|
|
|
|
Droning on...and on...and
on...and on...and on... |
|
Lies, Lies, and more damned
lies... |
|
|
|
HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY |
|
 |
|
Friday, July 23, 2004
BACK AMONG THE SWAMP YANKEES
While I was locked up on the funny farm being fussed over by people in white coats who referred to me as "we," I quite lost track of time. It entirely escaped my notice that the time had come to retire to the Dixon mountain-top compound in rural Rhode Island and continue my vendetta against my appalling swamp yankee tenants, Tony and Cheri Blair. Assiduous readers will remember that I had this cretinous couple's house demolished last year, and that they are now living in a trailer. There was also some stuff about their daughter and trains running over legs and things, but the intervening period of doctor's supervision has made my memory hazy on many details.
I drove up to Rhode Island this morning in a bright red rented Porsche, and was pleasantly surprised to find when I got there that a couple with an extremely attractive teenage daughter had moved in to the house at the bottom of our two mile drive. It took little to persuade this sadly under-educated yokelesse, who goes by the name of tiTianna, for God's sake, to climb aboard my throbbing motor for a quick ride up the dirt track to the house, where I fed her quarter of a bottle of gin and did all the things to her that the sort of man who would give quarter of a bottle of gin to a teenager would do. She's sleeping it off in the back bedroom at the moment, and when she comes to I'll fling her in the shower and then have another round of fun before I chuck her out the door. There certainly is something appealing about the country.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
NO TRIP TO KENNEBUNKPORT THIS YEAR
Terrible trouble when I got back to New York with this lunatic I've employed to sell office space in my trophy midtown buildings. It seems he's been cooking up schemes even more crooked than the ones we normally run, and the phone has been ringing off the hook with complaints from the tenants. The man is barking mad, of course, and I dare say I'll have to bring Vinny back into action to deal with him. I'll deal with the whingeing tenants in due course.
I don't know what to do about the way the Bush family is ignoring me. Once again my invitation to a long weekend in Kennebunkport when Dubya pays his duty visit to the ancient ones has gone astray in the mail, it seems. When I call I can't get through, and my letters are returned. I bought a bottle of scented oil in anticipation of my naked wrestling bouts with Babs, but it looks as if it will go to waste, which is such a shame. Maybe I'll invite my old buddy Ron Reagan for a slither on the leather instead. Or maybe Rory can use it with one of his boyfriends.
Now that my equipment is back to normal, I think I'll go out and replace the Maybach. It will be so pleasant to be able to sneer at the common folk again as I pass by.
Monday, July 19, 2004
WEST COAST WEDDING
It was off to foggy San Francisco on Friday for the seventh wedding of my old pal Horace B. Wiggins. He was marrying a lady half his age, of course, and with considerably better muscle tone than that dreadful Penelope woman he managed to get away with drowning a couple of years ago. It isn't even as if Horace has any money to speak of, so I can't quite see what this latest slightly dusky version, who glories in the name of Tallulah, can see in him. The wedding took all day, which gave me time to get to know a delightful filly by the name of Hernia, with whom I managed to sneak out for half an hour and borrow the limo for a quick trip to the Presidio for a roll, metaphorically at least, in the heather. Rather scrubby grass, in fact, but the rustling of the eucalyptus trees gave the whole thing a tinge of the exotic together with a slight whiff of medication. Hernia was delightfully inventive, and had never come across a foreskin before, like so many Californians. She let out a little squeal of delight when she discovered it.
When we got back to the celebrations we found that Robert, Horace's fourteen year old son from his third marriage, (my, has he packed 'em in over the last few years) had, with all the vigor of a youth in high dudgeon, flung a golf ball through the window at the exact moment when Horace once again, and no doubt with consummate insincerity, said "I do."
|
|
and on...and on...and on...and on
|
|
|
|
Disclaimer: To
all intents and purposes the contents of this web site are entirely
untrustworthy. While it is possible, but by no means certain, that
the opinions expressed may indeed be those of the writer, the facts
upon which the opinions are based may well be wrong, and whatever
isactually stated as fact can be virtually relied upon to be false.
In any case, the reader can never be certain who the writer actually
is, and therefore is in no position to judge his or her relative truthfulness.
In the event that you read something that you know to be true, you
should not assume that the presence in an article of that one true
nugget implies that anything else in the article is true, because
it almost certainly is not. It follows that readers should not be
misled into assuming, when they stumble across the occasional article
which is substantially, or even completely, true that the website
is moving towards a greater global veracity, and that therefore more
credence can be attached to its entire contents. Such an assumption
would be entirely wrong.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
![[Valid RSS]](Graphics/valid-rss.png "Validate my RSS feed"){kind=small}
