Again in Embra for unfinished business with the Dentist and once again GNER on the button. On my way to Berwick station on that part of the A1 which is nearly always empty I was suddenly aware of a large cissified Landrover-a Discovery miles away from its usual Surrey haunts-looming large in the rear view mirror. BIG JEM roared the personalised number plate. BIG JEM. I fantasised as one does on the A1-surely this must belong to a tough middle aged gnarled of visage, large of chest, Female. Strong, slightly mustachioed, a cheroot clenched between thin lips, related, slightly, by marriage to a royal countess. Green wellied with spurs. A good seat and the Hunter quiescent between her long legs. In another country at another time the toast of the cowboys, the scourge of the injuns, played by John Wayne in drag. The inspiration for many ballads:
There is no law West of Berwick,or east of Ayton town,except for the Protector,the one of fearful frown, Yeah:Big Jem, Big Jem (repeat until exhausted)A cher-oot at the ready,a shot gun at the hip,She's the law west of Berwick,so res-pek her iron grip. Its:Big Jem, Big Jem (repeat as above)And so on until at least Dunbar, going north.As BIG JEM went past I noticed the driver-a small weedy bespectacled man with a drooping moustache and a damp limp cigarette hanging from his lips. He raised an equally limp hand in acknowledgement of my slowing to 25mph to let him overtake.
Oh dear. Wrong fantasy? Or had he stolen the car from his wife and was on his way to political asylum in Scotland and to change his plates to WIMP1?
He wouldn't dare.
