The footmen all wore knee breeches, and every one of them displayed beautifully rounded calves and ankles.
There is no way you can become a royal footman unless you have a well-turned ankle.
It is the first thing they look at when you're interviewed.
There we are, Mr. Tibbs.
There's a Chippendale on top of the piano.
Perfect.
That'll be his chair.
It is exactly eight feet off the ground.
Now we shall make a table upon which this gentleman may eat his breakfast in comfort.
Fetch me four very tall grandfather clocks.
Four grandfather clocks?
Who'd have thought it?
And let each clock be twelve feet high.
Right you are, Mr. Tibbs.
Then fetch me the young prince's ping-pong table and we'll stand that on top of the clocks.
None of it is in a classic style, but it'll have to do.
Now tell the head gardener I require immediately a brand new unused garden fork and also a spade.
And for a knife, we shall use the great sword hanging on the wall in the morning room.
Then...
The biggest jug you can find from the kitchen will serve as a coffee cup.
Chop, chop.
Snap to it.
Her Majesty will be here in the blink of an eye.
Good heavens.
Here she comes now.
Ha, ha, ha.
Gunghammers and bog swinkles, what was that?
A chandelier.
It was Louis XV.
He's never been in a house before, Your Majesty.
Very.
Interesting.
Clear up the chandelier, please, Chip.
Yes, ma'am.
Don't just stand there, woman.
Get a broom.
Yes, Mr. Tidd.
Yes, Mr. Tidd.
Your chair, sir.
What a fizz-wizzing and flash-bunking seat.
I is going to be bug as a snug in a rug up there.
Does he always speak like that?
Quite often.
He gets, well, tangled up with his words.
Amazing.
One would never have supposed such a thing.
The Queen and Sophie sat at a small table next to the BFG.
Sophie was dressed in a blue dress that had once belonged to one of the princesses, and to make her look prettier still, the Queen had picked up a superb sapphire brooch from her dressing table and had pinned it on the left side of Sophie's chest.
By gumdrops.
What a spliffling wopsy room we is in.
Your breakfast, sir.
Good heavens, Tibbs, you do look amusing, standing on the top of that ladder with a silver tray.
Thank you, ma'am.
What is this?
Eight eggs, twelve sausages, sixteen rashers of bacon, and a sizable portion of fried potatoes.
I hope it is to your liking.
He hasn't eaten anything except snowscombers before.
Well, they don't seem to have stunted his growth.
Obviously enjoying himself.
That was only one titchy little bite.
Is you having any more of this delunctious grubble in your cupboard, Magister?
Tibbs, fetch the gentleman another dozen fried eggs and a dozen sausages.
Very well, Magister.
What is this horrible sweet pill I was drinking, Magister?
It's coffee.
It's felsome.
Where is the frobscottle?
What?
Delumptious fizzy frobscottle.
Everyone must be drinking frobscottle for breakfast, Magister.
Then we can all be whiz-popping happily together afterwards.
Does he mean?
BFG, there is no frobscuttle here, and whizz-popping is strictly forbidden.
What?
No frobscuttle, no whizz-popping.
No glumptious music.
Boom, boom, boom.
Absolutely not.
Music is very good for the digestion.
If he wants to sing, please don't stop him.
He doesn't want to sing.
He says he wants to make music.
He's only joking, Your Majesty.
Listen.
If they isn't having any frobscottle here in the palace, I can still go whizz-popping perfectly well without it, if I is trying hard enough.
No, don't.
You're not to.
Oh, no, no.
Do play something.
When I'm in Scotland, they play the bagpipes outside the window while I'm eating.
I has her magister's permission.
That is better than bagel pipes, is it not, Manchester?
I prefer the bagpipes.
During the next 20 minutes, a whole relay of footmen were kept busy hurrying to and from the kitchen carrying third helpings and fourth helpings and fifth helpings of fried eggs and sausages for the ravenous and delighted BFG.
Death sends his apologies, Your Majesty, and he says he has no more eggs in the kitchen.
What's wrong with the heads?
Nothing, Your Majesty.
Then tell them to lay more.
Very well, Your Majesty.
