old, for Chrissakes.  What a waste.”  He runs a shaking hand through a thatch of thick grey hair.

His guests, nonplussed, wait with baited breath for the notorious Wilson-MacCrae punch-line.

“Let’s go, Archie: leave these people to have dinner in peace,” his wife pleads.

He ignores her and grimaces at his audience.

“He had everything to live for, my boy: my beautiful boy. Wanna know what the note said?  Do you wanna hear this?  It said,

‘STUFF OXFORD AND STUFF YOU, DAD’”

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