Foreword by Sir Alastair Burnet

Gilesland is, as everyone knows, a country wholly surrounded by choppy seas and duffers in boats. Its pastures are peopled by idle cattle, idle farmhands and even idler earls. No snow falls there that does not end up impacting on the necks of vicars and postmen. No rain falls except to raise the grass for the lawn-mower industry.

It is not a democracy but an anarchy, the urban guerrillas led by a gerontic passionara in black. Its pubs never close, its butlers never falter. Its men are pitiable but persevering, its women patient in their superiority, its children numerous. It is full of mischief. We have to shout on News at Ten to make ourselves heard above the Gilesland hubbub. Its books are more often thrown than read. Mostly English is spoken.

We have all lived there for many years, and our memories of each year are full of grace. Long may it flourish, and its begetter thrive!