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 21, 2004

MARITAL FRICTION, MINOR CORRUPTION

To my intense relief Nigel was gone when I got in last night. Apparently he had taken my eviction order seriously. All traces of his by now disgusting presence had, moreover, been eradicated, and for a brief moment it looked like I might be allowed to forget he had ever been among us. How pleasant that would have been -- it really is amazing how quickly one can go off even one's closest old friends.

Before going home to this welcome news, I had stopped off for a gentle late afternoon pleasure session with Wanda (my first since my second Maybach-induced shrinkage), in the obscenely expensive and over-decorated apartment I keep for her at the Pierre. Wanda was as gently accommodating to my needs as she always is, without, as usual, achieving the slightest degree of originality -- which was exactly what I needed. As I lay back among the mock Louis XV bordello furniture (a taste of hers acquired from the Donald, I think) she went through her cliched mistress routine, muttering sweet nothings in my ear (and it must be said that in Wanda's case they really are nothings -- the poor thing is quite spectacularly dumb), plying me with champagne and caviar, deftly massaging my tired muscles, and refraining (and here I do have to be grateful) from smiling when my still sadly diminished organ emerged into the harsh light of day. She induced the sorry little snail to perk up to its current maximum extent (what a pale shadow of the proud muscle that once awed the serving girls of Bridge of Scrapie!), and climbing atop me, enveloped me and, so far as she could, it, in her soft, sweet-smelling, gently gyrating flesh and then led me as far along the road to ecstasy as I can manage in my sadly Maybachized state.

After that, as I have already said, I arrived home in an already benevolent mood to find the egregious Nigel blessedly gone. What joy to be alive, you might think. But then things deteriorated, as they tend to do chez Dixon nowadays.

It being Friday, it was time to leave for the country. "How are we going to do the drive to Monte Pollo?" I asked as Dolores thumped and bumped her way past me, refusing to make eye contact. The problem, as I saw it, was that if I went anywhere near the Bentley, my pecker would disappear back up the hole from which it has only just shyly reemerged, while Dolores would never again consent to do the journey in the Tracer, which, apart from offending her by being humiliatingly cheap, stinks like an old ashtray.

"We are planning to go to Monte Pollo tonight, I assume?" I asked. Dolores came back again, marching past me in grim silence, thumping, bumping and slamming, still refusing to look at me. What had I done now for God's sake? I have given up trying to work it out. And as she does so often nowadays, the miserable cow marched off into the room she has recently had converted into a "study" (she can barely even read, for God's sake) and, without addressing a word to me, slammed the door behind her.

"Daddy?" Alison, my twelve-year-old, asked me.

"Yes, my little sugar plum?" I said.

"Are you and Mommy going to get divorced because of Uncle Nigel?" she asked.

"I should think we could find some better reasons than that, my darling," I replied, and proceeded to unburden myself to her, over a couple of bottles of rather good Californian Merlot and a big bag of pistachios, of the totality of my complaints against her harridan of a mother. We were both quite drunk when we staggered off to an early night at ten o'clock, and Alison had thrown up spectacularly a couple of times under the influence of the first couple of inches of one of my best Cohibas. I dare say I shall hear more about this when Dolores decides that speech will be a greater punishment than silence for whatever it is I've done. But children have to learn to drink and smoke at some stage, don't they?

Friday, February 20, 2004

NIGEL'S TIME IS UP

Nigel has been with us altogether too long. He's hanging around with all the rank appeal of last week's cabbage fumes in the dining hall at Dumpster (the ancient English boarding school where, incidentally, I shared a fetid little room and many a firmly-held right-thinking opinion with British Conservative party sage and future leader Peter Ainsworth.)

What is more Dolores continues to pay Nigel too much attention, and he continues, infuriatingly, to call her Dodo, which has traditionally been the name I myself have whispered in her ear, and by which she has referred to herself at peak moments of marital coupling ("Dodo wants it, Dodo wants it, Dodo WANTS it, Now, now, NOW, F#@% DODO, you bastard" was her standard screaming outburst at the point of no return -- although I must say that neither I nor the neighbors have heard it much in recent years as the flames of our passion have died down.)

I am also continually stumbling across the two of them lurking in dark corners, cooing sweet breathy nothings to one another. If Nigel wasn't so clearly pathetically demoralized and incapable of keeping up with Dolores' virtually insatiable demands, I would be forced to conclude they were getting up to no good, and I suppose that I would have to go out into the market place of violent retribution and look for a substitute for Vinny. But the poor sap has never been able to keep a woman satisfied at the best of times, so I have to assume that Dolores's glowingly satisfied appearance is owed more to lengthy sessions with one or many of her increasingly extensive collection of flexible battery-driven toys than to anything Nigel has done for or to her. This is a relief, as it is always a little upsetting to have an old friend done away with or beaten to a bloody pulp, however much the friendship has frayed at the edges.

Nevertheless, Nigel has to be on his way.

"Nigel, old bean," I said to him yesterday.

"Mmm," he replied.

"Time to head out old man," I said, as gently as I could.

"Er what?" He said, apparently not quite getting my meaning. As I've observed before, our Nige is not the brightest creature on God's earth.

"You," I said, pointing at him, "Home."

"But I can't go home," he said.

"You can't stay here," I said. "Time has expired."

Dolores wasn't there, so he couldn't look to her for support.

"But the photo -- how will I...."

"Noone's interested in who else is in the photo, you dimwit," I said. "Get on the phone and make yourself a reservation for tomorrow."

I was treated to a pathetic hangdog look. Hamish was being beastly again, and no doubt I will have to fend off Dolores' appeals on his wretched behalf for a stay of execution. But while Nigel is fun when he's in the mood for persecuting prisoners, what a downer he is when he's like this! There can be no turning back on this one. Anyway, it's all for his own good.

Wednesday, February 18, 2004

A MORNING OF SPORT, FOND MEMORIES OF THE PAST, AND SEMI-DESPAIR AT THE PRESENT

I spent a couple of hours this morning in a state of seventh heaven screaming down the phone at tenants who are behind on their rent. Nothing, but nothing, gives me greater pleasure than listening to some deadbeat old crone quaking in her slippers, offering up her sad excuses and pleading for mercy.

Most other big landlords leave this sort of thing to their underlings, but if you ask me it's one of the finest things about being rich. If people can't pay, they obviously deserve to suffer, so why not enjoy the sport? There simply isn't much in life that beats the sheer fun of threatening someone with the loss of their only home.

This all takes me back to the romantic heath-girt days of my youth in Bridge of Scrapie, where my cousins and I would beat down the doors of impoverished highlanders on the estate and force them out into the snow if they fell so much as a day behind on their rent. What warm, colorful days those were! Often these lumpenly unattractive specimens had surprisingly presentable daughters, and I would invariably be able to convince one of these dewey young creatures that if she came into the cow shed for a quickie while my foolish drink-crazed cousins were searching for their parents' inevitable whisky stash, I would forgive the rent. As a result I still associate the smell of cow shit and the steaming breath of farm animals on a frosty morning with swift gratification -- which may, I suppose, go some way to explaining the funny looks I have occasionally received in response to my requests in whorehouses around the world.

Oh, but what days those Bridge of Scrapie days were, back then in the feudal mists of the 60s, when no sooner had the handsome hirsute young laird looked at them than the local girls had their knickers off and their eager fingers tugging at the zip of his heavy and monumentally bulging corduroys!

But that's all over now, baby blue. The Scottish Highlands are half a world away. I've been Maybachized, and I'm less than half the man I was when I so skillfully pleasured all those wee squealing girlies. What I've been left with wouldn't create a bulge in a pair of lightweight chinos, let alone a pair of those Cording's of Piccadilly superheavy thornproof corduroys that stand up on their own when you take them off. No girl is going to gasp with admiration now, as my snail-like appendage flops unenthusiastically out of my y-fronts.

As I said, it's all over, and I am reduced to the ever-pliant, ever-forgiving Wanda.

I think I may pay her a visit this afternoon.

Tuesday, February 17, 2004

QUIVERING NIGEL

Nigel is still a shambles. He has turned off his Blackberry and his cell phone and has been loafing around the house in a state of funk ever since the kids pointed out that we were both in that demo photo along with luscious Jane and unctous John. Frankly, he's beginning to get on my nerves. Dolores, on the other hand, is the very sould of commiseration.

"Oh Nigel," she says, "This is terrible. But don't you think it might be an opportunity to return to being the real you?"

"What on Earth do you mean, Dodo?" he asks, using the term of endearment I used to apply to Dolores myself before I became sick to death of her.

"Give up that nasty job of yours, and go back to being nice Nigel," says Dolores. This from the woman who has to have a Bentley so that she can lord it over the poor. What does she care about the prisoners Nigel torments? I decide to nip this idiocy in the bud.

"For God's sake, you two," I say, "can it. Being a cunt is being the real Nigel. The only job Nigel is capable of doing is the one he's already got, two and a half thousand miles away. He draws his inspiration from the persecution of the oppressed."

"I'm afraid he's right, Dodo," said Nigel, shaking his head. "I'm damaged goods. I used to have a heart, but it's been burned up from the inside out. Now I'm just a bastard."

The ridiculous thing about all of this is that there's no evidence to show that anyone has realized that the long-haired hippy in the photo is the same as the balding middle aged man sitting around our house drinking my scotch.

Sunday, February 15, 2004

BEST INTENTIONS BLOWN

The day after Valentine's Day has, for me, always been a day for paying pastoral visits and distributing largesse to impoverished old wives and girlfriends. Dolores has sometimes given me trouble about this, but today she didn't seem to care all that much.

"Nigel and I are off to visit Tracy, darling," I said, trying to sound perky. Tracy was my second wife and lives in a rabbit hutch in Coop City.

"Whatever," my sweetheart replied, looking up without much interest from Rory's head, which she was in the process of denitting.

"Nigel's a little upset about the photo of him making loving eye contact with Jane Fonda, back in '68," I said, by way of explanation. "A visit to Tracy should help take his mind off it."

"I should just about think it would," said Dolores.

Discretion being the better part of valor, etc., I decided that I could pass over asking D. exactly what she meant by that rather insolent remark. So off we went.

Nigel and I piled into the Tracer, and Nigel wrinkled his nose. "Jalopy seen better days, eh, Hamish? What's up?" He asked.

Then he remembered my little problem with luxury cars.

"You don't mean that you can't even have a Beamer or one of those cheap new Jags without your...?" He pointed his finger at his crotch and looked at me with renewed sympathy.

"Simply daren't risk it, after what happened the other day," I replied. "Had a BMW 7 on order, seemed cheap enough to do the trick, but I called to cancel it yesterday. It's used American-made shit for me for the foreseeable future, I'm afraid."

"Well," said Nigel, desperately clutching at straws on my behalf (what a friend indeed!), "couldn't you get something like, say, well, a Buick for instance?"

"Yes," I said, 'I suppose I could. But think about it for moment, Nigel, old pal. If you saw me in this shitheap, would you think I was driving it because I couldn't afford it, or for some other reason?"

"Well," said Nigel, "some other reason, I suppose."

"Exactly," I said. "But if you saw me in a Buick, might you not suspect that I owned it because I could no longer afford anything better?"

"Good God," said Nigel, "I see what you mean."

We drove on in the silence of what passes for deep reflection with Nigel, and were soon at Coop City.

"God, what an awful place!" said Nigel.

"Oh, I know," I said. "Can't imagine why Tracy lives here."

I pressed the buzzer. "Hello, Tracy, love," I said when it was answered, "It's Hamish."

"Hamish who?" a male voice of undisguised Brooklyn origins barked down the line.

"Er," I said, "Hamish Dixon. Tracy's ex."

At this I heard the voice say over his shoulder something along the lines of "It's that fuck Dixon, where's the baseball bat?"

"Quick, Nigel," I said,reacting with my normal lightning-like speed, "This is clearly not a convenient time." We ran for the Tracer and after a nervous minute trying to start the engine, spent simultaneously cursing the Ford Motor Co. and blessing the maker of the snail-like elevators in Tracy's building, we drove off just as two very ugly looking specimens emerged from the building's lobby waving baseball bats and looking around for their victim's expensive car.They looked straight through us in our bland piece of non-design, of course.

"It's for such moments of tension as this, Nigel old boy," I said with relief, "that the Mercury Tracer was designed."

This episode, perhaps in particular my close identification with the Tracer, seems to have had a most welcome effect on the size of my organ. While by no means approaching its maximum (and, though I say it myself, handsomely impressive) schlong-like dimensions, it is beginning to regain a degree of presentability. I think a visit to the ever-pliable Wanda will be possible in the not too far distant future.

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

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