Droning on...and on...and on...and on...and on...
Lies, Lies, and more damned lies...
HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY
Friday, February 25, 2005

CONVERSAZIONE ROYALE

It's been a hectic time, the last few weeks. Big Ears has been fucking things up on the home front again, and as usual he's come crying to old Hamish for help. It really does take one's breath away, the mess that lot make of things. And all this for a raddled old crow, when I could keep him supplied with uncomplaining virginal young flesh from Bridge of Scrapie (with the added excitement of an almost impenetrable scots accent) until he's too old to get his Hanoverian organ into action.

"But what am I going to do, Hamish?" he whined at me down the blower yesterday. "It's all right for you, you have no reputation. But I am of the blood royal. These things matter when you're headed for the top job."

"Your wife to be shoved an unlubricated broom handle 18 inches up my rectum and landed me in hospital for a month," I gently pointed out.

"Oh, but that was all in fun," said the twerp.

"Fun for who?"

"Well," he said with definite relish, "she can get a bit carried away, I admit. Sometimes I'm just black and blue after an active night."

"Puleeze don't tell me," I said, "or I'll have to hang up."

"Hanging up's not the half of it, I can tell you," squeaked the little prince, his voice rising in excitement. "Oh, it reminds of my days at Gordonstoun! Such brute force! Such manly musculature!"



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

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