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, February 07, 2004

WHO ORDERED THE FINGER HIT?

I've taken a while to get to this, I know, but who on earth paid that wretched runtish garlic-muncher Vinny to cut off my finger?

"Who ordered it, Vinny?" I asked the little ingrate.

"More than my life's worth to tell, Mr. Dixon," he said in that cliched mobster-husky voice of his.

"You'll pay for this, Vinny," I told him. "Watch out for yourself, or your next visit to Calabria will be in a coffin." (Sometimes I find it helpful, when dealing with the lower orders, particularly those from southern climes, to talk as if I'm reading from a bad film script. It seems to resonate with them, somehow.)

"Maybe yes, maybe no," he said, fatalistically. I have to face it, Vinny won't so much as give me a clue.

The whole thing is a complete mystery, as I can honestly say that I have no enemies at all. My world consists of a perpetual chorus of "We love you, Hamish" sung by a heavenly cherubic choir to swelling violins. I am entirely at peace with the world. Live and let live, hail fellow well met, etc., that's my motto. Every evening I come home from doing good works and sink into the bosom of my adoring family.

It is true, of course, that one of my many companies last year supplied the e-colic ground beef that sickened thousands of ancient widowed cripples and unwanted orphans and killed a few hundred more somewhere out in the middle of the country. But the dead were hardly a great loss (I was completely perplexed when my entire family burst into tears when the news of it was first broadcast, I can tell you, as any reasonable person would be), and there were so many layers of shell companies between me and the company in question that noone ever even suspected me, let alone implicated me -- not even that blood hound Schlosser. And anyway, even if they did suspect, the victims were poor hicks stuck out in Oklahoma and other godforsaken places like that -- I hardly think they'd have come across anyone like Vinny or know how to get in touch with him.

No...it seems to be more personal than that. There is a certain urgency to this speculation, however, since if I've accidentally offended once, it stands to reason that I may continue to do so.

In which case it might be arrivederci Hamish, without even knowing the reason why.

Dolores would no doubt dance on my grave, but I like to think that the children would be depressed for a week or two, even if things have been a little rocky with Rory lately.

Friday, February 06, 2004

A NEW CHAUFFEUR AND AN AFTERNOON AT THE AUCTION HOUSE

I interviewed a succession of no-hope Bentley chauffeur candidates this morning until the perfect creature marched through the door and clicked heels. I knew this was the one before we even talked. No risk here, I thought of any of the nonsense that went on in dark corners between Dolores and that disgusting hairy ape Slobodan, now gratifyingly incarcerated on Riker's Island. Not, at least, unless Dolores has developed Sapphic tendencies without my noticing. For Zenophoba Prilosec is, theoretically at least, a woman. She looks like an East German prison camp guard on secondment to a weight-lifing camp, and when she smiles, as she did when she told me that the Bentley is a "beautiful car, Mr. Dixon, and your lady wife will look very rich and important in it," it is a terrifying black-toothed sight indeed. But she comes with superb references and the ones I have called confirmed that she is a wonderful driver. What more could I ask for?

Still smarting from the loss of the Faberge eggs to the Russian billionaire, I went from the sublime to the ridiculous this afternoon and stopped off at the poor man's auction house, Doyle's, in search of some small compensatory item. "Ooh," lisped a little mincing Englishman with dyed black hair as he blocked my way, "I'm sorry sir, you can't come in now, the exhibition doesn't start until tomorrow." They had an entire sale of dog art on the wall, which I felt sure would yield something truly nasty for me to buy for Dolores,whose tastes descend to depths that I have never managed to plumb in twenty years of trying. So I pushed the little Englishman out of the way, pulled back the velvet rope, grabbed a catalogue off the counter, and started to look around. For some time various people gave me odd looks, but noone said anything and the English pouf did not pursue me. Then a more spirited creature came up and said brusquely "we are closed. Please come back tomorrow." So I told him that I was a close friend of Mrs. Doyle, and that she had told me that I could come in any time I liked, and if he didn't believe me he should ask her. This, of course, stopped him in his tracks, although he was clearly 95% sure I was lying through my teeth. And he was right, of course: I don't know the woman from Adam (or should it be Eve?), but I do know, because the whole world knows, that La Doyle has a terrible memory and never supports her staff however vilely one treats them. So I was left to look in peace and the only problem that remained was deciding which of the many truly hideous things on show was the most hideous of all.

Alison was sent home early from school today because she asked Mr. Kleinpecker, the gym teacher, if his name meant what she thought it meant. That girl has spirit, eh? She makes me so proud, and is so different from that brother of hers.

Thursday, February 05, 2004

EGG HOPES SMASHED

Well it was a bit of a shock to take a look at the front page of the Times this morning and find that some Russian has swooped down on Sothebys and bought all of little Malc's Faberge eggs. I was hoping to get my hands on at least one of them -- willing even to pay top price -- simply as something to hold in my lap and stroke as a reminder of those long ago days when I first arrived in the Big Apple and was one of the great man's slim hard-bodied youngsters about the house. Those were the days! What style he had, what wealth! And a Scot like me, to boot. Oh, how we used to wallow in tartan! How much simpler things were then too, before I began to pay attention to girls, before Dolores was imaginable! Just we boys around the house. But now the eggs are all going back where they came from, just like the Elgin Marbles will be one day soon, whatever the Sassenachs say (we'll pass over for now the fact that Elgin the depredator was a Scot,too. A Bruce indeed.)

On the ex-friend front, it looks like Martha has been dealt a near-fatal blow by that creature Faneuil, seen posing today on the
cover of the Post like a latter-day wannabe version of one of little Malc's rough trade collection. To be brought down by someone like that -- the sheer humiliation of it nearly makes me weep. Martha and I haven't spoken for years -- ever since I suggested to her that the roses at the Dixon weekend retreat, Monte Pollo, were a more tasteful selection and in better shape than hers and she jumped into someone else's BMW and stormed off, not realizing she was in the wrong car until she got home -- but I still have a soft spot for her. We went everywhere together for a time, and we still share similar values. I have no doubt whatever, for example,
that it's a reasonable prerogative of rich and successful people like Martha and me to bend the rules just a tiny bit more than ordinary people. Lying to over-zealous prosecutors seems entirely reasonable. But it must be said she has over the years made unnecessary enemies, whereas I have always been able to pride myself on my charming exterior.

Wednesday, February 04, 2004

BIG EARS CALLS BACK

Big Ears called back today.

"Oh, what a treat to hear your regal and, if I might say, supremely intellectual tones, your royal highness," I groveled. He was captain of the minesweeper on which I served in my Royal Navy days, and old habits die hard. In any case, he was a magnificent specimen of manhood in those days.

"I'm thinking of slipping over incognito for a few nights r & r, Hamish," he said, wasting no time on bourgeois formalities. "Take in a few musicals, try out the latest restaurants, spend a cozy evening with Sir Rudy, eye up the 12th graders at Chance, that sort of thing. Very hush-hush, no-one to know about it, particularly C or HM."

"Splendid idea, Sir," I said approvingly, thinking back to our days together on the minesweeper, getting up to no good with the totties in foreign ports.

"Could I borrow your house, d'you think?"

"Of course, Sir," I groveled once more, flattered that Chateau Dixon should be considered worthy of such condescension, and it was only after the conversation had continued for some minutes, and without so much as a small expression of princely appreciation I had been passed over to a palace apparatchik glorying in the name of Sir Hardy Flagellan to fix up the details, that I realized that I and the family were expected to vacate the 'umble family 'ome for the duration of HRH's stay. We were not, apparently, even to be invited to dinner in our own dining room!

I simply don't know how I'm going to tell Dolores about this. She decided to be pleasant today, pushing me into my dressing room in my boxers and delivering up a very good time indeed for both of us, and I really don't want to rock the boat, particularly when the children are being so difficult. Wanda is a bit of a one-note wonder, really -- plump and juicy and endlessy there, but as uninspired as a Purdue chicken -- whereas Dolores, when on form, is endlessly surprising, with all the gamey excitement of a high-flying partridge just begging one to let rip with both barrels. I really will miss that if I have to Vinnify her, even if she does thoroughly deserve it (and here I use the word "Vinnify" in a generic sense, as I shall never give my custom to that ingrate Vinny again. The stump of my finger continues to suppurate and be extremely painful.)

Tuesday, February 03, 2004

HAMISH THE HORRIBLE

Rory looked up from his breakfast waffle this morning and stared me right in the face.

"Daddy?" he asked.

"Yes, Rory, m'boy," I said amiably, "What is it?"

"Why are you so horrible to Mommy?" he asked brightly, as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth and this was the most natural question in the world -- just some fact, perhaps, that he needed for a school project.

A jet of superstrong Assam shot from my nostrils and across the table. But like the old-world civilized man I am, I held myself in check and instead of flattening the little lad I looked across at Dolores, who had cocked her head in that infuriating inquisitorial way of hers and was eyeing me judgmentally.

"Did you put the boy up to this?" I demanded.

"He just used his eyes and ears, Hamish," she said. "He hardly needed to have me put him up to it. You should listen to yourself occasionally."

It's all nonsense of course: Dolores is an extraordinarily difficult woman, as everyone who knows her would confirm, and I treat with comparably extraordinary forbearance. Which, I might say, is more than she does for me -- when my penis disappeared, you may remember, she showed absolutely no sympathy or concern, and simply started to make eyes at that revolting hirsute driver of hers.

"What do you mean, Rory?" I asked, turning back to the original question.

"Well, you are beastly to her, aren't you?" he said, sticking out his chin. "Even more horrible than you are to me. In fact the only one in the whole family you're sometimes nice to is Alison, and even she hates you."

Alison went white as a sheet and froze in mid OJ slurp. I looked at Rory in menacing silence for what must have seemed to him like half an hour, but was in fact only two minutes. He sat there hunched over, as if expecting blows to rain down, and Dolores moved round the table to block my path to him.

"Go to your room and stay there until it's time to go to school," I said in my lethal whisper, "Go on, get out of my sight!" He was only too happy to go. Why not? -- he'd done what he needed to make my day miserable.

So this is what they teach them at East Side Spoilem, apparently. But I shan't take it too seriously. It will all blow over as these things always do and we'll be back to the normal loving family we always have been. I'll have to take a look at the boy's diet, of course, and cut back on the protein for a while. And more runs may be in order.

A call came in this afternoon from Big Ears. I wonder what he wants -- I haven't seen him or heard from him for years. Not since he took up with that woman -- I never did approve of her. Not the regal type at all.

Monday, February 02, 2004

FEMINA MEGALOPOLITANA VICTRIX - OR HOW I GOT SHAFTED

I had my interview with the governors of the Megalopolis Club today -- part of their inquiry into the violent confrontation between Clinton and Gibson in the dining room a couple of weeks ago, for which some members unfairly claim I am responsible (could I really have predicted that Mel's eyes would cloud over when he saw Clinton, and that he would imagine he was face to face with Satan himself?)

When I first entered the room I looked around expecting to see the normal gang, but as well as Fat Freddy Lambrusco, Diamond Jim Beam, Droopy Don Bushmill and one or two younger men, there was a young popsy in a suit which clashed violently with the striped silk and gold leaf on the walls.

Quite frankly, I was appalled. I knew that we had been forced to accept women members, but I had no idea at all that they had been allowed onto the board of governors. I went to the interview expecting a mild slap on the wrist and a gentle reminder about the club's No Celebrities rule, but with a woman in the room there was a serious risk that things would get out of hand and I might become a sacrificial victim.

"I presume the young lady is going to leave before we begin" I said quietly.

"Ah, Hamish, perhaps you haven't met one of our recently elected governors, Marsala Scaloppina?" asked Freddy.

"No I haven't," I said, "but I look forward to doing so after the proceedings." I wrapped my fingers forcefully round Lambrusco's well-fleshed upper arm and dragged him to the other side of the room. "Look here, Freddy," I whispered fiercely into his ear, "I'll give up my membership of the club rather than be judged by a woman - particularly a woman who clashes with the decor."

"Well," he wheezily whispered back, "if that's the way you feel, of course, Hamish," and here he had to suck another breath into his corpulent frame before continuing, "we would have no choice but to accept your resignation." Another wheeze, followed by his final hypocrisy. "With deep regret, of course."

Never let it be said that Hamish Dixon doesn't recognise defeat when it stares him the face. This was clearly one of those rare moments. I let Lambrusco's flabby hen-pecked arm go, noticing with satisfaction that I had put some really serious creases into the superfine fabric of his billion dollar suit.

"Okay, okay," I hissed. "Let's get on with it then." And so they did, in spades. They flayed me alive, then cut off my flesh and roasted it in front of my eyes. I will spare you the painful scenes of my humiliation.

The upshot was that, to all intents and purposes, bad boy Hamish Dixon is on probation as a member of the Megalopolis, and if I bring another celebrity into the place, or anyone else who causes a disturbance, I will be reduced to the ranks and sent off to be asphyxiated in the airless atmosphere of the Union Club.

And that, I suppose, is what is always going to happen in the end when a blue-blooded presbyterian Scot like me tries to give a club full of Irish and Italians a little tone by gracing it with his presence.

The Bentley was delivered today and I've made elaborate arrangements to ensure that I never see it or get closer to it than the distance between here and the garage. Just thinking about it makes my Y-fronts feel looser. I have also discovered that real English chauffeurs are fiendishly expensive (they've all been to Oxford, apparently, Oxford graduates being unemployable in any more advanced capacity), and have put the word out for someone who can do a good imitation English accent and drive a car at the same time. Who needs a condescending Sassenach looking down his nose the whole time, anyway?

Interestingly I feel surprisingly content driving around in the Tracer, and I think I'll hold on to it for a while, just to embarrass the rest of the family.

Sunday, February 01, 2004

FATHER SON DYSFUNCTION. A BENTLEY BOUGHT

Rory is not talking to me today, and refused to accompany me to the weekly Fathers' and Sons' nude swim at the Spartan Club, which we only go to in the first place because I thought he liked it.

"I'm not going anywhere with you ever again!" he said as he closed his bedroom door in my face. "You're disgusting and I hate you."

"That's fine," I replied, giving the door a violent kick, "I wouldn't want anyone to see what a sissy I have for a son."

It's all his mother's fault.

Instead of going to the Spartan Club (I could hardly show up solo - wouldn't give the right impression at all) I went to morning service at St. Moritz, the Episcopal church. The Spivey-Smiths (he a slum lord in Harlem, she a television commentator on cosmetic surgery procedures) were there with their daughter Seraphina, sitting right in front of me. Goodness me how Seraphina has grown into a fascinatingly nubile young thing. I spent a pleasant hour staring at the back of her neck and thinking how good it was to be alive.

Dolores went shopping for a Bentley this afternoon with her girlfriend Sissy Briss, and called on her cell phone to tell me that there were no new ones to be found, however much we were prepared to pay.

"We have to wait for months," she said. "or we have to buy a used one."

"Then go ahead, buy a used one," I said. What do I care? I'm not going to go within a hundred yards of the thing. Just thinking about being the legal owner of a car that costs as much as a moderately decent suburban house in the mid-west makes me reach nervously for my crotch to check everything's still there.

"No way!" Dolores screeched, reverting to the revolting Brooklyn accents of her childhood, "am I going to be seen dead in a used car."

"Then don't buy it," I said. "Just keep on using the Tracer." That brought her up short. She had been living a life of cringing shame ever since Slobbo smashed up the Maybach. How much longer could she cope with the humiliation? I hung up on her and let her work it out. It came as no great surprise when she returned later to announce that the car would be ready tomorrow.

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

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