Bawdy comedy with Edwin & thespian friend (link)

Please regard: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8zRWv47pP2Y

An improvised sketch concerning a débutante and a matriarch - transcript:

EDWIN: Och…dear…I’m just trying to sit my wee little pert bottom down.
MATRIARCH: Now sit down!
EDWIN: I just-
MATRIARCH: You know nothing about the ways of the world…or of young men.
EDWIN: Well what should I know?
MATRIARCH: Did you use those nipple creams that I suggested to you?
EDWIN: Well I did but I found a little…quite bad rosacea. [skin discolouration]
MATRIARCH: That’s because you have a couple of fried eggs…my dear! No man’s going to want those. You have to listen to me. I’ve had several cocks up me – regularly. And I can say that as a ‘woman of substance’.
EDWIN: Yes, but what substance dear?
MATRIARCH: Well, a rather sticky substance actually. I always make sure I clear it all up. I bring in the dachshunds. They lick it up a treat…
EDWIN: Well…now…look…I need to know the ways of the world and etiquette y’know because up in Scotland where the winds blowing round…out my ‘Trussocks’…y’know I-
MATRIARCH: I understand completely now, first of all, you must understand I don’t want to embarrass you. But, erm…talking… I don’t want to spell it out but…do you shave your snatch? I don’t want to embarrass you but that makes quite a difference to people. Okay?
EDWIN: Och yes. Well, I…I don’t shave it but erm…I singe it…I generally singe it with a candle, y’know?
MATRIARCH: Look dear…no, no…look I’ve got to be kind to you; you’re snatch is enormous, okay? And it reeks of cod! It absolutely reeks of haddock and cod. I’m not being unkind dear. The truth sometimes hurts.
EDWIN: But I couldn’t understand why your…your face was embedded in it?
MATRIARCH: Look, I was just investigating something for a novel I’m writing. You don’t understand these sorts of things. I was just tickling it with my tongue that was…look, I know about these things I’m a novelist. What I say is that you should shave it, smooth it, rub it down with some sort of grease…chip fat or something…and then you will entice the men. But look, let’s face it, your balls hang down by your waist. No man’s going to want that!
EDWIN: But I heard that your snatch is like barbed wire though…?
MATRIARCH: Oh that’s absolutely right. That’s why I let so many German prisoners of war shag me up the arse! It makes them feel at home.
EDWIN: Yes but did anyone ever escape though?
MATRIARCH: No I don’t think so. Oh they have named my snatch Colditz. Quite a massive toddle[?] up their actually.
EDWIN: Has anyone ever shoved their lookout tower up there?
MATRIARCH: No. Oh you could fit quite a big bayonet up there I can tell you.
EDWIN: What a ‘beef bayonet’? [slang word for a penis]
MATRIARCH: Oh, a big ‘beef bayonet’.
EDWIN: That’s always good.
MATRIARCH: I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I sometimes slip into a more Irish/Scottish accent. I don’t know where I’m from really…
EDWIN: Och, I don’t. y’know. Sometimes I go into a quite…quite delicate southern-
MATRIARCH: Yeah, I’m quite…but sometimes I have a bit more ‘gypsyness’. Sometimes my draws fall down ‘round my ankles.
EDWIN: And sometimes I’m er…I’m very, very French-
MATRIARCH: Sometimes I am French. Sometimes people say when I talk French that I am more masculine than feminine, but I think that my voice is also quite deep. That is because as well as being a woman with breasts and a virgina, I also have testicles and a big cock. That’s quite normal for some people. I don’t think that you should get a guarantee. It just means that I have various genitalia for every…whatever may come up. You don’t know when you might need other genitalia.
EDWIN: So er…Lady Bracknell, ‘ow…how d’you fancy me taking you up the ‘tradesman’s entrance’? [slang for rectum]
MATRIARCH: Young man I think you are quite outrageous to think to take me up the ‘tradesman’s entrance’! I want your cock, first (obviously) and then the butler will smear it and dab it with my napkins (which are hand embroidered with my initials) and then of course, you know, I want your cock on a silver platter…
EDWIN: So how d’you fancy me er…me shoving up all my fruit and veg’…y’know up every…er orifice?
MATRIARCH: Young ma…sir, you are quite a ruffian! I don’t…I think it’s absolutely disgusting! It’s been many, many, many times since I’ve had spunk rubbed into my nipples. Three or four or five minutes – at least! You make me sound like an absolute whore young man! Young man you are disgusting! I’ll take you down the porn shop…show you the film I made…eh…I wasn’t happy about it. I needed the money and that was all it was. I was very attached to pinky, perky…and that horse. I’m not happy about it.
EDWIN: But didn’t they…they lost the hamster up there? They had to entice it out with sunflower seeds?
MATRIARCH: Are you suggesting that my virgina is huge young man?
EDWIN: No, but there was a hamster and a rabbit and they were calling you erm, ‘Hutch’ weren’t they?
MATRIARCH: Well, I think you are disgusting young man. I’m going to have to bend you over and er… I’m going to have to take you with my large banging-stick. I’ve greased it regularly. Now come, Jeeves, bring in the banging-stick. I’ll now take him up the anus.
EDWIN: And on that note, we finish the broadcasting for BBC2. And er…next we will be investigating the erm…the…er…serial lesbianism of Ann Widdecombe.

A case study of self-delusion

It could be said that one of the greatest ‘crimes’ against the self is self-delusion – the deliberate denial of one’s own true nature. This is especially pertinent if that denial leads a person to delegate all consequence or responsibility for their actions to a mental aberration or ‘condition'. An ego of this persuasion could exist beyond the confines societal morality and become a law unto themselves; untroubled by conscience or regret. Although such a person might superficially exhibit unorthodox behaviour, does it always follow that there is anything acutely wrong with them? Could it be they’re so captivated by their unfettered existence that they’ll stop at nothing to convince themselves, and the world, that they’re incurable?

I believe that I’ve met such a person and I would like to explain why. However, you can draw your own conclusions as I guide you through the toe-curling, gruesome and occasionally hilarious events that unfolded during my cohabitation with this individual.

Welcome to the world of Riley…

The life of Riley

The following is my account of events, although names have been changed for privacy reasons. Please don’t read any further if you’re of gentle birth or have a delicate disposition. Note: I’ve opted to write this as a vague pastiche of a gothic horror – well, it seemed appropriate somehow…

1. A DATE WITH FATE

Some years ago, having just returned from a stay overseas, I found myself in the unenviable position of being unemployed, broke and looking for accommodation in London. A close friend of mine suggested I might contact his ex-playmate who had a vacant two-bedroom apartment near London Bridge. How could I forsee that my acceptance of this ‘fantastic opportunity' would lead me straight into the clutches of a libertine…?

Riley appeared delighted at the idea of having a reliable ‘flat-sitter’ (since he was now living with his mother) and assured me that his visits would only be occasional - at most, overnight stays. Having met him, my first impressions were that he was an affable person, somewhat shy, but well-intended. The kind of person who might linger in the background of a social function and be infinitely grateful for even a passing exchange of platitudes. Briefly, we traded backgrounds.

Riley had been brought over to the UK by his parents at eight years old and originally hailed from Nigeria. Of diminutive stature, he had a portly build, was bespectacled and sported an unkempt beard. Much of the time he wore an inane grin that imbued him with a childlike, almost imbecilic quality. Although I had reservations regarding his previous involvement with a cult known as the ‘Seventh Day Adventists’, on balance, I decided to pursue the arrangement to move. I collected the door keys and decamped from a friend’s sofa where I’d been temporarily installed.

2. GRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY.

The apartment was situated in a 1930s style, three story block – social housing intended for the poor of that era. Although unlovely in appearance, it was well-tended and recessed from an airy, tree-lined street. In fact, my first impressions of the surroundings were favourable.

In stark contrast, my crushing sense of chagrin at the condition of the apartment was matched only by an overwhelming urge to gag. There was a pervading smell; one of damp and mouldering. In fact, walls that hadn’t already divested themselves of their wallpaper were, in places, blackened by mould. Riley had already instructed me not to open windows in order to guard against stray gusts of wind and a perceived threat of intruders. I surmised that the windows had not been opened for months, if not years. In fact, many of them were sealed with duck tape and blanked-out by refuse bags.

As I ventured warily along the hallway, I found myself wading through discarded fast-food packaging (some containing rotting food), crumpled pages of longhand, used tissues, dirty laundry and a brick-a-brack of miscellany such as astronomy journals, condom packets and chocolate wrappers. (Ferrero Rocher being a clear favourite although I fear that famed ambassador from the commercials might have found the setting less than convivial for one of his opulent soirees.)

My intended (spare) bedroom contained one single mattress almost lost to a deluge of assorted rubbish and dust. Short of hiring a snow plough, I was perplexed as to how I might shift all the crap and begin utilising such a festering garbage heap as my boudoir. To my horror, I discovered that it was inhabited by a species of arachnid called ‘Opiliones’. This species dart around on long, spindly legs and survive by eating fungi, animal remains and also by sucking the juices from their prey. (I would later discover that these creatures shared this latter mode of predation with the owner of the property…)

Greatly disheartened, I lurched toward the kitchen, girding my loins for what other horrors may await. I discovered it thick with grease on work surfaces and walls. Evidently, this had tar-like quality which had ensnared legions of hapless insects. Surely all but the most steadfast etymologist would have quailed in terror? Those creepy-crawlies that had survived this peril were rewarded with a bounty of rotting cereal, flour and spices, etc. In fact, the kitchen represented an entire ecosystem all feasting greedily in a living, seething carpet of compost. The infestation had spread throughout the cupboards, shelves and drawers. It was, in short, vile.

The sitting room was in a similar state to the bedroom excepting that there was a preponderance of discarded cell phone numbers and hastily scrawled mantras such as ‘…must build muscles. IMPORTANT: either have to build them or touch them…’ Initially, I didn’t interpret any sinister connotations in such notes. (I use similar, apparently nonsensical, jottings in my own writing - phrases that, to a casual browser, might appear ludicrous.) At that point, I assumed that Riley shared my passion for composing skits and poems. This supposition was compounded when I perused dusty bookshelves which were brimming over with poetry anthologies, manuals on creative writing and various esoteric publications concerning the healing power of crystals and evangelist teachings.

The walls of the bathroom were glistening with condensation and the porcelain discoloured with limescale. The bath itself was clearly blocked and exhibited a tidemark of scum and pubic hair[?] that had evidently bubbled up from a blockage in the drains. Ever practical, I decided that this would be my first point of attack in my stratagem to wage war on grime.

The toilet was unlike anything on earth (or, I suspect, in the known universe). The pan was encrusted with russet-coloured limescale up to the waterline and bore testimony to countless ill-considered evacuations. In fact, in the course of my life, I’ve witnessed crack-houses that were less squalid. It was at this point that I began to wonder if Dante’s inferno might have been slightly more hospitable…?

Needless to say, I spent the next two weeks scrubbing, disinfecting, sweeping and polishing the festering mountain of grime, filth and decay. I was fortunate in the discovery of some rusted tools in my bedroom since it required a chisel to remove the near-fossilised crud from the toilet pan.

At last, satisfied with my Herculean accomplishments, I resumed my writing in an environment finally fit for human habitation. This period of my life heralded a peculiar odyssey into the psyche of a self-deluded mind.

3. TEA AND SYPMPATHY

I consider myself a compassionate human being; a good listener and generally pretty tolerant. Tales of injustice or illiberal attitudes are vexatious to me. I was therefore moved by what I came to regard as Riley’s tortured existence (or ‘condition’ as he preferred to call it).

As a child, his parents had forced him to attend a ‘church’ that abounded with theories of demonology and damnation. To my mind, this represents an abhorrent and inverted perspective of the human condition that ignores its more sublime and transcendent qualities. Doubtless, such scaremongering took its toll on poor Riley’s young mind. His father also regarded beating to be the mainstay of good parenting practices. Riley attributed much of his ‘condition’ to his brutal father.

When Riley first visited me at his flat, he was thrilled by its transformation from a hovel into home. He wasted no time in explaining that his various childhood traumas had rendered him incapable of performing even the most basic housewifery tasks. ‘Really…?’ I remember commenting with a wry grin. However, moved by his plight, I told him that I was more than happy to maintain the place, pay rent and even prepare (vegetarian) food for him should he stay over. Compassion, in hindsight, isn’t always the best policy.

Within a month, Riley had moved in to the apartment and ensconced himself in his old bedroom. Although I’d had no forewarning of this change of living arrangements, he proved to be amiable (if eccentric) company. At this point, I was fortunate in finding an offer of employment.

Things settled down into a kind of domestic ‘normality’ - although I found Riley’s insatiable curiosity about work, friends and past relations disconcerting at times. There were other matters of concern too; he rarely ventured out of the flat, he still insisted (vehemently) on windows remaining closed and obsessed over washing his hands (around 40 times a day, I learned). There was also the matter of him asking to massage my chest and arms - to which I consented since he claimed this was ‘therapeutic’ for his condition. Initially, these idiosyncrasies didn’t worry me unduly. So I indulged, humoured and entertained his whims.

I decided to help Riley apply for a higher rate of state benefits, encourage him to socialise and generally persuade him to forgo his daily diet of TV chat shows and Ferrero Rocher. I even organised an introductory consultation with a psychotherapist in the hope that it might help him to overcome his ‘condition’ and bolster confidence.

The meeting itself was a startling revelation for all concerned parties. As well as covering Riley’s obsessive-compulsive disorders, the psychiatrist went on to pry into sexual behaviour (well, what more could one possibly expect from your average kwack?). It transpired that Riley was often consumed by a desire to grope and fondle and had already done so in public on several previous occasions. Of more concern was the blithe and jocular manner with which he described these lapses of judgement. The victims of these unwelcome trysts had tended to be men of muscular build who were, understandably, enraged by his amorous advances. I speculated that Riley was lucky not to have been afforded a sturdy punch on the nose. Naturally, the psychiatrist suggested that he voluntarily signed the Sex Offenders Register. Riley refused, became agitated, and requested that the session be terminated. Latterly, he did attend further appointments after much cajoling on my part. However, after only a few sessions, he opted to end the treatment since it was ‘unhelpful to the condition’. Inevitably, I began to wonder if he either wanted to be helped or desired to change. That said, he did agree to take a mild course of sedatives to alleviate ‘agoraphobia’ (his term - not the analyst’s).

4. THRILLS AND SPILLS

Some months into my cohabitation with Riley, further unsavoury details came to light – some trivial, others less so. In many ways, both categories delineated a manifestly odious bedside manner.

Bathing time for Riley entailed frantic and repetitive scrubbing followed by several hours of basting in his own juices. The resultant layer of scum around the bathtub was only removable with bleach. The copious quantities of ‘healing oils’ poured into his bath water also resulted in repeated blockages due to congealed fat. Consequently, much of the effluent water from flats above us gurgled straight up through the hand basin and bath in a mottled plume of foam and foul-smelling water. I suggested that he might start using bathing salts instead but the idea was resoundingly rejected.

If this wasn’t gross enough, then Riley’s toiletry functions were even more repugnant. (I include this simply to illustrate the increasingly fraught situation I found myself in.) Riley had already mentioned that he avoided foodstuffs containing fibre since he detested ‘letting go’ as he called it. Due to some extraordinary carbuncle in his mental landscape, he took great pains to avoid a regular defecation. A daily intake of raw eggs (and other binding foods like white bread and chicken) coupled with, doubtless, sheer grit-determination allowed him to evade normal bowel function for days on end. However, when that moment of doom finally arrived and the floodgates opened - dear God - all hell broke lose! To this day, I’m astonished that the man didn’t self-asphyxiate in those palls of sulphurous fumes whilst perched on his porcelain throne. I remember being woken up, gasping for air, as a putrefying stench enveloped me like a cloud of mustard gas. I was forced to retreat under my duvet, praying I might be spared suffocation, or worse, a severe decimation of brain cells.

As time went by, Riley stopped taking his medication and became predominantly nocturnal. He began to suffer mood swings and was, at times, churlish. He roused himself by late afternoon and then went about his rigid daily regime of feverish ablutions, feeding and then lounging in front of the TV whilst making notes. Occasionally, he might venture to the shops but was mostly housebound. By evening he was still fastened to the sofa savouring the delights of reality television, soap operas and ‘documentaries’ about extreme medical conditions that were - to all intents and purposes - latter day freak shows. Sometimes he would ‘converse’ with the characters on these programmes. I attributed this to him seeing them as some kind of surrogate social network[?]. He conducted all his viewings at high volume which began to cause me sleep deprivation. There were numerous occasions when I had to ask him to lower the volume during the early hours of morning.

On one occasion I decided to take him out for a beer and an informal chat regarding noise levels. It was a quiet local bar that I hoped he might not find too daunting. Unlike myself, he didn’t drink a great deal so by the time I’d meandered back home with him, he was still relatively compos mentis. I, on the other hand, was sozzled. He tailed me into my bedroom and we chatted about the usual silly things that tipsy people discuss. I guess I must have drifted off to sleep. When I finally stirred, to my absolute horror, I realised that I was under attack; there was a hand up my shirt and someone was performing fellatio on me. Was it was some monstrous succubus from the nether regions gorging rapaciously at my very own nether regions? Terror-stricken, I opened my eyes...but it was worse than I imagined! The assailant was none other than my predatory flatmate who busied himself bobbing up and down at my waist...

Even if Riley was my type (which he’s not), I’m still old fashioned enough to subscribe to the idea of ‘consent’. After challenging him, he responded by saying ‘Well…I didn’t think you’d mind…?’ I explained (as evenly as I could) that yes actually, I kind of did mind and he should kindly remove his paw and jaw. Judging by his reaction, my rejection was not well received and regarded as something of a snub. In the course of the next few days he became somewhat distant towards me - which was actually a welcome respite. It also gave me some spare time to fit bolt locks to my bedroom door.

5. PULLING A FAST ONE.

Throughout my stay, Riley was employing the services of rentboys (a vernacular term for male hookers). Initially, this was hardly a concern to me and, moreover, I hoped it might keep him off my back (as it were) and provide the titillation that his life so obviously lacked. The only inconvenience was that I’d be obliged to work late on occasion, while he entertained a ‘guest’ (as he euphemistically referred to these commercial liaisons).

However, there was one such occasion that still confounds me. I’d arrived home late from dinner with a friend and was unnerved to discover a recumbent body on my bed. As you might expect, I asked of the intruder to identify themself which was countered by: ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I provided my name and began to explain that it was in fact my bedroom and I’d be much obliged if he kindly remove his person forthwith. After hurling a tirade of expletives at me, the trespasser managed to rouse himself, gather up his accoutrements and stagger towards Riley’s room.

It was then that Riley entered the fray and enquired why I’d upset his ‘friend’. I explained in no uncertain terms that my status as a tenant bestowed certain privileges, namely, a basic level of privacy and respect. Although Riley found this remark amusing his associate clearly didn’t. With all the dazzling wit and repartee of a true raconteur he informed me that I was a ‘fucking cunt’. As you might imagine, in the ensuing days relations were rather frosty.

I recall a distant friend of Riley’s once dropped by to see how he was faring. He was a very pleasant Frenchman and I’m still in touch with him. He knew Riley from years back – even though Riley never bothered to contact him. Having enquired of Riley’s exploits, the friend was promptly treated to a ‘blow-by-blow’ account of a variety of tawdry encounters.

‘Oh my God Riley,’ the friend laughed, ‘all you seem to do is eat, sleep and fuck…?’

After pondering this, Riley said (without a trace of irony), ‘Yeah…well… it’s not such a bad life though, is it?’

…hardy the sentiments of a poor, tortured soul with a ‘condition’…I conjectured.

6. I CAN’T HELP IT – IT’S THE ‘CONDITION’.

An outside observer might ask why I lingered in such a place given that it brought me such anguish. The truth is that was convenient for work, a nice part of London and the rent was very reasonable. Perhaps I too was self-deluded in my assumption that matters might improve. I must also confess that I’d acquired an almost surreal and morbid fascination with Riley’s utter repulsiveness (maybe it was the writer in me?).

Nevertheless, as a conciliatory gesture, I decided to try to attain better understanding of Riley’s condition and thereby rekindle some sympathy for him. We chatted one evening to the less than dulcet tones of Big Brother. He went on to explain that he suffered from ‘graphomania’, which he described as an overwhelming compulsion to write. ‘Is that such a terrible thing for an aspiring poet…or writer?’ said I, ‘surely there’s worse conditions that can afflict a person?’ The remark prompted Riley to explain that he was ‘polymaniacal’ (in possession of a variety of manias affecting differing mental faculties). He then went on to detail some of his more troublesome bugbears:

Anemophobia; fear of air drafts or wind, automysophobia; fear of being dirty, coprophobia; fear of faeces, ablutomania; obsession with being clean, clinomania; excessive desire to stay in bed (or, in the common tongue, 'lazy').

‘There’s others too,’ Riley explained, ‘I discovered them all from my self-help books…’

‘Heavens!’ I exclaimed, ‘…what other ailments could a poor fellow possibly endure…?’

‘peotillomania,’ he explained casually, ‘it’s an abnormal compulsion for pulling on one’s penis…’

‘I…um…see…’ I stuttered, ‘but is that really such a bad thing? I mean we all indulge in the odd spot of that once in a while…surely? Where’s the harm…y’know?’

It was at this point that he revealed that he’d been placing his ear against my bedroom door late at night to ascertain whether I was masturbating.

‘Would it actually matter if I was?’ I blushed.

‘Yes,’ he insisted, ‘because it disturbs my condition...’

I began to speculate that he’d studied and collected manias and phobias in the same way others might collect postage stamps. These concepts were then enmeshed into a shroud of self-delusion that both justified his idleness and exonerated him from all accusations of wrongdoing. Thus, he could live the life of a libertine, be financed by the state benefits system and be free to transgress all parameters of decency and friendship without fear of guilt or reprisal. But underlying this dark tangled web, I suspected, was ‘hypengyophobia’ i.e. a fear of responsibility…

7. THE LAST STRAW

Gee was an American poet that I’d met at a bar. He’d captivated me with spellbinding verse. He was confident, charming and handsome. It was a joy to share his company. Yes, there were complications; he was out of work and also still dealing with emotional fallout from a previous relationship but overall, I had high hopes for the two of us. I think we both sought something uncomplicated so we were taking things slowly. Kisses, hugs, flirting; still wondering which one of us would be brave enough to take things to the next level…

Gee loaned me some music CDs and mentioned that he might collect them a few days later. He lived nearby so it was easily done. I asked Riley if he would mind passing on the CDs if Gee happened to drop by. Riley assured me it was ‘no problem’ and ‘I’ll handle it…’. Later on that week Riley informed me that Gee had indeed collected his CDs and passed on his regards. Great. By this time, I’d arranged to see Gee at the weekend.

‘Something happened,’ was the ominous remark when I next met Gee and thanked him for the loan of his music.

‘Eh?’ I quizzed anxiously, ‘what d’you mean?’

‘With Riley,’ he said, ‘but I needed the dough…’

‘Hang on Gee, I’m lost. What are you trying to tell me?’

Gee gazed at me searchingly. ‘It just freakin’ happened okay? First he offered fifty but I said “no fuckin’ way man!”. Shit, what does he take me for? But then the deal kept gettin’ higher ‘n’ higher. Hell, I ain’t workin’...and three hundred y'know? That's a lotta dough when you ain’t got nothin’…’

‘You mean...you…with Riley…?’

‘Yeah, that’s the deal. But don’t trip on it. I ain’t into his shit. It's you I'm into - I swear. So we’re still tight, yeah?

‘Gee, I’m going home.’

Despite Gee’s protestations, I headed back utterly crestfallen. Yes, he’d been incredibly candid with me (should I have been more forgiving?) but…the thought of him with Riley…? Euch! I was confused, distressed, messed up… I couldn’t think straight and lacked the moral fibre to discuss the matter further. What was done was done. I chose not to confront Riley about his actions that evening since my mind was in turmoil.

The next morning, I had a more rational perspective. It struck me as richly ironic that Riley would never have been able to make such a tempting financial offer to Gee had I not helped him to obtain extra state benefit. I confess that I found his actions treacherous, amoral and insufferably loathsome. As for Gee, well at least he’d only done it for the money! Despite this partial justification, regretfully, I opted not to see him again.

My thoughts turned to Riley. Did he, in some perverse way, illicit pleasure from my torment or were his actions simply down to an insatiable lust for anything in trousers? To this day, I’m still unsure. I have a theory, however, that he was so fascinated by my ‘normal’ life that he desired to live it by proxy. Indeed, he did his utmost to wheedle out every turn of events from me, every observation and insight to the extent that some evenings it was exasperating. Did he covet this perceived fulfilment, this richness and seek to share in those associated sensations, experiences, pleasures…boyfriends?

I don’t especially relish indecorous displays but sometimes I suppose they're inevitable. It all began in a gentlemanly enough fashion. I began to quiz Riley on his views about transgressions against friendship and personal ethics. Then I mentioned that I was aware of his seduction of Gee and asked him about his motives. I asserted that some might find his actions abhorrent, disloyal and even amoral. Predictably, Riley blamed the ‘condition’ for his behaviour. I argued that a ‘condition’ implies a spontaneous or involuntary act - not a calculated, considered and skilfully executed haggle over payment for sex. Moreover, striking a bargain like that required a reasonable degree of mental lucidity, cunning and even forethought. I demanded to know if he’d planned to reveal this despicable deed. Things got heated.

‘Things happen sometimes…’ he grinned smugly, ‘it is what it is…’

‘But what it actually is,’ I reasoned back, ‘…is testimony to your character.’

‘Yeah…well…welcome to the real world Edwin…’ came the sardonic reposte.

What, I thought, would you know of the real world? ...The sheer, towering conceit of the man was beyond human comprehension!

It was at that point I realised that neither explanation nor apology would be forthcoming. After all, in order to apologise one must first acknowledge wrongdoing. Riley’s propensity for self-delusion denied him this awareness. After all, Riley’s not responsible, is he? He might be patronising, evasive, even calculating…but accountable? No, impossible – responsibility lays squarely with his ‘condition' right?

The upshot of this argument was Riley placing a ban on all visitors of mine to his little tin pot dictatorship of a flat. In some ways, this was a relief since my sister was planning to stay over (and I subsequently discovered that Riley had occasional bisexual tendencies). I’m damn sure that my sibling would never have forgiven me if she’d been grappled by this degenerate. Oh yes - a narrow escape from the jaws of disaster.

It was all becoming an unfathomable mess, a mire…a theatre of the absurd. I realised one thing though – if I stayed at Riley’s place any longer, I’d end up nuttier than a squirrel poo. It was too high a price to pay. I’d had enough of the intrusions, the abuses, the betrayals and all those hackneyed excuses that inevitably followed in their wake. Time to move on…get the hell out...

To this day, Riley remains an enigma to me. Was he insane…? Was he a chameleon, a charlatan…a consummate actor striking the pose of a madman?

Ultimately, I shall never know.

© Edwin Black

‘The Office’

Reflections on office politics, David Brent (from The Office) and human nature. Following on, a related comical extract from my novel-in-progress: Touching Base

Welcome... Yes, I'm back again to tweak the udders of a few more 'sacred cows' and generally take the pith out of aspects of contemporary culture. To some, I might epitomise an irreverent old hack; an enfant terrible of the blogging world skulking behind the grubby veil of my sobriquet. Ah, a possibility, I suppose... However, my primary objective is simply to provide a little light relief in the midst of all the quotidian drudgery that life can entail.

On the subject of drudgery, I imagine that many of us have toiled away aimlessly in office environs at some stage or other. But does it really require a failed 80s pop star to suggest that such enforced association doesn't always work? Was it not already obvious? Nevertheless, The Office did succeed in voicing an unspoken malcontent that simmers away in offices the world over. Arguably, it was a well-observed exposé of endemic egotism, sycophantism, back-stabbing, gossip-mongering, character-assassination and bigotry that blights corporate culture. Indeed, perhaps office life could even be seen as a microcosm of society at large? This so-called 'office politics' can make life a misery for those of us who just want to 'get along' and demonstrate at least a semblance of professionalism. After all, is that really too much to hope for - yunno, being civil to one another and accepting the perceived 'failings' and differences of others?

An obvious example is homophobia in the workplace. Mon Dieu! But that's now illegal, surely? (The Employment Equality Regulations 2003, UK.) Illegal yes, but is anyone naive enough to imagine that it doesn't still go on? I've met several gay people (closeted and 'out') who've faced both tacit and overt criticisms regarding their/a 'lifestyle' in the course of their professional life. The bigger picture is that in 2008, homophobic hate crime in London escalated to 1,062 incidents - a 5% increase on 2007.

Of course, even a semi-competent, half-wit of a manager would endeavour to foster a rapprochement in cases of workplace bullying. Sadly however, there's still those 'David Brents' of this world who'd rather allow problems to fester because they're either too spineless or too indifferent to intervene.

In my view, the success of The Office lay in the fact that its 'mockumentary' format relentlessly hurled an array of uncomfortable home truths at the viewer in all their cringe-worthy, grotesque and un-blinkered resplendence. In keeping this, I'd like to leave you with some of my own musings on office life. It is (of course) fictional and an extract from a novel that I'm working on; Touching Base. As with The Office, it's not intended for the squeamish. Enjoy...

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Touching Base [extract.]
(Guidance on how not to manage staff...)

Characters:

WINSTON GRUB: Central protagonist, antihero and all-round looser.
CHARLES JAMES FARNHAM-PRATT (CJ): CEO at 'Final Resort'.
HONORIA TATTLE: Religious zealot, workplace bully and Winston's colleague.
MAUDLIN LEECH: Book keeper, gossipmonger and self-proclaimed office matriarch.
QUINT HUMPHREYS: Printroom manager, and aspiring diva.

* * *

Winston's mood worsened as he toyed with a layout for an advert. He could just about tolerate Honoria's rabid misanthropy and frequent rants, but being called a 'pouf' on such a regular basis had really begun to rankle. Moreover, It was becoming offensive - even to his leaden sensibilities. But how could someone conduct a rational dialogue about it with a person who was more given over to superstition than reason? Maybe he should broach the subject with CJ? After all, a manager of his calibre would be adept in mediation techniques (given the number of managerial training courses that he'd attended). It was certainly worth a try...

Winston got up hesitantly and headed for CJ's office. Yes, he would soon have matters cleared up. It might even help to make work life semi-bearable. He knocked at the open door. Eventually, CJ looked up impassively.

'CJ, is it convenient to have a word? Erm, it's a bit of a personal matter, actually.' Winston said, glancing anxiously at Maudlin who pulled a feline grin.

'Well, I suppose so. Will it take long?' CJ said, ushering Winston into his office.

'I don't think so. I just need some advice with something if that's okay?' Winston said deferentially.

CJ regarded Maudlin sternly. 'Erm, Maud, would you mind? I imagine it'll only take a few minutes or so...'

'Oh, of course not, CJ. I am quite behind with my huge workload, but never mind, eh? I'll just go an' 'ave another fag then,' Maudlin said, looking askance at Winston beneath heavily lidded eyes. She muttered something unintelligible through clenched teeth as she vacated the room and closed the door behind her.

Winston sat down, pushing up his glasses nervously.

'I suppose you're here to explain about your punctuality?' CJ spat. 'Because, quite frankly, it's appalling. As a matter of fact, I was planning to put you on report over the matter.'

'Erm, it wasn't really about that CJ, although, I'm really sorry about the timekeeping. That's mainly down to my pyloric stenosis, you see?' Winston fibbed, feeling his cheeks flush.

CJ stared at him fiercely. 'pyloric stenosis?' he sneered, 'Now listen here Grub, let's just get back to basics here. You imagine you can turn up at the eleventh hour and coast along while the rest of my team go that extra mile. Well let me assure you pal, it ain't gonna cut the mustard!'

'Yes CJ...I mean...no CJ,' Winston stammered, shifting uncomfortably under the steely glare.

'So you'd better get on board pronto and start singing from the same hymn sheet - otherwise you'll find yourself in very hot water. Am I making myself clear?'

'Of course CJ,' Winston squirmed, attempting to unravel the tangle of metaphors and idioms.

'Pardon?' CJ bawled.

'Yes CJ,' Winston said, addressing a stain on the carpet.

'Business is about thinking outside the box. One must cherry pick the low hanging branches - which requires synergy. Do you imagine for one moment that I need a lose canon on board? I mean, at the end of the day, I've given you a fair crack of the whip have I not?'

'Yes CJ. Sorry CJ.' Winston squeaked.

'So from now on you'll be at your desk, pyloric stenosis-free, bright eyed and bushy tailed at nine A.M. each and every morning! Am I making myself clear?'

Winston simply nodded.

'Otherwise, pal, me and you are gonna be locking horns again! Are you up to speed on this or do you want to me to wet nurse you?' CJ growled.

'It won't happen again CJ,' Winston grovelled - despite having absolutely no inkling what he had committed himself to.

CJ's frown receded. 'Good. So what was this matter you wished to touch base on - and this had better be quick?'

Alright, well, I was hoping to discuss a slightly delicate predicament if you don't mind?' Winston swallowed hard, hoping that he could get his words out in a semi-coherent fashion.

CJ looked at his watch with irritation. 'What is it then?' He prompted offhandedly.

'It's about Honoria calling me a...um...'pouf' and...' Winston mumbled falteringly.

'Oh? So how's that a problem? Just a bit of office banter, surely?' CJ said checking the time again.

'Not really CJ. The thing is I don't like way she's using the word. To be honest with you, I'm beginning to find it a little rude. I mean, in all the time I've worked here, I've never made a complaint to you have I?' Winston offered.

'Hmm, true.' CJ conceded, with an arched eyebrow.

Winston swallowed uncomfortably before continuing. 'And being, as I'm...an erm...erm...gay man...I find it...y'know...derogatory...?' he stuttered, pleading with the floor to open up a yawning chasm and swallow him.

CJ stared into the middle distance for a moment before returning a hard stare at an employee who'd come to personify the thorn in his side. 'Is it really such a bad word? I mean, if I was to say 'pouf' am I upsetting you, hmm...?' CJ queried. He began clicking the button of his ballpoint pen in rapid succession before pursing his lips and sniffing at the air disdainfully. Meanwhile, his other hand slipped down to massage a tender groin. For a moment, he pondered the possibility that the origin of his crabs might have been a hooker he'd come across at a recent 'trade fair' in Amsterdam.

'Well no, but you're not saying the word in a nasty way,' Winston finally responded, 'I mean it's the context y'know? Isn't that what gives language meaning and nuance...context? I mean, I can take a joke as well as the next man, but I don't believe Honoria's joking. I think she's saying the word to goad me. I'm even wondering if she's deliberately being spiteful...?'

CJ quietly seethed. Was that a note of condescension he'd detected in Winston's monologue? 'Nonsense Grub...spiteful?' he scoffed. 'What, simply by saying 'pouf'? I mean, what utter rot! Just a pouf of smoke if you ask me; a will-o'-the-wisp. Pouf-pouf of a steam train. Running out of pouf. Pouf pastry. A comfortable pouffe. Pouf...pouf-pouf...pouf... Pouf-da-pouf-da-pouf-da-pouf...'

As CJ continued randomly, Winston wondered if the man was loosing his grip on reality and regressing into some kind of infantile state. 'CJ!' he cut in, 'I'm just asking for your help, that's all. I'm sure it only needs a quiet word. I'm not here to cause trouble. I just want to get along, y'know?'

CJ suddenly balked and eyed Winston suspiciously. 'You weren't thinking of taking this any further were you? What I mean is, taking legal counsel over this trifling affair?' The furrows of a sweaty brow undulated around the dome of a heavily receded hairline.

Winston thought carefully. 'I haven't decided yet,' he replied somewhat provocatively.

CJ slammed his fist onto the desk. 'Fucking hellfire! Now you listen to me, Grub, I've worked for Final Resort for eleven years now and there's never been any trouble of this nature before. Don't you think it's about time we checked in at reality hotel and made a reservation? Listen, you're in my team, pal, and it's about time you started to walk the walk and talk the talk!'

'I see what you mean.' Winston fibbed sheepishly. He had never fully understood buzzword terminology - but it certainly sounded impressive.

CJ's expression softened. 'Listen, we don't want to make an enemy of you Winston. On the contrary, we value you. We're on your side.' He lied disarmingly. In actual fact, Winston's premature departure from Final Resort would no longer suit his purposes. Provided that Inspector Walton did his job properly, Grub would be bundled away in handcuffs rather than sitting in front of him and daring to make tacit threats. Moreover, a court case and any ensuing publicity wouldn't be conducive to business and might even besmirch the corporation's fine reputation. CJ reached out and patted Winston's forearm with a clammy palm. 'You know, I'm just trying to help, my friend. As far as I can see this whole matter's a bit of a storm in a teacup. A mere peccadillo. It'll all blow over before you know it. So, you're not seriously considering a law suit against us now...are you Winston?'

'I honestly don't know. If you really value me then you'll do something about the situation.' Winston said dejectedly. Before his very eyes, CJ's pallor transformed from cerise to deep crimson.

'Listen mate,' CJ hissed, 'I'm doing my best to meet you in the middle here but you're just jerking me around the fucking mulberry bush!'

Winston paled not only from the torrent of invective but also the revolting image that had been conjured up. He had always considered CJ a reasonable man, but his opinion was undergoing a radical reappraisal. CJ seemed, at best, to be a spineless corporate nonentity. At worst, he appeared to be actively hostile towards him. 'CJ, let's just forget this, okay? Don't concern yourself. This isn't getting us anywhere...' he sighed miserably.

However, CJ had other ideas. He was not prepared to sit by and let an employee play mind games with him. It was time to crush the fucker under his heel. 'So tell me Grub, what else did she call you, eh? A woofter...or a nancy boy perhaps? Or maybe she refers to you as a sausage jockey, a chocolate fudge packer or a turd burglar? Or what about a shirt lifter, a bum bandit or even that old favourite, a phallocentric fairy? Go on, do tell... Queer your pitch, did she Grub? I mean, I'm your manager; I'll gladly put my arse on the line for you. Oh yes, I'll bend over backwards to be accommodating. In fact, I'm quite prepared to back you up every inch of the way dearie...' he insinuated nastily.

Winston felt a surge of tears but the remainder of his tattered dignity refused to relinquish them. He got up and made for the door 'Thanks for all your support CJ. It was, well...under-whelming,' he mumbled dejectedly.

'Oh and Grub,' CJ called after him, 'get a haircut will you? You know, you're looking rather unkempt these days. I do, at least, expect my team to look professional.'

Winston said nothing as he let himself out of the office. He was not in the least bit surprised to find Maudlin crouching behind the door and pretending to buff up the handle. She looked somewhat startled as she manoeuvred herself upright, drawing back her lips in a feigned smile that resembled a psychotic Cheshire cat. To Winston's mind, there seemed few surprises left in the simmering cauldron loathsomeness that was Final Resort.

Honoria eyed Winston suspiciously as he sat down.

Shortly, as Winston had begun to restore a tentative sense of calm she muttered something that sounded distinctly like 'bloody pouf'.

'The man's a total ignoramus,' Winston mumbled despondently. Although an ascendant wintry sun had climbed to its zenith, Winston's spirits plummeted down into some shadowy nadir. He had lost faith in CJ, himself and perhaps the world at large. It was with difficulty that he managed to suppress a floodwater of tears that arose in him. He was a prisoner - trapped in a life that he was powerless to change. It was therefore something of a surprise when Honoria's telephone rang and she dutifully scurried into CJ's office. Some minutes later she emerged scowling and ruddy-faced. After shooting several murderous glances at Winston, she darted downstairs to seek solace with Quint.

What, wondered Winston, was going on...?

(c) Edwin Black

Dark Black Soul - an erotic story, set in a prison

Greetings. As a change from the customary humour, I thought I’d add a short story set in Ghana (Africa). Amusing? Well, not exactly, but I occasionally like to cast off the mantle of humourist and look at the wider picture. I’s the story of a man forced to confront his demons. However, rather than letting go of this inner darkness, he allows it to consume him...

Dark Black Soul

The events and characters in the following story are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, persons or organisations is purely coincidental. Please NOTE WELL that opinions, attitudes or lifestyles expressed or portrayed herein DO NOT necessarily represent those of the author. This story contains ADULT ONLY homo-erotica. If you are likely to be offended by such literature, then I strongly advise that you read no further.

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Part 1 – INCARCERATION

‘Listen, Mr Black, in all honesty, I really don’t think that you appreciate the gravity of your situation. In fact, I have to say I’m at a loss to know where we go from here. Without the cooperation of local police officials, there’s very little Her Majesty’s Government can do for you. I would like to think that–’

‘I need water. They’re not providing fresh water.’ Bertram Black cut in, looking up wearily.

Lugubrious eyes peered at Donald Kurtz, a senior official from the British Consulate in Ghana. Kurtz returned a sympathetic smile that failed to instil much hope in his beleaguered compatriot. ‘Oh I see. Yes, well of course. I’ll ensure Radley gets that to you shortly. No doubt, they’ll expect another bribe for their help in poking it through the bars.’ Kurtz sighed resignedly, reaching for a white handkerchief and dabbing his glistening forehead. He wished to god that he was still in the sanctuary of his air-conditioned villa rather than the stifling torment of Kumasi Central Police Station. Its languid atmosphere was dulling his wits. He removed a pen and notebook and dutifully scribbled ‘water’ on a growing list. ‘And how are we being looked after here otherwise, Mr Black?’ He enquired somewhat distractedly.

Black shot him a dejected glance. ‘Not well,’ he murmured.

‘In what way? Are you being mistreated? Please, Mr Black, do be candid with me. It may ultimately assist us in this, um… predicament.’

Black caressed an angry looking abrasion on his cheek, wincing slightly. His recollections of the past few days remained a blurring tumult of anguish and confusion. He gazed absently through a barred window at the blurring myriad of city lights. Kumasi’s sprawling maze of tattered shops and peeling facades tumbled down the hillside, diminishing into the smouldering embers of the horizon. The city; a fading relic of some imperial grandeur and a testimony to the slow ravishment of time. ‘They’ve hit me. Well, one of them has anyway. A thug they call ‘Ni’…uses nylon ropes to ‘educate’ the inmates. Doesn’t seem as if my English credentials have saved me from his attentions.’

Again, Kurtz put pen to paper briefly then returned a solemn gaze. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mr Black. I’m afraid the rights and privileges we’ve come to enjoy in the United Kingdom aren’t necessarily exercised elsewhere.’

It was a trite remark. Black resisted an urge to be sarcastic. ‘You shouldn’t worry about me, Kurtz. I’m well accustomed to being vilified…’

Kurtz noticed Black’s simmering irritation and checked his watch. The rather officious duty officer had made it abundantly clear that Black would have to return to the communal holding cell by 10pm. There were minutes to spare. After a hurried series of assurances, he got up and shook hands with Black, hoping to convey a sense of concern.

Black did not feel greatly heartened at this, nor by his somewhat brisk departure. A uniformed guard entered, giving the British official a rather farcical salute to which Kurtz nodded politely.

The guard’s avaricious eyes glinted appraisingly at the spectacle of his latest prisoner. It was as if he were scrutinising some prized chattel. Black was attracting more than just notoriety in his new-found abode. In the dank, sweating recesses of the shadowy inferno, frustrations could reach fever pitch. Under the breathless veil of darkness, a mass of sleepless desires festered and stirred. Tentative hands strayed skittishly yet inexorably…

‘You go back now, my white friend. The men, they look after you.’ The guard’s inflection was laden with innuendo. A knowing smile flitted over normally austere features, softening his furrows. Black begrudgingly returned a smile as he was ushered along a shabby blue corridor. As he shambled passed the main desk, the duty officer called after him.

‘Ah, English man! You enjoy Kumasi Police Station? You should, it was you people who built it!’

The taunt seemed like an open invitation for sarcasm but, not for the first time, Black wisely resisted. He was darkly amused by the likelihood that these officious autocrats had inherited their pomposity from their British colonists - his ancestors…

‘I’m managing thanks. I’m fine.’ He muttered back with veiled contempt.

‘You invite me to your country one day. You find me good English wife to marry!’ The officer yelled. Black tried to stave off a smile, but failed.

The guard bade him undress and bundled his clothes into a tattered cardboard box. He had been reminded on numerous occasions that being able to retain his underpants was a special dispensation that should be generously rewarded.

The guard proceeded to unlock an ancient lattice steel door, gesturing for Black to cross the threshold. ‘Go sleep. Say Prayer.’

‘Yes, thanks. Thanks so much.’ Feigning humility made things easier, much easier. Black ventured blindly through a fetid darkness until his outstretched fingers floundered against a clammy, uneven wall. Somewhere in the steamy blackness, bodies stirred. An unspoken anticipation charged the air like the brooding prelude to an electrical storm. Indiscernible forms writhed restlessly at his approach.

When Black had first entered the bleak squalor of the Ghanaian prison, it had been lit by a pallid daylight. All eyes had been upon him. Thirty or more inmates, maybe more; dumbstruck. Incredulous at the unlikely prospect of a white detainee. No one had dared approach him at that time. It was as if some imperceptible barrier had set him apart and made him untouchable. Black even speculated that they were in awe of him in some way. Why? Was he really so different? Was not incarceration contrived to be the great leveller? For some seconds the momentous tribulations of that day had paled into the shadows. Black gazed in wonderment at a vision of taught muscle and lithe sinew. A breath-taking dark host of African men encircled him; an amorphous mass of gleaming torso and hungry eye. Gloriously naked, all stood proud and indomitable, quite unaware how, in Black’s eyes, they represented such an iconic and potent masculinity. But that was nearly two weeks ago now…

Black continued to nudge and grope his way to his allotted sleeping space. He tried to slow his breathing and still the flurry of runaway heartbeats. His left hand revealed the alcove into an adjoining cell. As with previous nights, he would attempt to sleep on the mouldering floor. His only comfort would be his toilet roll for a pillow. That was how it was; a vile, barren womb of concrete and steel. Languishing in filth like a beast. A daily degradation, inexorably stripping away the last lingering semblances of one’s humanity.

Within the harsh surroundings he perceived whispers, snoring. Restive hands brushing skin, scratching hair. Low, longing groans at the fringe of hearing. From somewhere in the dark there came a ribald whisper: ‘Ah, nice white man, my brudda return. Handsome white man. Let me be your friend.’

And that was how it had started…

Part 2 – GHOSTS OF MEMORY

Memories of the fateful night that led him to this place of torment drifted back to Bertram Black, unbidden. Phantasms of some ghastly nightmare haunting a swirling within a drunken miasma. The broken syntax of conversations…monstrous snapshots…a reeling nausea. Self-recrimination plucking incessantly at frayed nerves. Ghostly fingers insinuating accusations in some cruel and relentless fury. It was all his fault. It was all his damn fault and there was nothing he could do to rewrite history. History was a bleak, unassailable fortress that imprisoned him, obliterating hope beneath its cold, unforgiving shadow. If only things had been different... Jesus! How many times had he wished for that? Inexorably, Black’s mind spiralled downwards into gloomy recollection.

The argument that night with Austin had driven him to some kind of madness. What the hell was his boyfriend thinking of, fucking the hotel porter in their bed? Their bed, for Christ sakes! The same bed that, only hours before, they had made love, made promises, talked about a future, about commitment. Then having to witness all those hopes smashed to smithereens. Obliterated. And then, Austin, standing there, indignant; even smiling! Tempers had flared. A blind rage had consumed Black. Fists had flown…blows exchanged. Spiteful home truths hurled too lightly. Black’s anger eclipsing his pain. Stinging tears. A leaden numbness in his limbs. A dull ache in his chest…

During the confrontation, Black remembered how Austin’s face had contorted into a grotesque mask of rage. Some kind of monstrous fury had overtaken him. Black was knocked to the bed, pinned down; ensnared like some naturalist’s thrashing specimen. His strength was no match for Austin’s. The agony of the frenzied rape still plunged like a dagger into his stricken heart. When it was over, Black had careened into the bathroom. Knocking over chairs, blundering and dizzy. There was a desire to cleanse himself. Wash away the pain. Erase the stain of memory. He staggered into the shower cubicle. Pink rivulets drained down into a porcelain vortex. Blood. Stark light jabbed like realisation at his watery eyes. Black pressed them shut as he scoured his violated body. Over and over. Scrubbing until crimson welts striated his skin. Drying himself, putting on some pants. Pouring a measure of vodka sufficient to nullify pain, obliterate thought…

Austin was leaning nonchalantly against the ornate balcony railing, oblivious to his approach and apparently indifferent to his torment. He was speaking jovially on his cell phone in his guttural language. He was even laughing! Seemingly, untroubled by conscience or regret. The seconds blurred. Black remembered feeling oddly dislocated from his body. Austin had turned as Black’s silhouette had been framed in the doorway. Again, he was laughing.

‘Bastard!’ Black had bellowed as he hurled the drink at his tormentor. He had only intended to scare him or to make him somehow share his pain. Yes, he had lost control but…

The glass struck Austin squarely on the forehead in a cascade of glittering shards. He had staggered heavily against the railing. Then, with one heart-stopping wrench, it had given way…

For a moment, Austin had looked dazed as he teetered at the edge of a precipice. Then he lurched backwards, plummeting into an inky chasm of shadows. Black heard the railing clatter onto the concrete. Seconds later, here was a nauseating thud from somewhere far below. Then silence.

Moments later, the remaining vodka had not been sufficient to drown out that same ominous silence. It was only when the frantic knocking at his door turned into thunderous blows that it receded. It was only when the door splintered and armed police invaded the room that Black realised absently that he was clutching Austin’s tear stained photo. The rest was a swirling haze. A melee of gruff unintelligible phonetics, jumbled images; flashing past, echoing in the void. He was on some out-of-control carousel whirling; faster, faster…

Part 3 – SEX IN THE DARK

There was no lavatory in the jail. Inmates had to undergo the indignity of having to shit in plastic bags. A putrid mountain of them occupied the furthest corner. A single shower ran intermittently and randomly. The men observed a strict pecking order in its use. The sporadic downpour also provided the only source of drinking water. Black wished he were under that spray of soothing water as he lay restlessly in the prickly heat. At least Kurtz had organised some fresh water. That was something. He had even given Black his sandwiches and a lug of whiskey from his hip flask. He had devoured both rapaciously.

There was however one thirst that had not been quenched. One hunger that still lingered. He was being driven insane with sexual frustration. It was a perpetual urge that deprived him of sleep and tormented his waking thoughts. All around him there was that same undeclared need. Sometimes he would discern groans, the sound of men pleasuring themselves in the dark. He would hear the rising crescendo of their panting and the faint friction noises of sticky flesh. Those at the bottom of the pecking order would sometimes find themselves the object of inescapable manly desires. In the dark, they would remain strangely compliant, as they were vigorously gang-fucked. There would be the sound of sweat-drenched skin slapping rapidly against skin. A succession of stifled and lusty groans of rapture. When it was finally over, a pitiful whimper would sometimes emanate from an unforgiving night.

So far, interest in Black had been tentative. But that was all about to change. The company he was keeping was proving to be a potent aphrodisiac. Black knew at that moment he needed a lot more than just a stiff drink inside him…

Part 4 – AUSTIN AND DUPLICITY

Black wallowed in the darkness; pensive and remote. Austin had made a lot of promises over the years. Deep down, Black knew that he was incapable of keeping any of them. He had lived with the delusion that ‘things would get better’ for so long that it had become some kind of mantra in all his many disappointments. If anything, Austin was getting worse. His recent choice of lovers plumbed depths that seemed quite unfathomable, even to Black.

There was one recent example. His name; ‘Jocelyn’. He was rich, overweight and overbearing. In Blacks estimations, he had the personality of a pig and the porcine hygiene habits to match. And yet, after hearing of their liaisons and confronting Austin, it seemed his boyfriend had still ‘gone there’. Jesus Christ, what a farce! Well, the guy had money, and that was the harsh reality of it all.

The inescapable truth was that Austin was an opportunist hustler. He enjoyed the ego trip of his conquests to such an extent that aesthetic considerations no longer applied. Anything and anyone was considered, and a quick fuck was his equivalent of a polite handshake. There was no line that Austin wouldn’t cross. No taboos or boundaries in his untamed desires. Most of Black’s more reliable friends had, at some point, spoken of their polite refusals and mild shock at Austin’s clumsy attempts to seduce them. When questioned, Austin would either deny it or simply laugh it off. What a piece of work he truly was!

‘Each man kills the thing he loves.’ Isn’t that what Oscar Wilde had written? Isn’t that what they had done to each other? Maybe that was what everyone did to each other, ultimately?

Black remembered a time when things had been different between them. God, so different. Those halcyon days before he had finally peered into the gloomy underworld of his lover’s clandestine existence. Too late, he had realised the true nature of Austin; ersatz, devious, manipulative. But by then, love had clasped him in its insidious tendrils. He was too late in his realisation that his lover’s life was ruled by passion, rather than governed by ethics. Austin, his one great love, possessed all the qualities of a dog - except loyalty!

There were those same damn pointless arguments about Austin’s continual infidelities. If only Black could extricate Austin from memory. And yet, he just couldn’t bring himself to leave Austin (oh, the persistence of sentiment!). Maybe their souls were now bound together in hate where once they were intertwined by love? If only he could have severed his ties and maybe discovered someone more worthy of his devotion. It was all one big fucking mess and the bitter irony was that Black’s high ideals had, in many ways, made him the author of his own downfall.

Yet despite Austin’s total lack of ethics, Black had loved him, adored him, but most of all he always hungered after his sex. His sweet injection was an intoxicating anodyne flooding existence with meaning. It was an ambrosial poison that saturated mind, body and spirit with sublime and rapturous torment. For Black, there were no comparisons. Sure, he’d taken occasional ‘paramours’ in England, but they were pale substitutions for his one true passion.

But that was then…a time before the absence of light in Black’s mind. A time when the disfigured manikin that had lain sprawled in the filth of the street had been an angel incarnate, winging its way across a vastness of solitude.

Now there was no past. There would be no future. There was only now. The seizing of the moment. Nothing else mattered anymore. In the temporal glimmer of existence, there was only sensual gratification remaining to illuminate the dim corners of a dark black soul. The paradox of his life, Austin, was no more. Austin: light of his life…heart of his darkness. All that remained now was a final surrender to carnality; being swept up and borne away within the oblivion of pleasure.

Part 5 – ENEMY WITHIN.

‘And how are we today, Mr Black?’

Black ignored Kurtz, choosing instead to stare through a barred window at the abstract configurations of city lights beneath a waning sun. The vista seemed strangely apocalyptic in its infernal vastness.

‘What the investigation will try to establish is whether there was premeditation. Did you have forethought in your actions that night…or was this some spontaneous crime of passion?’

Once again, images of the fated night started to well up from some murky abyss, clouding Black’s eyes. ‘It was neither…an accident okay? Jesus Kurtz, how many more times do I have to go over this with you? How could I have known that the balcony would give way? It could have happened to anyone!’

‘Correction, Mr Black. It happened to you just after a fight that was overheard by several other guests at the hotel. You tell me that you were brutally raped in the course of events. I’m sorry, but that gives you a motive…maybe even for murder. I’m afraid we find ourselves in a very precarious situation…’

Black’s temper flared. He resented Kurtz’s unremitting condescension. ‘Listen Kurtz, I may not be the academic that you are. I may not even have attended the right public school, but at least I know how to use my pronouns correctly…don’t we?’ He mocked.

Kurtz seemed slightly taken aback for a moment, but quickly regained his composure. ‘On the contrary, Mr Black. You’re quite the brooding intellectual when you put your mind to it.’
Black snorted derisively.

Kurtz continued, unabashed. ‘What, actually, I had planned to say was that we might be able to secure your release. Quite an achievement given that there’s no extradition treaty in place. Believe me, Mr Black, I’m doing my utmost toward that end.’ He paused, allowing himself a modicum of smug satisfaction.

Black, however, regarded him impassively. ‘Do carry on Kurtz. Or is this a cue for me to appear impressed?’

‘Listen, Black, to be frank with you, one might be forgiven for thinking that you actually wish to remain in this bloody hell-hole? This little corner of Sodom. Believe me, I do understand your frustration with proceedings, but protocols have to be adhered to. We find ourselves in a complex position…’

‘No, you listen Kurtz,’ Black cut in impatiently, ‘I’m tired of all this bullshit. What do you want from me? Where’s this leading? That’s all I need to know.’

Kurtz exhaled. He reached into an inside pocket and produced a pack of Davidoff cigarettes. Pausing to light it, he took a long drag, deliberately blowing smoke into Black’s eyes. ‘Inducement, Mr Black, or may I call you Bertram?’ A calculating smile crossed his face. ‘There are always ‘ways and means’. And these…erm…ways and means simply require the right incentive. Now, if you were to plead guilty at trial and accepted deportation, I could ensure a very agreeable outcome. You know, it’s been known for certain overseas convictions to go away, or at least ‘go astray’ once a fellow reaches the United Kingdom. The Home Office does have an unfortunate tendency, from time to time to, shall we say, misplace certain legal complications.’

Black regarded him with contempt. ‘A bribe. You’re talking about a fucking bribe!’ His anger flared. ‘You’re a fucking disgrace, Kurtz! You’re not even fit for purpose!’

Kurtz crossed his arms defensively, regarding Black with icy, deadpan eyes. ‘I’m sorry you see things that way.’ He chided mildly. ‘I was simply making you aware of your options, that’s all. It seems to me as if you don’t have too many more avenues to explore.’

Black had been dragged headlong into a realisation. It was as simple as it was monstrous; it was money would guarantee his freedom. Lurking behind all the sanctimonious posturing and threats from all these officials was the expectation of a huge pay-off.

It had not escaped Black’s notice that many of the senior police officers drove large luxurious cars. Even to an outsider, it was obvious that a police salary in West Africa could never afford them such opulence. Bribery and corruption were the accepted currency; even among his own countrymen who he’d once considered beyond reproach. Clearly, greed was the vice of choice and it was evidently rife at Kumasi Central Police Station.

‘Welcome to the real world.’ Kurtz smiled.

Black remembered a drug dealer who had been interrogated at the same time as him. The guy had also fallen prey to Ni’s attentions. After several beatings and some hours of horse-trading, Black had overheard the man agree to pay several hundred million Cedis ‘bail’. It was to be divided three ways between the ‘interviewing’ police officers…

Black’s attention wavered as Kurtz’s droning voice drifted from his conscious thought. Again, he was haunting the corridors of time. He wondered if he was a good man? A few weeks ago he would have declared an unequivocal ‘yes’. Maybe that was simply self-delusion? A complacency composed from the frail pretensions that personal ethics were somehow immutable; stone tablets immune to the flux of fate and fortune. Time, it appeared, had proven him wrong in these assumptions. Maybe every human being harboured some germ of self-destruction waiting to be kindled by rage or stirred by the passions. Borne on the tide of doom, people drifted into to foreign lands; alien places.

Part 6 – UGLINESS AND BEAUTY

‘Buy me this ok? There’s a store nearby and I need a tee shirt…also a bag.’ Austin shone beautiful beady eyes upon his drowsy benefactor.

Black retreated under the bed sheets, disorientated. Austin wrestled back the covers, forcing Black’s bleary eyes to focus on an ingratiating smile.

‘Huh?’

Austin straddled him playfully. Was this just like old times, Black wondered, half-dazed? He squinted up at the dark naked perfection that pressed him to the bed. But then there was the melancholy realisation that such innocence was long gone. Or should he rather call it ‘naivety’ on his part? The play-fight was just another means to wheedle money in order that he could dress himself like a diva and impress all his would-be lovers. Black had been there a thousand times. But as ever, he relented. As ever, beguiled by Austin’s intoxicating beauty. He was under no illusion that Austin was simply manipulating him. But letting go still seemed unimaginable. Black reached for his wallet and took out a bundle of Cedi notes, handing them to Austin.

‘Thank you.’

The tall figure lowered itself and pressed lips to Black’s mouth. Simultaneously, passions stirred. Austin slipped under the sheets, holding Black in an almost smothering embrace. Black marvelled at his eyes; smouldering embers of desire; captivating, intoxicating, hypnotic. Half closed with veiled intention, like a coiled snake. From the insatiable furnace of Austin’s loins, a slow rising monolith awakening a desperate need within Black. Searing lips devouring him; gorging on neck, nipples, thighs. Lust engulfing them and the world paling into shadow, obscured by the ascendant incandescence of ecstasy. The love they had made was, as always, consuming, frantic; as if it would be their last time.

And this time, it would be…

The pair lay exhausted in dappled sunlight. Black stared absently up at the ceiling with wistful, dreaming eyes. He had hoped to take Austin away from all his usual temptations in the suburban ghetto of Accra. He’d naively imagined that a stay in Kumasi could salvage something from the dereliction that they chose to label a ‘relationship’. It would be an opportunity to talk about the future and if, somehow, they might have one together. But every time Black tried to articulate his feelings to his lover, it just sounded like accusation, blame. Perhaps silence was the only medium to preserve the remnants of a paradise lost. Nevertheless, Black resolved to speak…to try one last time to convey his sense of disappointment and maybe turn things around.

‘Why weren’t you ever around in Accra, Austin? I mean, I came three thousand miles just to share your life… to be with you. But all I’ve discovered is another form of loneliness. Jesus, London was bad enough! You brought me to the ‘zongo’, the ghetto, but you were never there. I was just a prisoner in your family home. Christ, and then there was that fucking religious zealot of a brother…’

‘You’re insulting my family,’ Austin turned to him, irritation furrowing his brow.

‘No, just an observation,’ Bertram said defensively. ‘Remember, I had to listen to that prick evangelising about ‘sin’ when you were out gallivanting. He was goading me, I’m sure of it. I’m not talking about real sin either - as in genocide, murder, deception. Oh no. He was pontificating about the ‘sin’ of homosexuality. Sanctimonious prick! And you know, I think he suspects we…um–’

‘No! You always think the worse. You always criticise everyone…as if you’re better somehow. Sa? It’s only your nasty mind.’

‘A nasty mind, eh? Fuck you Austin. Listen, you said you loved me. And I damn well know that I loved you. Imagine…I had to defend you from your own father. Oh yes, he’s not impressed with your behaviour,’ Bertram sneered, ‘He came to the family house and asked me where you were…why had you left me alone (again)? Anyway, I burst into tears. I cried over you like some lovesick schoolgirl. Jesus, it was so embarrassing. Then he tried to assure m with that knowing look…telling me that some friendships just aren’t worth pursuing. And how some of his sons were such a disappointment. I told him that it was okay. You must be on an errand. Everything was fine…’

Black tried to control his sense of indignation, but felt anger rising. Words flowed from him; poison from a festering wound. ‘So you leave me cloistered in your family house. Meanwhile, in your life, there’s always some new friend, some new face… the latest ‘friend’! You and him exchanging knowing looks… saying nothing. Then what? Within a week he’s out of the frame forever. Never to be seen again! And I’m left wondering what the fuck that was about? What happened? Then, of course, realisation dawns; the guy was rich, you were broke. What else is there to understand? And me? Well, maybe I’m paranoid? Maybe I judge you too much by your past. Are you surprised? Or perhaps I just know your true nature Austin, but part of me refuses to believe it.’

‘What do you want, Bertram? You think I should be with you always and never have another friend?’

‘Yes! Why the hell not? Be mine…don’t ever have those ‘friends’, yeah? Spend your whole damn life with me. Go on, I dare you. I’m sick of sharing you with the rest of Africa!’

‘But I’m free, Bertram…or? You want to put me to be in a cage like a prisoner, a slave? Is that what it’s like?’

Black’s spiralling confusion conjured up bleak images of some monstrous colonial history. Was Austin really trying to assume the pose of some abused chattel; a victim of an unforgivable western exploitation? The cultural divide grew vast and unwieldy. Black was wracked with an irrational guilt. In his consciousness, he felt the onerous weight of a history beyond comprehension or reason. Love was just not enough. As for money that would never be enough. Grim reality, however, threw its opportunist punch like a sparring heavyweight.

‘Austin, I can’t cope anymore with your…I don’t know…prostitution. Aren’t you better than that? Aren’t you more than that? Isn’t that the one and only real thing that enslaves you? I just don’t know what to believe in anymore. I just don’t know...’

Austin regarded him harshly, but then his fierce stare became tempered with pathos. ‘I… I love you… chally.’ The words hesitant; beguilingly sincere and heartfelt.

Black was not appeased. Clichés cascaded from his mouth; frustration he had expressed so many times before. ‘I’d hoped for so much more, Austin. I’ve wished sometimes that you could think above the mentality of the ghetto. You are so much better than the choices that you’re making. Christ, for once in your life, why not just allow yourself to trust someone? Do you want me to promise you that I can take you away from it all? I can. I will. I swear it. I’m not like all those other guys that you tell me about; promising the earth just to take what they want from you…’

‘Bertram, I know that. You’re so special, okay? I promise I’ll be good. I’ll change.’

The words rang hollow, failing to assuage Black’s misgivings. He sighed, exasperated. They were going around in the same circles. The same pointless damn circles...

‘You’ll never change, Austin. You know that. I guess that deep down I know that too. It’s how it is and how it stays. It’s the way of things.’

Austin regarded his lover with cool, speculative eyes. ‘You know I love you deep down, Bertram. You’re in me okay? Even though I do those thing.’

‘Fuck you, Austin.’ Black whispered. His tears finally broke cover and traced their inexorable decent onto the pillow.

Austin gathered up his lover into his arms, smoothing the ravelled tresses of his hair. But somehow those arms no longer offered sanctuary.

Part 7 – DESIRE SET FREE

It was dark within the holding cell. Pitch dark. The heat, perpetual. Noises. Groans in the dark. By now Black was aware of the true nature of caged men in the absence of women. For some, it took days before they considered alternative avenues. For others, it was only a matter of hours…

Out of nowhere, a hand brushed against Black’s knee, meandering gently upwards and settling on his thigh, brushing over it lingeringly. Such boldness was quite an aphrodisiac. From the opposite side another hand glanced over his arm. Black quietly moaned his approval as it strayed over his chest, clumsily teasing and tweaking his nipples. Without warning, thick full lips were pressed to his. Hot breath; voracious and burgeoning with passion. Black began to lose himself; swept away in a deluge of pleasure; abandoning himself to a rich sensuous paradise that he had so longed for. Hands tugged at Black’s underpants. No words had relevance. Yes, there was a time when he’d believed in more…something better. But that was all long gone.

It wasn’t long before, Bertram began to feel like one of those female toads he’d seen on the ‘Discovery’ channel; the ones that become inundated during the mating season. He suspected, however that the only thing he might be spawning was another disaster - particularly if the guards took an interest in his night time antics.

Part 8 – LAWS OF KARMA

‘I’ve asked the guard to leave us alone today. There’s a rather salient matter we need to discuss.’ Kurtz sat, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a billowing plume into the oppressive confines. His compatriot seemed distant. But that was of no consequence. What he needed to say would not take long. Besides, his patience had run out. A crossroad had been reached in Black’s fragile existence. He glared at his countryman with barely disguised loathing. ‘Listen Black, I’ll be blunt with you. I’ll be damned if you think I am going to stand by and let you harm British interests in this region with a lengthy, public legal battle. There’s too much at stake here. Way too much. I’m telling you this for your own good. Make a full confession of murder and I’ll ensure that you get a fair hearing in England. Fail to do so and well…I shan’t be answerable for the consequences.’

Black stared at Kurtz agog, disbelieving. The insinuation hung ominously in the prevailing gloom. Finally, Kurtz’s deadpan mask of civility slipped away, revealing an ugly reality.

‘I would strongly advise that you cooperate, Mr Black. I’m telling you this as a personal courtesy. Time is running out. More specifically, Mr Black, your time is running out.’ He fixed Black with an imperious stare; twin pinholes into some dismal pit.

‘Fuck you, Kurtz! Go to hell!’ Black flared. He baulked as a stark reality dawned on him: he was an inconvenience. Kurtz wanted him out of the way...perhaps permanently...?

A mosquito buzzed and circled. Black felt its bite; inevitable somehow on his bare shin. It seemed the entire world was a parasite, sapping life and hope. He shifted listlessly then slapped his leg brutally.

Kurtz’s smile was more of a grimace exposing an array of glittering teeth. ‘Evidently, it would seem, there’s little point in continuing this little chat. Never mind. I had hoped for a more amicable solution but that, as they say, is how the cookie crumbles.’ He sneered.

It was an expression that chilled Black’s blood.

‘No matter.’ Kurtz hastened, almost incidentally. ‘I’ll bid you good night Mr Black. And I trust that you’ll sleep soundly tonight. ’

Again, insinuation…threat. Black stood, eyeing the enemy, emboldened now in his knowing the true nature of things and how he faced his doom. In that instant, an idea acquired volition in his mind. In appearance, there was little separating the two of them. In another time, another lifetime, they might have been brothers. In that split second, his lightening fist struck Kurtz full square on the jaw, sending him reeling against the wall. His head rebounded from it with a satisfying thud.

Black was vaguely aware from his newly-acquired Cartier watch that it had taken him just over four minutes to strip Kurtz of everything. His unconscious naked but for Black’s soiled, counterfeit Polo boxer shorts. Black remembered buying from Hackney market one cool crisp winter afternoon in London. They seemed eminently befitting for a man such as Kurtz.

Black held his head high as he sauntered casually along the corridor. He was conscious now that image, demeanour and attitude would be the determinants of freedom. Aware that, by now, a different duty officer would have started his nightshift. Sure enough, as he reached the counter he was regarded evenly. Black handed him a bundle of large denomination Cedi notes as he levelled with the desk.

‘We’ve concluded our business now. You can return the prisoner to the cell.’

The duty officer looked slightly quizzical, seemingly awaiting some further explanation.

Black returned an arrogant stare and gestured back towards the interview room. ‘I believe he’ll be receiving a visitor soon. I dare say he’ll need to see Mr Black in privacy.

‘Ah, okay. His lawyer?’

Black did nothing prevent a sardonic smile creeping across his face. As one hand felt the reassuring profile of Kurtz’s car keys and the other fingered a bloated wallet. His dour mood shifted perceptibly. ‘Yes,’ came his sibilant reply. ‘It’ll be his lawyer. Ensure that they get absolute privacy will you?’

‘Okay.’

Outside the decaying building a glittering cityscape appeared engulfed by the encroaching night. Black paused, drinking in the blackness. He was an effigy of a former self. And yet altered; ersatz, devious, manipulative…

A carbon-copy of the world that he had come to know.

© Edwin Black

Concerning the unsanitary…

Welcome. Yes, the miscreant metaphysician returns to play fast and loose with the laws of language and share this dysfunction with anyone who's vaguely interested. Occasional readers - please bear in mind that I'm still attempting to hone my artistry and 'find my voice'. Erm, whatever that might entail...?

The following extract is from a comedy/satire: Touching Base. It's a novel that I've been neglecting of late but hope to get back to soon. This snippet concerns the arrival of a waste disposal contractor called Burt at Winston Grub's workplace (Winston being the central protagonist). Those involved are:

MAUDLIN LEECH - Androgynous office harridan and terminal gossip-monger. Has also been rumoured to do the occasional book-keeping.
CHASTITY SPOONER - elderly nymphomaniac and receptionist (a blond bombshell that's exploded).
HONORIA TATTLE – Obligatory workplace religious fanatic (cameo).
BURT – Sanitation contractor and living proof of the evolutionary ‘missing link’.

Naturally, it's all done in the worst possible taste! Enjoy...


'Sannie Days are here again' [extract].'This is a stick up!' Burt announced, brandishing an unused tampon at Chastity Spooner, receptionist at Final Resort Inc..

'Oh you're terrible!' She chided gently.

The sanitary-towel-collection-technician from 'Sannie Days' wasted no time eyeing up a woman who (in his opinion) was so amply-breasted she might have founded her own dairy. 'Awite darling, I've come for the old vampires' teabags, yeah?' He said with a hoarse chuckle.

Chastity fluttered her eyelids at him and smiled sweetly. 'Hi Burt. You're looking very nice in those dirty overalls.' She winked shamelessly.

Burt returned a broad smile. 'Yeah...err, it has been said before...' He smirked, winking back at her.

'I missed you last month. Were you on your hols?'

'That's right. Two weeks. Got a bit of a tan now...'

'Is it an all-over tan?' Chastity enquired with a salacious brush of the pen to her lips.

'Pretty well... Bet you still look half-decent in a bikini an' all.'

Chastity giggled coyly. 'Why thank you Burt. Maybe we could compare skin tones sometime?'

'Yeah, I'd be well up for a bit-a-that...no strings attached...y'know? I like 'em well upholstered, if you catch my drift...?'

'I see. Well, I could certainly do with a bit of re-stuffing here and there...' Chastity wheedled saucily, attempting to plump up her rather pendulous bosom.

Burt glanced at his watch. 'Well, I'll 'ave to catch yer later love. Schedules to keep an' all that. We all have to go with the flow. I mean, this is all very absorbing, but I must press-on, as we say in the trade,' he joked. With that, he disappeared into the ladies toilet and went about the unsavoury task of picking up used towels from an overflowing bin. After depositing the new bin, he made his way towards the stairs bearing his soiled cargo.

Maudlin, however, was waiting to pounce. 'Ere, I got a bone to pick with you.' she frowned.

'Yeah? So what can I do for you governor?'

'Excuse me it's 'Mrs Leech' or 'ma'am' to you, yer cheeky sod.' Maud raised a hand as if to slap him.

'Alright, alright, keep yer wig on miss Leech. So what can I do yer for?'

'You were supposed to do a collection last month. Where the 'ell were you, eh?'

'Listen love, I was in Marbella sunning my arse and checking out all da lovely senoritas. Know what I mean?' Burt winked.

'Ere, we'll 'ave less of that kind of talk. There's ladies present.' Maudlin screeched.

'Really? Where...?' Burt retorted.

Maudlin glared at him mercilessly. 'So what happened then? Why didn't they send someone else out, eh? That sanitary bin was overflowing! It's not bleedin' good enough!'

The savagery of Maudlin's stare only served to rile Burt. Other occupants of Final Resort now appeared transfixed by the unfolding melodrama.

'Listen love, don't 'ave a pop at me - just cuz the company forgets a stand-in collection. So I s'pose you were too lazy to pick up a phone up and sort it out?'

'Ere, don't you 'ave a pop at me neither,' Maudlin scolded, 'I'll 'ave a pop at you if you 'ave a pop at me. Anyway I did call 'em but they were too friggin' lazy to answer the phone!'

'Well that ain't my bloody fault!' Burt countered, 'Besides, I'm in a union. I don't 'ave to take this crap from arrogant cows like you...'

Maudlin wasn't accustomed to having someone stand up to her overbearing manner, let alone dare question her edicts. 'You what? Who you calling a bleedin' cow?' Maudlin's face flushed crimson, which in turn, took on a puce pallor. Coupled with her deeply furrowed scowl and clammy quivering jowls, her countenance assumed an uncanny resemblance to a baboon's hind quarters. 'Don't you talk to me like that yer bleedin' dick'ead!' She bellowed.

'Well I don't know why you're so pissed off anyway…bet you 'aven't needed plugging for at least a century.'

'Right, I'm gonna 'ave you!' Maudlin moved to slap him but Burt deftly parried the blow with his free hand. She was obliged to resort to stamping on his heavy-booted foot, which appeared to have little effect other than a comical one. They tussled some more until Maudlin realised he was more than a physical match for her. They glowered at each other venomously.

'You vicious little tart!' Burt snarled.

'Listen!' Maudlin screeched, 'just sling yer bleedin' hook alright? Go on, piss off! And I'll tell you something else for nothing 'n' all. I wouldn't bother going back to the depot cuz I'm cancelling the contract, yeah? 'Cuz by the time I've finished with 'em on the phone you won't 'ave a bleedin' job to go back to,' she concluded with a triumphal note.

With that, Burt turned on his heel and stormed downstairs, oblivious to Chastity’s demure wave goodbye.

'Yeah - good riddance to bad rubbish an' all...' Maudlin taunted after him. Still fuming, she sidled back to her lair.

Honoria promptly joined her. 'Are you alright Maud?' She said putting a consoling arm on her colleague’s shoulder.

'Yeah, I'm fine. I certainly sent that idiot away with a flea in his ear.' Maudlin winced as she rubbed an old injury on her elbow. 'Me old war wound's giving me a bit of gip though.'

Honoria wondered if it was a reference to the Crimea. 'Never mind, Maud. I can get you some aspirin if that helps?' She cooed.

'Nah, I'm alright. Besides, I've dealt with worse dickheads that that in my time. And if he ever comes back, I tell yer, I'll really give 'im what for…'

What the pair failed to notice was Burt tearing back up the stairs and into the office in high dudgeon. The perceived injustice of the exchange had driven him into a fury. He certainly wasn't ready to throw in the towel on what was, clearly, a 'bum (w)rap'. It was therefore something of a shock as he heaved up the sanitary container and upended it over their heads. The empty vessel was then hurled to the corner of the office where it clattered noisily.

Honoria screamed.

'You can stick yer frigging contract!' Burt bawled. 'And you can stick it where you normally stick these bloody things! I'm sick of you lot and I'm sick of this fuckin' job!'

Hearing the commotion, Jason gallantly leapt into action. However, he was too late to apprehend the perpetrator who had sped back downstairs. Maudlin looked up at him dolefully. A particularly soiled tampon had become entangled by the drawstring in one of her enormous faux-gold earrings. Noticing that something moist had adhered itself to her cheek, Honoria promptly burst into tears.

In a show of unity, other office inhabitants gathered around the traumatised pair to offer help, wet-wipes and, generally, put on a show of solidarity. This was with the exception of Winston. Indeed, tucked neatly away, back of shop, no one noticed his absence or the cheeky grin that touched, briefly, across his face.

Oh yes, for those downtrodden souls like Winston, this was a good day. In fact, an excellent day and things were looking decidedly sunnier. Somehow, in some small way, it seemed the cosmic balance had been temporarily restored.

© Edwin Black 2010