The Tuckers, an old and loamy family, are leaving Ambridge. It’s a sobering thought. One minute they are feeding their chickens and having affairs with Russian oligarchs, as you do, and the next – poof! Gone like dandelion seeds on the wind.
Milkmen are traditionally cheery, but Mike Tucker broke the mould. Mark you, his life was one damn thing after another, so, when he finally said, “We won’t be here much longer”, you wondered if he meant death or Birmingham. He meant Birmingham. The last straw was having his milk float stolen. This was not just unlucky; it was unlikely. Who knew that a milk float was the getaway vehicle of choice? Willow Cottage is up for sale, if you are interested. Bit damp, I shouldn’t wonder.
Brenda Tucker, Mike’s daughter, has already vanished in surprising circumstances after a romance with a Russian oligarch. Roy Tucker, his son, has been having a secret affair with his boss, the lady of the manor. It’s not going well. As Lord Tennyson movingly put it:
“She made him trust his modest worth
And, last, she fixed a vacant stare
And slew him with her noble birth.”
Or, put another way, she told him to look around for another job. His reference should make interesting reading. I do not foresee a rosy future for Roy and his family in Ambridge. It’s all Tuckered out.
To help fill the Tucker-shaped hole, a long-lost Archer grandson has turned up from Leeds. He shows a genetic gift for bending bulls to his will (“It wor nowt”) and, as you hear, has added Yorkshire to the rich ratatouille of accents that is Ambridge.
Which brings me to Jazzer McCreary, Ambridge’s only Glaswegian. Jazzer is Scottish to a fault, if Scots had a fault, which, of course, they don’t. Extreme delicacy has prevented anyone in Ambridge mentioning the present unpleasantness, but you have to wonder if Jazzer will be devolved or repatriated or somehow returned to sender by the end of the week. The pigs will miss him quite dreadfully.
• A month in Ambridge will return on 15 October
