Proctal Algesia, a fictional satirical blog by Hamish Dixon, monstrous expat Scot living on New York's Upper East Side, plus spurious news from around the world

Droning on...and on...and on...and on...and on...

Lies, Lies, and more damned lies...

HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY

Saturday, January 24, 2004

NEW ENGLAND JOURNEY IN MALODOROUS MERCURY

For reasons that are now lost on me I decided it was compulsory to leave the city for the weekend. So yesterday evening I forced Dolores and the kids to pile into the disgusting little reefer-infused Tracer that I bought to restore my organ to its full magnificence, and off we drove like a bunch of poor people into the snowy deep-frozen New England wastes.

Dolores whined the whole way like the princess she emphatically is not, mainly because she had to hold the martini flask in her lap as there was nowhere to put it down, and the children went on endlessly about the lack of a DVD player. Rory quietly filled the entire car with his potently noisome, almost meaty, farts, but not quietly enough to stop Alison complaining each time he released a new one.

What does that boy eat?

In the end I was forced to light a Cohiba, which reduced everyone to such fits of coughing that they opened the windows and let in the 5 degree fahrenheit air. Even in the face of these chilly blasts Rory's contribution remained overpowering, and today our throats are so raw that we are all reduced to communicating with waves of the hand. At least this means I don't have to listen to Dolores's vile Brooklyn tones -- only to put up with her woman-of-the-streets flouncing at the fact that there is so much snow that she can't get down the drive to go shopping.

When we finally reached Monte Pollo, our pink stucco hilltop retreat in southern Rhode Island, we found that our illiterate shiftless two-headed swamp yankee snow plow man, Dropsy John, had failed to do his job. Getting the Tracer up to the house through the drifts proved to be impossible and the whole family had to walk the remaining half mile in the pitch dark in their namby pamby spoiled city folk shoes while I regaled them with tales of my youth in Bridge of Scrapie, digging my way through snowdrifts to get to school or take a pot of fresh mutton stew to my reeking aged Granny McMurky. Dolores was not speaking to me at the beginning of the trip, and now I think I will probably be able to live in blissful silence for the rest of the year. Hallelujah to that, sez I. Between you and me, however, I have to admit that I wish we'd stayed in New York, where I could have nipped round to the well-heated Pierre and given Wanda a quick one, or dropped into the Megalopolis to hear what everyone had to say about Thursday's Clinton-Gibson bout. As it is I'll have to content myself visiting old Thurgood Prattman down at the end of the drive and paying him $25 for half an hour in the closet with his simpleton daughter.

Friday, January 23, 2004

BILL & MEL MIX IT AT THE MEGALOPOLIS

Bill and I were lunching amid the gilded finery of the Megalopolis today when a flunky came up and told me that Mel was on the phone downstairs. "He sez it eez eeempotan" says the flunky.

Why does Mel always call at lunchtime?

I staggered downstairs, if only because in the final analysis I'm a starfucker just like everyone else, and ever since Braveheart I have had a soft spot for the old stick -- his obsession with the perfidiousness of Albion warms the cockles of my furred-up Scottish heart, even if his Irishness and bizarre Catholicism stick in my bigoted presbyterian craw at the same time.

"I need your help Hamish," says Mel. I asked him how, exactly, a middle-ranking New York landlord like myself could conceivably be of help to a great religious celebrity like him, and a thought dawned on me. "You want me to fix you up with a popsie?" I asked -- I've never seen a problem in pimping for a star.

"I'm stuck in a taxi outside the club without any money," he said. "Come out and pay the man."

It was tempting to increase my standing with the Jewish community by refusing, but Mel is an old pal, even if he is nuts. "Come on up and join us for lunch," I said as I handed out the rather surprising sum of $75.

We walked back into the dining room, where, inevitably, all my Republican fellow members were gathered round Bill sucking up like crazy. Bill saw Mel first and he immediately jumped to his feet and pushed his way through the fawning mob as if they didn't exist, smiling that normally irresistible smile and saying something admiring about how Mel had put one over on the Holy Father. But when Mel realized who it was walking towards him, he went white as a sheet and held up his fingers in front of him in a sign of the cross. "Away, Beelzebub!" he roared at the top of his lungs, making the silver rattle around the room, and picking up a table complete with loaded plates, hurled it across the room at the ex-prez. Clinton stood there biting his lower lip as the lobster dripped from his chin and the flunkies dabbed at him with napkins. "Mel's just ticked off 'cause I took five grand off him at our Friday evening poker school, 'sall," he said to the room in general, as the larger of the flunkies grabbed Mel by the collar and kicked him out onto 60th Street, where he stood ranting for ten minutes until the tv news vans arrived.

Last night over cocktails I said to Dolores "Alison tells me she is going to be a prostitute, just like you used to be," and Dolores threw her drink in my face, slapped me, and cut the ends off all my Hermes ties. I went round to the Pierre and took advantage of the reappearance of my tackle by being luxuriously pleasured by the ever-uncomplaining and lusciously pneumatic Wanda. Thoughts of Vinny and Dolores together somewhere dark and near deep water came to me again in my dreams, and I can't help feeling that I'll have to make a trip to Staten Island soon.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

FATHER OF THE TART?

I was sitting last night in the library sipping a nightcap and dreaming sweet daydreams of my youthful summer holidays in Bridge of Scrapie fiddling around in the underwear of this that or the other gullible wee Mary, when the telephone rang and woke me from my charming reverie. It was my daughter Alison, calling from her room at the other end of the apartment. (Since the recent incident, this has been her only contact with the rest of the family, except when young Rory bursts into her bedroom in his Superman outfit and tells her to stop being so wet.)

"Daddy," she said, "I'm thinking of becoming a prostitute."

Mercilessly squashing the impulse to tell her that in that case she will merely be taking up where her raddled old hag of a mother left off, I tried to be sympathetic. "I would imagine there would be a very good niche market for a prostitute with only one nipple," I said. "But let's talk about it again when you've been through college." Alison burst into tears and hung up -- I can't imagine why. I simply don't know how to communicate with my children any more.

Meanwhile the demise of the Maybach has done wonders for my manhood, which is almost entirely restored to its former magnificent lassie-pleasing size. Clearly stopping using the car was not enough and it had to be disposed of entirely, which the wretched Slobbo did so effectively. Speaking of which incident, little Mikey Bloomberg called this morning and suggested that in future it would be a good idea if I checked out my chauffeurs a little more carefully, as Slobbo apparently had warrants out for his arrest in three countries for war crimes and genocide."You stick to running the city, Mikey," I said, "And I'll deal with hiring and firing the domestic help. Okay?"

Wednesday, January 21, 2004

NEWSHOUND PAST BLAST SNIFFS OUT NIPPLE STORY

I returned home last night to find that Dolores had been talking to the press about Alison's nipple loss. "Can you believe it?" she asked as I staggered in, shirt tails loose, already the worse for wear for a swift trio of very dry Manhattans with my pals at the Megalopolis Club, "The bureau chief of the London Smudge called me to ask me all about it. He was such a sweetheart!" "I'm sure he was, my beloved," I sneeringly burped, "He is a journalist, and he wants something. But why," I gently inquired, "is a British journalist interested in such trivial stuff as dragging the good name of our daughter through the dirt?"

And then, before Dolores had time to answer, a nasty creeping suspicion crawled up my back, across my neck and into my skull. Who exactly, I demanded to know, was this fact-winkling charmer? Didn't I know the Smudge man in New York? "Magnus Sidewinder," said Dolores, and my suspicion was confirmed.

Bloody Magnus, coincidentally the author of the definitive Ainsworth biography, has shown up again. Over quarter of a century ago he was the cause of grief and exquisite pain in the Hamish Dixon life, stealing the love of my life and causing me to be tossed out of my home, and now here he is again, apparently charming the pants off Dolores, determined to wound me again by attacking my poor defenceless daughter. "I know Sidewinder," I said, "And he is a shit. In fact he is a steaming pile of it. You will," I concluded, "come to regret talking to him."

"I don't think so, daaaaaaaaaahling," said Dolores, who always knows best, "He will write wonderful things about us all."

And then she gave me the second bit of bad news. "Slobodan crashed the Maybach today," she said.

My heart stopped, and then came to again with an enormous, apartment-shaking crash. Was there to be no end to this cruelty? I reached for the whiskey bottle and poured myself a generous one. "How?" I croaked. And then the story came out in enormous jerking gushes. Slobbo dropped the kids home after picking them up from school, when he appeared to be behaving normally. Then he headed off to what he thought was the Bloomberg residence, into which he drove at over a hundred miles an hour, hell-bent on suicide. Except, of course, that he had the wrong house, and instead drove into a society abortion clinic, and he had the wrong car, as it is virtually impossible to commit suicide in a Maybach by driving it into things. Result: the Maybach sustained $150,000 worth of damage; Slobbo was gently cushioned by a plethora of airbags and was totally unharmed; the abortion clinic was temporarily out of business; Slobbo is a hero with the Pro Lifers and and a death threat has been issued against him by a posse of Chanel-wearing Upper East Side Pro Choicers. Meanwhile he is on Rikers, and we are without car or driver.

Monday, January 19, 2004

TRIALS, TRIBULATIONS, AND ONE WAY PLEASURING WITH WANDA

Peter Ainsworth is still threating me with vengeance, and has, he tells me, consulted his London solicitors, Trainreck, Trainreck and Bludgen regarding the possibility of suing me. I pleaded with him at length via the transatlantic telephone, but he was merciless and I would have to say, if I weren't the victim of his wrath, masterful. Bouffant his hair might be (not that I've set eyes on him for many a year), but there is nothing bouffe about his manner. This man is a born leader, I tell you, a born leader, inexorable in his pursuit of what he thinks is right, a man of high culture (a rare bird indeed in the Conservative Party), throbbingly forceful, and he will be back in the shadow cabinet in a trice. Then it will be onward to victory at the next election, suppression of the upstart lower middle classes, and a return to the values that prevailed before the current crew slithered into power. Oh, Maggie, Maggie, how they done you wrong!

Meanwhile that vile sink of Upper East Side academic perfidy, Chance, has actually sued me, on the basis that it is my fault that they let my daughter dance around naked in subzero windchills until one of her nipples fell off. (I have pointed out to Rory that he had better not try the same trick or something more important might fall off.) A preemptive assault worthy of the great sages Dubya and Rummie themselves, and one as likely to end in embarrassment for the perpetrators. I shall bring the full and not inconsiderable force of my legal team to bear on them and blast them out of the water.

Dolores is not, I must say, being terribly sympathetic right now. I take this somewhat amiss, as she continues to drive around with Slobbo and the children cocooned in the butter-soft leather of the Maybach, while I am slumming it in the Tracer in an attempt to reinstate my organ. There is nowhere to put a Martini flask in a Tracer. In search of a warmer emotional environment I therefore repaired to the apartment at the Pierre and snuggled up with Wanda. "Oh, poor Hamish," she said, "ze Tracer ees taking a lonlon time to 'ave an effect, no? Eet ees still very very teeny weensie!" This was not what I wanted to hear, particularly, but it was said with affection and concern, and Wanda took me in her ample embrace and held me tight. She was clearly in need of affection herself, and I did what I could for her with the equipment available and she seemed to enjoy herself.

and on...and on...and on...and on

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