Older readers will remember, no doubt, the late Dick Emery's shuffling old manservant, Lampwick, and, to be honest, it's not just the similarity of the names which has made me think of him lately, whenever David Lampitt's name is mentioned. It's probably a harsh comparison, and totally undeserved, but in some ways I think it illustrates just what an unenviable position our Pompey CEO is in.
Firstly, he signs up to serve a set of masters who, as far as the world at large can tell, are wealthy beyond the dreams of most of us, and are set to continue that wealth, as well as what Lampwick (and the rest of us) assume iss their expertise, to take our beloved football club upwards, our of the slough of despond in which it had been languishing, and onwards, to far, far better things.
Lampwick, like the faithful old retainer he has become, then sets about doing exactly what any servant, including a CEO, should do, which is to ensure that the day-to-day running of the household finances remains smooth, and within the budget his masters have told him in acceptable and manageable.
Suddenly, to his dismay, and to the dismay of all the other servants on the estate, the head of the family - the only one who actually has any real money, as it happens - is suddenly hauled up before the beak for plundering another stately home of all its heirlooms. This stately home is actually in a land far, far away, of which Lampwick has scarcely heard, because his old school globe still shows it as being part of a country ruled by the evil Uncle Joe Stalin.
But the fact that Lampwick has never given Lithuania even a passing thought during recent years, apart from the vague notion that his master apparently has some rich old relatives out there, who keep letting him have money, matters not a jot, for now the master has fled the scene, and the rest of the family hangers-on are apparently potless.
Meantime, another curious individual, once a temporary resident at the stately home, returns to the scene, but not to help poor old Lampwick keep the family silver clean and safe. No indeed, for this man brings with him another man, whom Lampwick vaguely recalls from a former existence, and who is here to find new owners for the grand old pile, regardless of the peeling paintwork and crumbling facade. Or is he?
Poor Lampwick meanwhile soldiers on, as countless other Lampwicks have faithfully done throughout the ages, even though he knows that the housekeeping account is almost empty, for this "estate agent" fellow has assured him that there will be sufficient funds available for Lampwick and the other staff to keep the house going until new owners arrive - which will be within a matter of days, honestly!
And then, suddenly, there is no extra money, apart from a small injection to cover the most pressing overheads, and there are still no new owners. But, fear not Lampwick, says this chap who all the staff had really believed was a genuine Handy Andy, because there's another new owner coming, who is so batty he must be a genuine aristocrat ... mustn't he?
But no, the batty "aristocrat" turns out to be no better than that other bloke, ages ago, who tried to buy the stately home, even though nobody had ever seen him. In this new case, the batty chap did actually exist, and he was actually heard - too often and too loudly, as it turned out, until eventually he stamped his feet, loaded his non-existent stash of gold into his saddlebags, and rode off, on his painted white horse, to find a different set of peasants to plunder.
Enter the tax man, riding a black horse, which was really black, as was his humour, for Lampwick had not been able to pay the queen's tithes, mainly because the gold that Handy Andy had promised had seemingly been as mythical as the gold coins in the batty man's saddlebags. Suddenly, Handy Andy decides it's about time to come clean, and issues a proclamation to the estate workers and the villagers, admitting the tax man was due a lot of gold, but saying that there wasn't a real problem, as lots of people were still interested in buying the big house and its estates.
Everybody then turned on Lampwick, blaming him for this latest disaster, as well as many more, but now Lampwick has reached breaking point.
"Enough!" he cried. "There was no money to pay the tax man with, but the temporary Master told me it would be here in plenty of time. I have been a faithful servant to this family, and I wanted to see out my days in this great old house, but I will no longer support all these lies.
"The great Andy tells me there are still new owners interested, but now I'm almost past caring. The workers and the villagers deserve more than this, for they have been treated shamefully, and now will lose everything they cherish: the estate, the house, and the village green itself.
"I now declare myself to be on their side, for I fear we have all been hoodwinked. Nobody has told me anything - except what to do - and I've had enough, the same as everyone else."
And, so saying, he shuffled back to his pantries, and to his store cupboards, to polish the family silver, perhaps for one last time, the tears in his eyes as genuine as those in the eyes of all the people who have loved the grand old house, as generations of their families had done before them.
