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, March 20, 2004

SIDEWINDER SLITHERS BACK INTO VIEW

Magnus Sidewinder reappeared yesterday.

Assiduous readers will remember that this miserable blast from the Dixon past and New York correspondent of the great London newspaper the Smudge called to interview Dolores in the aftermath of the Alison nipple-loss debacle. For a journalist on a supposedly serious newspaper he certainly does pander to some of the lower tastes of his readership.

Anyway, this time I picked up the phone.

"Magnus Sidewinder here," he said, in his impeccably modulated ultra-demotic offensive-to-noone slight glottal stop accents. At this stage he still had no idea that Dolores is the wife of the old London flat-mate whose sex slave he shamelessly stole and carried off to wedded bliss in Islington.

"May I speak to Mrs. Dixon, please?" He asked.

"What about?" I barked down the line at him.

"A private matter," he had the nerve to say.

"This is her husband," I said. "There are no private matters between her and you. And anyway, you muckraking scumbag," I went on, "how could you pretend that a conversation with a journalist is private?"

"So this is Mister Dixon, is it?" he said.

"It is," I said.

"Father of Alison," he said.

"Correct," I said.

"Well perhaps I can ask you a question," he said. "I'm writing an article about New York private schools. Do you think your daughter's act of oral sex with a fourteen year old was a one-off? Or is she at it all the time, and is it typical of New York private school girls like her? "

"Look," I said, "I don't know about you, Sidewinder, but when I was fourteen my father would evict tenants from their farms if their daughters refused to drop to their knees for me whenever I wanted."

Ha! I thought. That would put him in his place. Sidewinder was the product of a firmly ribbon-development upbringing. His father was a clerk at the Ministry of Works, and never had a tenant to evict in his entire life.

Silence at the end of the line. For I moment I thought I'd shocked the jumped-up bastard.

"Well fuck me," he said, "I do believe I've stumbled across that old blowhard fantasist Hamish Dixon. Can it really be you, Hamish?"

"It is, Sidewinder, it is," I said.

"Well," he said, "It's no surprise that your poor unfortunate wife's daughter's such a disaster area, then, is it?" And then he hung up.

Thursday, March 18, 2004

IN THE MENS' ROOM

The Dixon equipment continues to be totally AWOL. As I've been out and about a fair bit over the last couple of days, I have, therefore, on a number of occasions, been brought face to face with the shortcomings of the average public men's room. Normally, like any healthy man, I get in and out of such places as quickly as possible and avoid contact with all surfaces. But now I have no choice -- I have to sit down or I end up peeing all over my shoes. Even when seated there is a risk of a total flood. The noises emerging from the other stalls can be quite breathtaking -- it is often amazing that the people making them emerge alive.

Presumably women's rooms are different, unless women actually like sitting around chatting in a feces-besmirched, ordure-reeking, urine-washed environment. Presumably women have also gotten the hang of directing the flow.

Since the blowjob revelations Alison has retired to her room and refused to emerge. Dolores harangued her like a fishwife for hours when we got home from our meeting with Ms. Wince, telling her all sorts of extremely detailed lies about the consequences of her activity, and then when she had finished with Alison, turned on me and let me have it full blast.

I didn't bother to respond. What's the point? Everything's my fault, I know that. It goes without saying. But vengeance will be mine, etc., whether at the hands of Shlomo or someone else, who knows?

All this had, I must say, put my nerves a bit on edge. I eased the tension a little this morning by making dunning calls to elderly non-paying tenants. Threatening impoverished old people with eviction never fails to give me pleasure (I really cannot recommend it too highly) and always refreshes my faith in human nature.

Tuesday, March 16, 2004

DISPARU ENCORE - AND CHECKING OUT OF CHANCE

It seems that even a photograph can do it nowadays. I was flicking through Sunday's Times yesterday when there before my eyes was a photograph in full orgasmic technicolor of the glorious sod-the-proles interior of a Maybach. I felt a momentary twitch in the behind-the-flies region, and then, just as when I looked in through the showroom window, there was an audible plop as the pride of the Dixons retreated deep inside me. I am left once more with nothing but a hole and a peeing problem.

For all sorts of silly reasons having nothing to do with this unfortunate phenomenon, Dolores has been urging me for months to go and see a shrink. I'm beginning to think I should follow her advice. If I can't even read the paper without risking being hermaphroditized, I'm in trouble.

New York private schools are closed this week and next, so the kids are home. The break did not, however, deter the idiot headmistress of Chance, Ms Wince, from summoning Dolores and myself to an "urgent meeting" this morning. Apparently Alison was caught having "oral relations" with a boy from St. Pancras School.

"When you say 'oral,' what do you mean, exactly?" I asked.

"Ssh," went Dolores, who believes in sucking up to teachers.

"No, I won't ssh," I said. "Does it mean they were talking to one another, or simply kissing enthusiastically, or was she sucking his..."

"Hamish, that's enough," said Dolores, cutting me off. But the damage had already been done. Ms. Wince had gone white as a sheet and was gurgling incoherently. Eventually she managed to croak a reply.

"The latter," she said.

"Well then, is this boy a clean boy?" I asked. "Because if he is, I can't really see a problem."

"Hamish, for heaven's sake be quiet!" shouted Dolores, who was apologizing to Wince while backing us out of the presence chamber and assuring the headmistress that Alison would be severely reprimanded.

"That will not be quite good enough," said Wince.

"I beg your pardon?" said Dolores.

"No," said the gray-faced pedagogue, "I'm afraid that we're going to have to ask you to take Alison out of the school. She's very influential with the other girls. We can't afford to have this catching on."

At this Dolores poured forth a torrent of filth at the unfortunate Wince, before turning to me.

"It's all your fault," she said, "If you hadn't given her that great fat cigar, she'd never have thought of it."

She may have a point.

Sunday, March 14, 2004

LIFE UNDER BUSH

I must admit I have a soft spot for the Bush family. They are so gloriously multifaceted. Babs can rip beer caps off with her teeth with the best of them, which comes in handy at the oddest times, and Dubya has outstripped expectations several times over on all sorts of fronts, as we all know. What a prince among men he is, by heaven! A true world leader. Which is no more than one would expect with parents like his.

But now I never see them. No invites nowadays for Hamish to Crawford or Kennebunkport. I must have blotted my copybook somehow, but I have no idea how.

Things used to be different: I will always remember my days as a CIA informer, when every couple of weeks or so Poppy and I would strip down and oil up for a session of sensuously slithering wrestling on the floor of his leather-lined rec room. What a body that man had! This was soon after my time as one of little Malc's young men, and Malc had taught me well how to feign maximum effort while still being reduced to helplessness and begging convincingly for mercy. Once I was in this position Poppy could, of course, be relied upon to show no mercy at all, and would beat me senseless, after which the next thing I would know would be the shock of a cold shower as I was sluiced down before being ejected through a basement exit into the parking lot, with the exciting feeling of having been violated in just about every possible corner of my body.

Ah, those were the days! Just as they apparently still are for the entire middle class population of the United States as they are given the same treatment by the son, while still crying out eagerly for more.

It all makes me proud to call myself a Republican.

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

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