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Droning on...and on...and
on...and on...and on... |
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Lies, Lies, and more damned
lies... |
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HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY |
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Friday, December 26, 2003
SEX-DEATH PHONE AND TIME WITH THE DONALD AND MAGGIE
I think Dolores is determined to keep me unmanned. For Christmas she gave me a Bang & Olufsen telephone which does nothing extraordinary but, I happen to know, cost $995 plus tax. Isn't this the telephonic equivalent of a Maybach? If I unwrap it and touch it, I'm quite sure that the effects of the little yellow car and the Buick will be negated in no time and I'll be back without even nugatory evidence of my masculinity. The disgusting genuine gold foil tree, bedecked with ornaments of semi-precious stones and inset with chips that burst as one walks by into brief renditions of all your favorite carols and seasonal songs is safely among Dolores's own chattels, so if it causes any damage, it will no doubt be to whichever part of her body she most values. I looked at the ridiculous telephone and ignoring her pleas for an oral pleasuring left the apartment and went round to the Pierre where I allowed Wanda to mop my brow and feed me bonbons, until it dawned on me that keeping a mistress in an apartment at the Pierre might be as fatal as owning a Maybach. With Wanda cooing after me I left hurriedly, in a panic even, wondering whether I would have to become a monk before I could get it up again. Monks don't seem to have any trouble.
On the same subject (one about which I recognize there are incipient signs of my obsession - but can you blame me? How would you feel if your wiener disappeared, if you have one?) I had a pre-holiday lunch with Donald the other day at a cheerful little dive in Chinatown where we could be reasonably sure that we would not be recognized, and after the normal chat about real estate matters - non-paying tenants, whether to have the bathroom taps gilded or not, which pol to bribe and how - I summoned up the courage of a couple of martinis and asked him if he had ever suffered from fluctuating organ size, what with his extremely public displays of wealth and conquest (not that I have ever thought of Donald as having a particularly big one, but then I've never seen it). His response was no, and that it was, as the Japanese say, important to preserve one small imperfection, and then you would be safe. "What, then, Donald, is your imperfection?" I asked him, trying hard to sound amazed that there could be one, as of course he intended (it is a marvellous thing to be in the presence of an intellectual giant.) "My bad haircut, of course," he replied. Apparently he considers it a red rag to a pen full of bad-tempered bulls to have a full head of hair when our collegial competitors Duggie D., Larry the ears S. and the rest of them are either thinning, gray or hairless, and for some reason reckons that letting his hair grow into an ill-kempt jungle averts their wrath. I dunno, but it didn't really convince me.
When I was in the UK I took the opportunity to visit my old friend Maggie Thatcher, who is in a sadly decayed state, her handbags in serious need of polishing. She spent the entire afternoon blathering on about the judases who had betrayed her, and how Elizabeth should have been dethroned and she put in her place. "Even that fool Mark would have been an improvement on Charles," she said, which is perhaps true, if not a particularly useful remark. Her remarks on the subject of the sculpture with which I had collided a few days before were too colorful to print here, except of course that she did agree that it was typical of Di to get inconveniently in the way even in death. "What a bunch of wankers, the lot of them!" the great world leader said as she finished off her can of Carlsberg, crunched up the can and flung it into the grate where its impact sent up a small dust storm of cigar ash from the Cohibas that she has taken to smoking all day long in a vain attempt, as she says, "to snuff myself out before I become dependent on the National Health."
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
NEAR DEATH WITH DI
Bridge of Scrapie is a dull place if one's idea of a thrill precludes standing around in the frigid public bar of the Dixon Arms Hotel, with its half-century old spit-stained lino, listening to the droning of the drooling simpletons who are all that remain, now that waves of emigration have stripped Scotland of anyone with a brain. Normally on a visit to Uncle Hector and Aunt Kirsty I would go instead in search of some pliant fresh-faced wee Mary for a bit of scrotum-puckering outdoor nookie. But "och, Hamish, it's awful wee" was not something I particularly relished hearing.
On this trip, therefore, I decided to keep my slowly re-emergent organ inside the boxers. Instead I drove around the rain-swept highlands in my small yellow rental car, attempting to coax the little dear into more rapid expansion. It was while I was reaching into my underwear to check the effects of a particularly bouncy ride through Glen Gould that I lost control of the car in the face of a road-straddling heifer and collided with a sickening tearing of metal with an over-lifesize bronze statue of Princess Diana defusing a landmine. I came to just as a strawberry-blonde female police officer was removing my hand from my organ. "Well, dearie me," she said, "isn’t that a funny place to have your hand when you’re driving down the glen?"
Sunday, December 21, 2003
CELTIC INTERLUDE
Just back from visiting Uncle Hector and Aunt Kirsty, the last remaining members of clan Dixon who have any idea who and how important I am, in their unheated Scottish castle. It would be untrue to say that the old dears haven’t made it into the computer age, but by siting their antique machine in the path of a force 10 gale in their conservatory they certainly ensure minimal usage by their guests. Besides, I was far too befuddled on the Scotch I was forced to drink to induce a vague feeling of warmth to be able to give an accurate description of the various goings on – and so the gap in these, for all I know unread, reports.
I went to do my family duty entirely on my own. Although always greeted like visiting royalty, at least within the parameters of the possible, none of my wives has ever agreed to return to Bridge of Scrapie after a first visit. One or two of them might have overcome the problem of the lack of central heating, but not a single one would tolerate peeing in a chamber pot or descending five flights of windswept cold stairs and crossing a snow-covered courtyard in order to get to the bathroom. Personally I find the sight and sound of a woman peeing in a pot to be a mild turn-on, but with a superhuman effort of the imagination I can just about see that it might not feel that way to her.
Getting to Bridge of Scrapie involves a lengthy drive along glen and lochside, through horizontal rain and the occasional hailstorm, dodging sheep the while, which I did in a small yellow car that makes that damn Buick look like the most luxurious thing on four wheels. This had its compensations: after a couple of hours I started to feel a recently unfamiliar tingling in the general area of my disappeared organ, and a couple of hours after that the combined effects of the smallness and ego-crushing banality of the car and the vibration-inducing nature of the road surface resulted in bona fide tumescence – albeit of something the size of lower-quartile clitoris. But as I told myself while applying mild friction to the delightful little thing, small is better than nothing.
Bridge of Scrapie was a fine house three hundred years ago, when it was the power center of the clan McScrowty (best know for selling out to the English at the earliest possible opportunity), but not a lot has been done to it since. A fit of modernization in the 1950s resulted in the main rooms receiving one electrical outlet each, and there is a telephone next to the computer in the conservatory. Heating is done by fire. Cooking is done on a coal-fired stove. The fridge runs on bottled gas. The rather surprising computer was bought for Uncle Hector and Aunt Kirsty by their son Alexander, who likes to send them emails, and calls every few days from his Australian tree farm to berate them for not reading them. Alexander was never my favorite cousin and his absence in Australia is something for everyone to be thankful for.
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and on...and on...and on...and on
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