When it came to finding a new home I wanted something that reflected my status as top banana in the business industry, and offered the last word in luxury. Having trawled the high class estate agents for something suitable, eventually I decided that only a castle would do. But frankly I was disappointed with the quality of gaffs on offer. The state of them - no glass in the windows, drafty, cold, damp, dodgy stonework, no carpets, no khazis. I could go on (He couldn't - Ed). No wonder the country's on its knees. I don't know what the National Trust thinks it's up to. If you ask me it needs a stiff dose of private enterprise. Being top banana in the business industry I set about providing it... ...
And I think you'll agree from the illustrations we succeeded. We soon set about sorting out the windows; all now fitted with some nice UPVC numbers. The courtyard needed a significant makeover to bring it up to date. It was full of manky old flagstones all covered in moss. I thought about tackling them with my B&Q patio cleaner, but even that has its limits. So I ripped it all out and had crazy-paving (or psychologically unstable paving as the politically correct crowd in the planning office would have it) put down to add a bit of class. I kept the moat, which I like to poo in to discourage the riff-raff (it solved the khazi problem too). I think the hard standing for my white vans and caravans is another classy touch. Of course it would be sacrilege to leave them there indefinitely, so I had a nice double garage built on to the keep.
When you're as successful as I am people get jealous, so I like to ensure that the battlements are manned by my private security force. If any of the peasants, er, local residents - should stray onto my premises via the footpath that passes right through my bloody courtyard, they make sure they are firmly but fairly dealt with. A rottweiler sinking its teeth into their backside normally ensures they get the message. If it's the press we chuck' em in the moat, har, har.
However, having been blessed with the rewards I have, I take my responsibilities to the local community seriously. I'm a strong believer in the trickle-down effect of wealth, so to that end I opened a salt mine. Wishy-washy liberals have questioned some of my motivational policies, but I say a good whipping never hurt anybody. I think you'll find the workers there are more than satisfied with the rewards they get for their ninety-hour week. Of course, at the end of a hard day they can come and spend their ill-gotten in my pub. It's a classy joint with its suits of armour and John Bull bitter, but we don't stand for any nonsense. Anyone caught misbehaving gets thrown in my dungeons, unless I'm in a particularly charitable mood. Then I'll have 'em strung from the gibbet where I can watch from my conservatory. Like I say, firm but fair. The peasants respect that and hold me in great esteem. They've even taken to calling me Count, bless 'em.
Peter un Savoury was talking to himself.