This story goes back to the Miners' Strike and A. Scargill.
The old Colonel owned a neat little Grouse Moor and was in the habit of sending out post cards inviting a select party of old friends to salute the 12th. The old man died, weighed down with honours, age and vintage Port. His widow continued the happy custom with the same group of ageing warhorses. Came the morning of the 12th and breakfast was being tucked away with gusto. There came a roar of engines and much spurting of gravel outside: A guest rose from his chair and went to look out of the window:
"Good Heavens Maudie! The place is full of rozzers! Hundreds of the buggers!" The old lady went to the window and sure enough there were police cars everywhere. There came a thunderous knocking on the front door and a tinny, tannoy voice boomed out: "Armed Police! You are totally surrounded! Lay down your weapons and come out with your hands up!": "Carry on with your breakfast everybody, I'll see what all this is about." The old Lady went to the door, scooping up the senior terrier whose short fuse was already burning. She opened the door. There was the local PC looking embarrassed and some species of senior policeman looking pleased with himself: "Sorry about this, Madam…" "I'll handle this, Constable." Interrupted the senior copper leaning forward triumphantly, but rather too far - "OUSH! That fucking dogsh bitten my noshe!" "And serve you right - all this fuss!" "The gamesh up, Madam! We've got you all bang to rightsh!" It is difficult to sound commanding when talking through a blood soaked handkerchief - "Right Lads, in you go! Arrest the lot!" That was easier said than done. The elderly men had all fought in a war, some more than one. The sound of battle rolled through the house. The sound of a Detective Sergeant being hit over the head with a Georgian Coffee Pot is unmistakable. The WPC who tired to drag a Duchess from her bed found herself wrapped in a sheet and shut in a cupboard. Superior force eventually prevailed and the somewhat dishevelled guests were lined up on the lawn. The head plod's nose had stopped bleeding and he was feeling rather pleased with himself: "Well, Sykes, a sorry looking bunch of ruffians, I must say. What have we got?" An inspector looked at his notebook: "Two Majors, a Colonel, two Dukes, a QC, a High Court Judge and - er - a retired Chief Constable, Sir" "But not that bloody retired, Hoskins. What the hell's going on?" Chief Superintendent Hoskins winced, but ploughed on: "A dangerous right wing conspiracy, Sir. We've had an eye on them for some time, ever since we intercepted one of their messages. We've been waiting for the moment to pounce. The old lady's the ringleader and what's more she can't spell. Here look, Sir." Eagerly he handed the ex Chief Constable a copy of one of the treasured invitations on which the same message was always written:
"Come for the 12th and help me shoot Scarghyll."