Right then, you he-be-she-be swine, I think to myself, let’s see how you like it! And I charge blindly upwards, yelling “Hello, sailor!” or something equally crass, and grab man-crotch. Or what I thought was man-crotch. And, as glass after glass shatters around us, I realise I’ve just floored my own wife.
Now, like I said, I don’t make excuses. I state facts as I see them. You can’t go wrong with the truth, I figure. Stupidly.
“I thought you were a transvestite.” It’s not the best hello. Her cheeks turn puce. She doesn’t shout. She never shouts. She hisses, and her angry words hit cold air and come out cloaked in steam:
“I wore this for you. This dress! And now you tell me I look like a man in it?! I don’t know why I… I don’t know why I bother with you! I… I…”
She’s now speechless with rage – for which we should be thankful because, as her voice rises up the register, it’s a danger to the eardrums. And all I’m thinking is, I’ve never said anything about the dress; I don’t think I’ve ever even seen the damn dress. And who are you? And where have you hidden the woman I loved? But I’m a married man and our thoughts don’t count – as anyone, either side of the gender divide, will tell you.
“Elton,” I begin, “allow me to introduce Rachel Jupiter. Or Rachel Bactrian-Jupiter when she likes to remind me she married beneath her. But, whatever convoluted combination of our names she’s using today, she’s my wife. Darling, this is Elton, from my old division. I patched up his intestines. Couldn’t fix his brain, though, and now he works in television.”
“We’ve met,” she growls. “Many times. But you’d be too drunk to recall.”
In fact, perhaps I do remember. I have a brief recollection of introducing someone as The Queen of The Damned and saluting. She turns to Elton.
“How long have you been here?”
Elton snaps to attention in a passable imitation of sobriety and, suddenly, I look like the drunk.
“Not long,” he says.
“So why’s he… why’s he acting up?” And she turns that gorgon gaze upon me. “Child,” she whispers under her breath.
“I don’t know,” he says, the traitorous bastard, pointing his bleary eyes in my direction, shaking his head. “Don’t ask me,” he goes on, “’E’s been in a funny mood all day!”
Rachel harrumphs once or twice, indicating all chance of reconciliation is over and that it really is time for a divorce. And some old cove in the background’s bemoaning young people, saying that it’s a shame they can’t behave themselves these days. And suddenly I’m aware that the whole bar’s looking at me. And they’re all shaking their heads.
“I…” I start, but it’s useless. Because there’s nothing I can say. And nobody likes a whinger.
That’s enough of me for now. Let’s head back to 10 New Downing Street:
Faded wallpaper with a disturbingly symmetrical flower pattern – peer closely and it looks pleasingly like a vagina; dim, dusty bulbs in ornate brass up-lighters; an aspidistra plant on a marble plinth; a man being drowned in a turquoise washing-up bowl; a highly polished mahogany table and, reflected in its surface, the fine features of Humboldt Bactrian.
Bactrian is all you could ask for in a Prime Minister: his words are true and his heart is stout. His handshake is firm. He has a winning smile and a charming personality. He’s also everything you can deplore in a human being, for his true words are often brutal words and that stout heart is as black as coal. His hands have killed. His dick has whored. His ego is colossal, as is his size. His affability and enthusiasm are chemically induced and he sweats accordingly. His plummy vowels drip poisoned honey. And the fact you can’t dislike him makes him very, very dangerous. He holds the most powerful position in the country but, strangely, has no power at all. He’s the mouthpiece for Malmot’s Military junta.
Malmot is rapier thin and bent two feet shorter than his allotted six foot four by years of conspiratorial whispering. His eyes are red-rimmed and repulsive. His hair recedes in a sharp arc like a shark’s fin and its presence causes equal concern. His body, as mentioned, is bat-like and makes no sense head-side-up. His personal life is minimal, his hobbies are horrible and he lives by the Rule of The Three C’s: conquest, control and cash-bought concubines. His speech is eloquent and educated but the tonality downright weird. His personality? Borderline autistic. His past is as murky as his sexuality and when he isn’t paying women to manipulate him, he’s manipulating the Prime Minister’s image. His foot is on a man’s neck. The man’s head rests in the aforementioned turquoise washing-up bowl. The man is dead. Malmot looks up.
“Three minutes fifty,” he says.
“Good lungs, that one,” says Bactrian with a rolled up bank note protruding from his nostril. “Elevenses,” he offers by way of explanation.
“And twelveses, too” reproaches Malmot. “Like a greedy child. Finish up!”
Bactrian unrolls King William’s face, flattens the bank note on the table and replaces it inside his fine, red leather, monogrammed wallet. There’s a picture of a woman in it. It could be his wife. Only wives don’t dress like that. And they certainly don’t do what she’s doing. With a horse.
Malmot holds a thin sheath of paper. His wrist flicks with a jarring click, the papers fly and Bactrian catches. He sighs, flicks over the cover sheet and locates the first line with his fingertip. He takes up a red felt tip pen, clears his throat with an almighty glottal growl and reads:
“Society is created by the actions of man…”
“Better put ‘and woman there’,” Malmot interrupts. It’s clear where he’s obtained the thought. He’s reading a pornographic magazine. “Better still, put ‘its inhabitants’.”
“…And though we would all like to believe that society comprises of sane and sober taxpayers…”
“Harrumph.”
“…It must be remembered that there are still unpleasant elements out there, and their actions…”
“Make a note to pronounce ‘and their actions’ bombastically.”
“…Also contribute to what we can expect from our day-to-day existences. So… to cut a long story short…”
“Like the sudden informal tone.”
“…Let me tell you…”
“Ooh! Dramatic pause! I like it!”
“The unpleasant elements are taking over! And why are they taking over? Do you want the simple answer? Do you?… Drugs!… Drugs! Drugs! Drugs! Drugs! Drugs!”
“Bang your fist with each syllable. They’ll lap it up.”
“Cocaine, Heroin, Bang bang, Jack-up juice, the Ming Ming – not to mention Skunk Pussy and a thousand other death sentences wrapped in tin foil and sold outside playgroups! We know the names! We’ve done our research! Insidious, invidious, creeping rots, eating away at the oak-beamed rafters of Good Ol’ Blighty; threatening to enslave our children and subjugate the decent people of England! These are the names that, if the pushers have their way…”
“Do quote marks with your fingers when you say ‘pushers’.”
“…Will be on your child’s list to Santa! I’m not exaggerating…”
“Hah!”
“…I’m not scaremongering to take your minds off the ridiculous rumours that we might be an inadequate political power!”
“[Sounds of choking]”
“…I’m simply warning you… something it is the duty of a responsible government to do!