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Droning on...and on...and
on...and on...and on... |
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Lies, Lies, and more damned
lies... |
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HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY |
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Monday, March 21, 2005
INSIDE THE FABERGE EGG
Some of my many readers may have been wondering lately exactly where I have been. After a positive effusion over the early months of last year, I have been almost silent, I know. Even now I can't tell if I'm going to continue writing to you all, or am going to run out like a river sinking into the sands of a desert. But enough of the fucking poetry.
It all started, of course, with Vinny's amputation of my finger and MY subsequent abandonment in the midwinter Jersey meadowlands without a coat. I must have been crazy to think that I could replace him (he had been my personal hitman, as he now once again is) with a peely-wally black hatted yeshiva boy, but that was, indeed what I considered.
Frankly, after that it was all down hill. My penis disappeared every time I went near an expensive car, my daughter was ejected from Chance after dancing naked in the snow in the school yard (after which one of her nipples fell off), my wife Dolores had an affair with Slobbo the chauffeur (after he had rammed the Maybach into an upper east side abortion clinic that he had somehow confused with little Mikey's townhouse residence), I was incarcerated in Bellevue, and finally la grotesque dame sans mercie brutally shoved a broom handle up my back passage. Of all my friends only Mel came to see me when I was recovering in hospital. I have to say it quite changed my view of the man. Of course, he does hate the English, so we do have something in common.
Is it, then, any wonder that I have been somewhat indisposed?
Still, things must be looking up. I received verbal assurances from the Donald the other day, when we were chinwagging about the best ways to eject non=paying tenants, that I would be invited to the nuptials of his sone whatsisname to that girl with a mom called Bonnie. Can't remember her name, either. Dolores is firmly of the opinion that the wedding will be a tasteful affair, and every time she voices this idiocy I snort with derision. Donald is no more capable of imagining something tasteful than Big Ears is of giving real pleasure to one of those white-thighed young lassies who so willingly fling themselves beneath one in the heather beds of Loch Scrapie-side.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
BASTARDS ARE A-COMING IN
Big Ears's screw ups -- or rather his flunky's -- have now been commented on more than thoroughly, and so it is time, or will be momentarily, to pass on to other more fascinating subjects. The ridiculous and now blessedly deceased Harold Brooks-Baker did the best job of pointing out what a bunch of twits the whole pack of them are -- including La Grande Dame herself.
I knew Maude, as we all called him back then, in his unhyphenated bond trading days, before he'd twigged to the fact that in England wearing shoes without socks to the office was not quite the thing. Still, one has to admit that he was a quick learner, and by the time of his demise his adopted countrymen were surprised to find that he wasn't one of their own. Hardly to be wondered at, of course, considering how far he was up the arses of the aristocracy -- almost as far up, indeed, as that famous broom handle of the vengeful Camilla's was up mine.
But I am now returned to comparative health, and to the bosom of my family, such as it is. Dolores is pregnant with the hairy-backed Slobbo's progeny, while Alison is not sure which particular 14-year-old is the father of her child. I have revived my relationship with Vinny and had Slobbo dealt with. He is, presumably, sleeping with the fishes.
"Don't ask, Mr. Dixon," rasped Vinny (you will remember he was responsible a year or so ago for amputating my finger with a printer's guillotine, when he said much the same thing). "You don't wanna know."
Not much chance of that with the father of my first grandchild, alas.
"But Daddy," Alison said, all innocent, sticking out her lower lip, "I didn't know I could pregnant from that!"
Apparently she used to suck them off, which while hardly an attractive thought for a father, was never likely to come to his notice quite so indelibly unless he walked in on the act itself. But then some idiots on network tv ran a sensationalist news show about how blow jobs had become epidemic among twelve year olds, and my darling one-nippled daughter got the impression that they were worse than a full-bore certified delivery.
Meanwhile, I myself am back in full working order, and paid a lengthy visit to Wanda at the Pierre yesterday afternoon where she did a pretty fine job of leaving me an empty husk. I am planning a trip back to Bridge of Scrapie soon for a concentrated fortnight of pressing the snow-white buttock flesh of wee marys into the tender young shoots of the spring heather. It makes the old heart jump.
I am contemplating whether or not I should take the risk of nipping down to Chelsea to have a sample run in one of the new Bentleys. It is, of course, a serious risk. If it goes wrong I will be faced with having to decide between the Bentley and my mighty Wurlitzer -- and if I go for the Bentley, my trip to Bridge of Scrapie to ravish the newly nubile maidens of the glen will have to be cancelled.
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and on...and on...and on...and on
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