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 28, 2004

ETHICAL DIXON SHOCK

Rory came home yesterday with a piece of paper which he proudly showed to Alison and his mother, but carefully avoided showing to me. I could see them in the kitchen, all lovey-dovey, patting him on the shoulder like a little hero.

Mystified about how the wretched child could possibly have anything to be proud of, I asked him what it was.

"Nothing," he mumbled, virtually inaudibly.

"What do you mean, nothing?" I barked. (Does the boy think I'm a complete idiot?) "You've been showing that scrap of paper to your sister and your mother with a mindless grin of satisfaction," I went on, "so it can't be just 'nothing'."

"It's not important, Dad," he said, cowering in the corner like a girl.

"I'll be the judge of that," I snapped, holding out my hand, "Give it here."

My sorry excuse for a son (is he really mine? I find it almost incredible. I must remember to send him in for DNA tests) edged crab-like across the kitchen and held out the paper, which I snatched from him as soon as he came in range, leaving a small piece stuck between his girlish milk-white fingers.

What I saw when I looked at it was so utterly incredible I nearly fell over. There before me was a certificate, all prettily printed in a variety of effeminate colors, with the East Side Spoilem crest at the top, vouchsafing that my useless son has won a prize for being most caring and ethical child in the school!

"What earthly use is this?" I demanded to know, holding the foul document up by its corner, unable to conceal the scale of my disappointment. The boy hung his head in shame, as well he should.

Oh God - why can't my son be more like the Trumps? Couldn't I infuse him with some of Leona's grasping genes?

"Is this really the best you and that pathetic school can do?" I went on. "Couldn't you at least become boxing champion, or win the school business game competition?" I really don't understand these schools at all: they survive on pandering to the unscrupulous rich like me, and then betray their patrons by trying to turn their children into effete little artsy "good citizens" who sink without trace in the competitive world outside. It really is a mystery.

By this stage Rory was a snotty snivelling mess, and Dolores and Alison soon broke into their normal screeching defense of the inexcusable little blot on the Dixon escutcheon. Unfortunately, the concept of being cruel to be kind is utterly lost on the female of the species.

In the face of this feminine barrage, I retreated forthwith to the Pierre, looking forward to having my cares stroked away by a kinder, gentler Wanda. Unfortunately, to my considerable surprise and disappointment, I found my mistress in the throes of a passion far greater than any she ever achieves in my company with a diminutive man with a thick Eastern European accent and a simply enormous schlong. As he was otherwise so small I launched myself violently upon him. This proved to be a mistake, and when I regained consciousness I found the little man gone and Wanda bathing my varied wounds with soothing antiseptic and cooing sympathetically.

I will leave the discussion of revenge for later.

Friday, February 27, 2004

DOLORES WANTS A CHOPPER

Dolores approached me in surprisingly conciliatory mood yesterday (she damn well should be conciliatory, too, considering the disgusting lascivious way she played up to Nigel last week).

"Hamish daaaaaahling," she said.

I grunted.

"I've been thinking about the cars," she said.

"What about the cars?" I asked.

"Well, my sweetie, my honey lamb," she cooed, "we're never going to go anywhere again as a family as long as you have that dreadful smelly old Tracer, and I have the Bentley," she said. "Are we?"

"We could go in convoy," I said. "Why ever not?"

"Yes, but we won't, will we?" she said. "The children will always want to come in the Bentley, and you'll work yourself up into a hissy fit about driving on your own, and then you'll storm off and slam the door and by the time you've calmed down it'll be too late. So we'll never go anywhere."

I asked her what she was suggesting. Did she, perhaps, think that it would be okay by me to drive around in the Bentley and have my dick disappear for ever? No, no, no, she protested -- nothing like that.

"What, then?" I asked.

"We'll fly," she said. "We'll get a helicopter and build a landing pad at Monte Pollo."

Oh, how I laughed. If when I so much as look at a Maybach through a sheet of plate glass my penis disappears inside my body and refuses to emerge for weeks at a time, what's going to happen if I become a chopper shopper?

"So," I asked, "which one of your friends just got one? Was it Muffy, Buffy, Baba, Caca, Cara, Ally or Dede?" I literally rolled around on the sofa at the sheer hilarity of it and ultimately reduced myself to total speechlessness. Looking back, I can't quite see why I thought it was that funny, but there it is.

Dolores did not take my laughter well. She stormed off into her study and slammed the door behind her. I think I may be in for the silent treatment for a while, which will give me more time to search for a replacement for Vinny.

Wednesday, February 25, 2004

PRISON RIOT LOOMS; WHINING PRINCE IN BRIDGE OF SCRAPIE

Nigel called today. It was as if his disastrous recent stay had never happened -- as if he'd never taken to calling Dolores "Dodo" in that disgusting salacious tone of his (nothing was more obvious than that he was angling to get inside her pants), and as if he'd never noticed himself in that photo, looking lustfully at Hanoi Jane, or gone into his resulting panic about what the board of Tossadakee Holdings, the private prison group of which he is chairman, might think if they noticed him too.

Well, on the whole, I have to admit that the reversion to his normal repulsive insensitive self was a welcome one, even if it did require a fair degree of chutzpah on his part.

"Guess what?" he giggled down the phone at me.

"What, Nigel?" I asked.

"I've just found a completely legal way to reduce the meat content of the prisoners' meals by over 30%. What do you think of that?"

"I think there'll be a riot, Nigel," I said.

"Yes, there will," he said. "But I'll be safely somewhere else, and the shareholders will still love me. Isn't it grand, being a Republican?"

"If you weren't a foreign devil," I said, "you'd be a shoo-in for the vice-presidency."

"Oh, thank you, Hamish," he said, "I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

I also got a call from Uncle Hector in Bridge of Scrapie to bring me up to date on affairs back home. His main news was:

1. After a vindaloo at Mansoor's KurryKlub in Inverstrumpet last week he had become frozen to the seat in the outhouse, and had only been dislodged twelve hours later after careful blowtorch work by Alastair McLiverish, the village blacksmith. As McLiverish is the disgruntled father of one the wee Marys I knocked up in the heather years ago (a particularly gullible and delightfully enthusiastic young lass, I remember, with firm white thighs and a squeak like a pig), and therefore the grandfather of one of my bastard children, Uncle Hector had naturally been more than a trifle nervous and had felt it wise (if extremely mentally painful) to hand McLiverish considerable amounts of ready money in advance.

2.Big Ears showed up on his doorstep yesterday, and whined regally and at great length about how I had reneged on my promise to lend him my New York house. "I didna ask the wee German princeling in," said Hector, "which was a bitty tiring, y'ken." Apparently the presumptious heir kept my feeble nonagenarian relative on the doorstep for an hour or more, as he moaned on about my act of lese majeste, and then seamlessly progressed to how his dear old mum is in the best of health, and how he will probably be dead before he inherits, and perhaps that's for the best as William will do a better job than he ever could, and how everyone things he's a boring old fart, which he admits he is, but it's too late to change now, etc.

Tuesday, February 24, 2004

NO LIES FOR MARTHA AND A LEONA REMINISCENCE

Martha called last night. It was the first time we'd spoken since that disastrous day a couple of years ago when she drove off in the wrong BMW.

"Hamish, I'm sending up a tray of that millionaire's shortbread you like so much," she said.

"Martha, you're a darling," I said, "but how do you have the time?"

"Be quiet and listen to me," she said, with no perceptible affection in her voice. "I need a favor. Things are not going so well at the trial. That little fag didn't help, and that bitch really put the knife in. A lot of people read that blog of yours, and I need you to write nice things about me."

"But Martha," I said, "I never write anything but the truth in my diary."

"So?" she said.

"So...." I gurgled, letting her reach the obvious conclusion.

"Bastard!" she hissed, and the phone went dead.

I simply can't tell if this brief conversation represents a small step forward or a small step backwards in our rocky relationship. It's not a big deal, really, either way, as I always like to be able to fantasise about a quick opportunistic roll in the hay with my women friends, and I never for the life of me, even in my most intoxicated moments, could imagine even a quick grope in the linen closet with Martha. Compare this with the statuesquely criminal Leona: what fun it used to be to warm up the Queen of Mean by trash-talking the little people and nuzzling her gently behind the ears. What romps we used to have together, after a lunch at the Park Lane jointly despising the poor, while all those twittering shirtlifters she inadvertently hired looked on and cooed. How sad to see her now, decayed, bitter, angry -- very like Martha, in fact.

Sunday, February 22, 2004

ADVICE TO A MASTER POLITICIAN

Ralphie called last night to ask my advice before his big announcement today.

What fun we used to have back in the old days, I started to reminisce, riding around the Hamptons in that old Austin Healey Sprite of his with the top down and no safety belts, Ralphie sitting on the front edge of the trunk letting out wild drunken whoops while I did parking-brake turns into peoples' driveways, spattering their lawns with gravel while their nubile young daughters looked on adoringly at our youthful pranks.

I was starting to remind him of how one particular well-connected girl had pulled up her skirt as we flashed by to reveal herself in all her underwearless glory, and how he had nearly had a premature heart-attack at the sight, when the old gravity-guts cut me short.

"I don't remember anything of the sort," he said pompously. Ralphie really has become intolerably serious in his old age -- no wonder we see so little of one another nowadays.

"Well concentrate, old son," I said.

"I don't have time for idle chitchat," he went on in those portentous tones in which his delivery has been stuck for decades.

"How then," I asked the famed crusader, "can I help you, oh great political genius?"

"Do you think I should run, or not?" he asked. "Yes or no. I haven't got time for a discussion."

Well, Ralphie has never asked anyone's opinion about anything unless he already knew what it would be.

"Run, Ralph, run," I said, giving him what he wanted, up to a point. Anything that mucks up the Democrats is a good thing in my book. I'm not sure that Ralphie can really do that this time, but it's got to be worth a try.

And goodness me, it looks like he took my advice, doesn't it? Once more Hamish Dixon contributes to the public discourse of These Great United States of Ours.

Meanwhile I'm in deep shit with Dolores re: getting Alison drunk and giving her a cigar to smoke -- and, more particularly, doing a poor job of cleaning up the resulting vomit.

"If you hadn't gone and publicized it in your goddammed online diary," said my wife, "it wouldn't have been so bad! But now half the world is threatening me with social workers and god knows what else, and I have to live with the stink as well."

It really is difficult to see much of a future for me and Dolores, but at least she's talking to me again.

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

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