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

Friday, March 12, 2004

MART'S MART AMISS

Apparently aging anglo literary badboy Martin Amis's latest disastrous novel had sold a paltry 12,000 copies in the US. He's off to Uruguay (!) for a year to think up new works of genius -- and now that I think back to the last time dear old Mart and I spoke, I think I know why.

It all goes back to an evening a few weeks ago when I'd gathered my normal soothing mix of people for dinner -- the once-leftist, now confused and confusing atheistic libertarian Vanity Fair columnist Christopher Hitchens was there, and famed London Times columnist Bernard Levin's hellenic ex-squeeze and failed California governor-candidate Arianna Huffington, together with the ineffable Donald in the company of his latest inane bit of fluff and a few dreary make-weights from the management consulting business, to instil order if things got out of hand.

The evening had gone by in a particularly satisfying atmosphere of mutual loathing among the bigshots and total bemusement among the consultants (a business, let's face it, which attracts the lowest of the low), but without breaking out into actual fisticuffs, and we were all settling down to after-dinner digestifs when the phone rang.

"Er hi, Hamish," growled this surly voice, "It's Mart."

"Hold on a minute, Mart," I said loudly, and dashed over to the phone to put him on the speaker so that everyone in the room could have the benefit of his wit and wisdom.

"You sound like you're at the bottom of the f***ing bath, you c***," he said in that charming way he has.

"What's up, Mart, old pal," I asked.

Amis never calls unless he wants something.

"I need a house," he said.

"You do?"

"Yeah," he snarled. I could hear him taking a long drag at a cigarette, and breathing it out again through those pricey teeth of his. I could almost see him too -- hunched, malignant, cadaverous, supporting his bulbous forehead on the palm of his hand, sneering down the phone from the middle of a dense cloud of smoke.

Hitchens was looking at me with manic glee on his pale jowly face and gesturing around the place to suggest that Mart was making a pitch to borrow my house. Over dinner I'd been telling them about Big Ears's recent efforts to do the same.

"In New York," said Amis.

"Well, Mart," I said, "I'll have to ask Dolores after the way you behaved last time, but if she says yes you can have the guest room." Dolores was NEVER going to say yes after that, but I hadn't the heart to give him an outright no.

"No, NO," he shouted. Hitchens had collapsed on the floor in hysterics by this stage and was trying to stuff Arianna's ankle in his mouth to suppress his guffaws, while she slapped at him viciously but ineffectively with her cigarette holder. "I need the whole f***ing house, you f***ing berk."

"But Mart," I said, trying to reason with him, "my house is on the upper east side. Surely you need some gritty neighborhood filled with lowlife bums?"

Hitchens had left the room by this time and I could hear him screaming with mirth in the hallway outside.

"What's that f***ing noise?" Amis demanded."Is someone else there? Have you got f***ing Hitchens there? Didn't I tell you never to talk to him again? God I hate that moronic bastard."

While all this was going on the Donald sat impassively staring into space and grinning, while his bit of fluff stroked him arm and occasionally leaned over to whisper sweet breathy nothings in his ear. But suddenly the Donald stood up like the decision maker we all know him to be and, stalking magisterially across the room to the phone, switched it back to the handset.

"Listen," he said, "I don't know who the hell that is, but this is Donald Trump. And I don't like the way you've been talking in front of my lady here. Let me tell you something -- there's no way in hell Hamish is going to lend you his house, so get lost, you foul-mouthed loser." And he hung up on Mart and unplugged the phone.

Well, unsurprisingly, I haven't heard from Mart since then.

But now you know why he's off to Uruguay.

Thursday, March 11, 2004

E PROFUNDO SAPIENTIA - AND A CALL FROM KERRY

Soon after I wrote my last entry all hell broke loose in my bowels. I spent the best part of Monday and Tuesday in the bathroom not knowing which end of me to point at the porcelain at any particular moment and praying that both ends would not make a demand at once. At times like these, I'm afraid, being super-rich doesn't make a bit of difference -- except, I suppose, that there is the help to clean up the mess.

Meanwhile Dolores amazed me by tending to my every need with true wifely concern, mopping the fevered brow, etc., and even Rory hovered round the door of my sick room to see if I was okay. My beloved daughter Alison, however, rather to my surprise, refused to come anywhere near me.

Perhaps I will have to recategorize my family.

Dolores, at least, will for the foreseeable future be spared Vinnification, or Shlomoification, or whatever it will ultimately end up being when I track down a suitably reliable hit-person to deal with Wanda and her runtish lover.

While I was closeted in the bathroom a call came in from John Kerry (his very self) claiming we had been in a wedding party together years ago and had become quite amiably drunk together. Apparently he thinks that this might be good enough to persuade me to part with a couple of thou. Dolores took the call and I shouted through the door to her between exquisite cramps that I remembered none of it (the only time I was ever anywhere near Kerry was at the recently much-publicized demo with Jane Fonda and Nigel) and to tell Kerryboy to eff off. Which she did with considerable aplomb, I'm pleased to say.

Monday, March 08, 2004

INTERVIEW WITH TONY AND CHERIE

I was staring at the ceiling above my bed this morning at Monte Pollo, trying to stimulate my equipment into a growth spurt with thoughts of the delectable and knickerless Fiona Macravish lying back in a state of moist and giving red-haired dishevelment on the banks of Loch Scrapie, when there was a loud knocking on the door. I waited for whoever it was to give up and go away, but they didn't -- they just kept on banging away.

So I staggered out of bed and down the stairs to see who it was. And blow me if it wasn't that hopeless pair of swamp yankee ne'er-do-wells, Tony and Cherie Blair, standing in front of a bashed-up truck and accompanied by a mangy looking cur.

"You never had the right to pull down our house," whined Tony. "My great-great-great- grandpa built that house."

"Or to have sex with our Sharon," chipped in Cherie.

"Nonsense," I said. "Be off with you before I get my gun."

"We want compensation," said Tony.

"We want what's rightfully ours," said Cherie.

"And we want you to pay for Sharon's baby," said Tony.

Another by-blow, eh?

"Dammit, you rural trash," I said, "I've never paid for one of my bastards yet, and I'm not going to start now. Tell Sharon to get a job. Now get off my property."

"She can't get a job," said Cherie.

"Why not? There are jobs for people as stupid as her."

"She's no legs," said Tone.

"No legs?"

"After you had your way with her, and she found she was pregnant with the devil's offspring, she tried to do herself in," said Tone. "She threw herself in front of an Acela Express just outside Westerly station, and it cut off her legs. So now she's no legs."

"She can still clean floors," I said. "Now be off with you before I shoot you."

They left after that, muttering vague threats.

But by then they'd completely ruined my day, so after firing off a few rounds on my private indoor range to work off my aggression, I drove back to New York, where my wife and children continue to refuse to talk to me. I considered an afternoon visit to Wanda, but the thought of her with her arms round the hairy back of the little man who beat me up the other day was too off-putting, so instead I shut myself up in my study and worked my way through my Sopranos DVDs, which had their usual calming and inspiring effect.

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

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