A scandalous autobiography of Edwin Black – Part I

Memoirs of a game cock: Father’s antics and how it affected my early life.

I was conceived of an illegitimate coupling and born into bastardy in 1971. Following in the family tradition of Jus primae noctis (i.e. ‘knocking up the serving wench’), my erstwhile father, the late Bicount Randolph Mandy-Cox importuned, and finally sequestered my mother’s virtue in the servant’s quarters at Huberd Manor. Having reluctantly availed herself, my now pregnant mother, Winifred Black (or ‘Whinny’[?] to my father), promptly whisked herself off to Brighton to avoid the stigma of illegitimacy and, moreover, a stringent grilling from the Bicountess.

My father (or Randy Cox as he was fondly known to Peers), followed in an ancient bloodline of raffish aristocrats who, as you might expect, were ruled by passion rather than governed by ethics. This predilection for chasing anything in a skirt (or indeed, trousers) had resulted in a family tree that resembled a veritable thicket. In fact, the Mandy-Cox pedigree can only be viewed in its full tableau when unfurled on the banqueting table of the Great Hall. Needless to say, my father’s frequent genealogical ‘shoot-offs’ had considerably bolstered the local populace of Coxmoor Village.

In contrast with his many other indiscretions, my mother’s self-effacing charm and delicate, raven-tressed countenance stirred in my father a spirit of noblesse oblige hitherto unknown. Upon her return to an uncertain future with her parents in Coxmoor, my mother and I were offered lodgings at Huberd Manor’s gatehouse. This bucolic idyll would become my home for a few happy years until I was of schooling age.

To her great credit, my mother remained tight-lipped as to my paternity in order to spare the wanton destruction of the antique Wedgwood that she’d so lovingly cared for at Huberd Manor. When occasionally pressed on the point, she alluded to a visit from a door-to-door salesman. Consequently, my father was able to renew his acquaintance with her; having, as it were, a penchant for all things tight-lipped and being pressed on the point.

At my father’s behest, I was privately tutored at Huberd Manor and, as a consequence, rarely associated with village folk. Cloistered within these confines, I was afforded a unique insight into some of the vulgarisms and malice of the ruling elite. My two older half-brothers regarded me as part-punch bag, part-pet and as such, apt for the customary maltreatment. If it wasn’t itching powder on the bath towel, it was chilli pepper in my underpants or even one of the dachshund’s ‘calling cards’ on my pillow. Although the apparent hilarity of their horseplay escaped me, the penalty for their hubris didn’t escape them. Fate, it transpired, would have the last laugh…but more on that later.

In keeping with family custom, I spent much of my adolescence lusting after Ashok Varma, an urbane Indian cook in my father’s employ. Despite my awkward attempts to curry favour, he was less than obliging. However, this most formative sense of perpetual lovelorn angst did create a template for later life.

At seventeen, I was afforded an undergraduate place at St Bilious College, Oxford, reading English. However my stint in the hallowed halls of academia was decidedly brief. Naïve, and easily led, some fellow students decided to take me for a night out to ‘get arseholed’. My first public exposure to (and at) local alehouses, proved ill advised. My debauched and drunken antics culminated in an attempt to bugger the bronze effigy of Sir Thomas Bodley (well, that hand-on-hip stance did look so alluring). Although Oxford University’s illustrious founder might have been accommodating to the proposal (given that he’d been a diplomat), the Dean certainly wasn’t. Doubtless, his incandescent fury was, in part, inflamed by the Oxfordshire Herald, which considered photos of my exploits - in flagrante delicto - newsworthy. I was unceremoniously banished from the entire Oxbridge portmanteau in a blaze of salacious publicity.

News of my ignominious downfall did not impress my father, who regarded my actions as a personal slight. Back at Huberd Manor, the blistering diatribe made me realise that his estate’s reputation (such as it was) might not survive being dragged further into the mire.

‘Being seen to be respectable’, he'd admonished, ‘is infinitely more important than being respectable. By all means enjoy a feisty butt, but always remember your feisty rebuttal. After all, respectability is nine-parts denial and one-part brazenness. For example, the true scoundrel will always attend church - a show of piety being the best remedy for any disagreeable rumours…’

He went on to describe his philosophy as ‘the way of the gamecock’. I agreed apathetically, though the rebel in me begged to differ. I suspect he discerned this divergence and in a pique of spiteful rage he contacted an old flame in Ireland. Within days, I was found myself being packed off to a finishing school for girls in the Emerald Isle.

‘St. Grendel’s School of Comportment’ brought a new reign of tyranny to my existence. On arrival, I was immediately compelled to wear a black smock and balance books on my head. However, this enforced transvestite circus act was nothing compared to my ensuing tribulations. This despotic regime was enforced by a brood of hideous and diabolical sadists fiendishly disguised as nuns. Minor infractions of their rules (or 'indecorous displays') resulted in the infliction of devilish torments ranging from imprisonment and starvation to feverish threats of hell and damnation. It was even rumoured amongst the girls that one of these gorgons harboured torture equipment dating back to the days of the Inquisition. Indeed, it was never ‘God’ I feared, but rather, those purporting to represent him.

Days spiralled into weeks as I was forced to clasp teacups ‘just-so’ and attempt to waltz to Stravinsky. I also had to strut with On the Origin of Species clenched between my buttocks whilst reciting scripture. Barely sustained by the meagre rations, the doom and oppression of this daily grind took its toll. In my mind’s eye, it became a Manichean struggle for liberty of conscience and freedom of thought. Oh, how my louche and bohemian lifestyle at the Manor seemed but a distant memory! I resolved to escape this asylum of hysterical hypocrisy and medieval mania.

One moonless night, I sped from my prison. Passing beneath the shadows of a monolith spiked with minarets and spires; a slumbering demon-horned dragon in silhouette. Penniless, I hitched a ride to the seaport and pondered upon my return to dear old Blighty. By chance, I came across a sailor who agreed to ‘provide safe passage’ provided that I returned the favour. It was a small price to pay for freedom.

The whole hideous experience certainly put the willies up me, although not in the fashion one might have preferred. At least it substantiated the theory of aversion therapy, since I now oscillate between being a cynical humanist and an optimistic existentialist. In the next gripping instalment of my life, you’ll discover more family intrigue, dastardly deeds and even hope rising from the cinders of disaster.

Thanks for reading and be naughty,
EB x

© Edwin Black