The Journal of Queenie-Gross (Part II)

Welcome back with a sad announcement. Having battled with chronic innuendo for some years, it seems I’ve finally lapsed into terminal double-entendre. I imagine it’s only a matter of time before the Grim Reaper produces his chopper and I meet with a sticky end.

On that note…

In this but brief festive season of benevolence and altruism, I would like to present you with a little ‘stocking-filler’ to sink your gums around. It’s an over-egged pudding of withered old fruits, nutty happenings and popped cherries served with a generous dollop of sauce. So settle back and enjoy a veritable banquet of bawdiness.

Cheers!

EB x


The Journal of Queenie-Gross (Part II)


NARRATOR: CORNELIUS (NEIL) QUEENSBURY-GROSS QC, CBE.
Retired barrister, inclining pillar of the community and indefatigable gobbler - aged 75.

* * * * *

I, Cornelius Queensbury-Gross QC, hereby discharge my journal for the edification of future gentlemen of discernment. It is my sincere wish that it serves as both guide and cautionary tale for those unfamiliar with the noble art of ‘gobbling’.

5. ‘Le Journal’ (Sometime in July 2011)

MONDAY

Arose at a gentlemanly hour and readied myself for luncheon with Reginald (the Bicount Fartleberry of Hissingbottom). He’s a companionable fellow - if a trifle longwinded. Not an unpleasant tearoom although I found the waitress rather impertinent. Discourse revolved around matters horticultural and poor manners (whilst the waitress was within earshot). The cucumber sandwiches were woefully executed and considerably thicker than usual. Frankly, I’m rather self-conscious about masticating in a public place - particularly where offerings leave one champing at the bit. One was obliged to remove one’s mandibar arches in order to suck off a particularly obdurate piece of pith. (Naturally, when a fellow reaches a particular echelon of society it affords one certain dispensations of etiquette - irrespective of raised eyebrows.)

Upon my return I took tea and petit fours. After a worthy evening nap, I perused the broadsheets. News that Baroness Farsical had fiddled with her Parliamentary emoluments came as no surprise. It was at that point one began fiddling with a certain longing in one’s own pouch. After a quick spruce, I opted to stretch my legs and partake of a moonlight gobble.

Not a particularly clement evening so pickings on Hampstead Heath were lean. In these instances, one is obliged to patronise - if I might coin the vernacular - the ‘fucking tree’. Here, an accommodating chap inclines himself over a fallen trunk and presents his rump to attendees on a first-come-first-served basis. It is customary to form a disorderly queue prior to engaging in what I believe is referred to nowadays as a spot of ‘rumpy-pumpy’. In this particular instance, the fellow was of swarthy pallor so I was happy to oblige him once I’d finally come to the fore. I proceeded to mount him from the rear and gave him a sound rogering. (Rodger Scrotum, I’m sure, would wholeheartedly approve.) However I found it to be a rather capacious fit - a bit like piloting a schooner up the Suez Canal.

TUESDAY

Roused at midday for my weekly church organ practice recital. A fine day sent the spirits souring and offered great promise of a nocturnal nobbling. I’ve often reflected at certain parallels in these two activities whilst pulling all the stops out and vigorously honking at the pipes.

I spent the afternoon perusing some fascinating British National Party (BNP) literature. What really gets one’s dander up is reading about the sorry state of the British Empire. And yet what more can one expect of an age incapable of discerning the difference between patriotism and xenophobia? One can only conclude that the country’s being run by the most damnable traitors!

It was a balmy night and my amble to Dangler’s Dell proved most agreeable. Whilst imbibing of the ambiance I noticed a comely fellow loitering amongst the shrubbery who extended his invitation to me. He really was quite something - a cross between Yvonne Doolagong and Al Jolson. I wended my way towards him at which point he checked out my credentials. However at this juncture he rather rubbed me up the wrong way, so to speak, when he murmured in lilting patois (I quote):

‘Lord, it rank down there man…smell like a shithouse door made outta’ saltfish crates.’

‘I’ll have you know that’s good old fashioned manly musk,’ I proclaimed most stridently.

‘Bumbaclot,’ he opined, ‘it killin’ off me brain cells faster than the poppers - you get me? Anyway, me’s not into cheese – me got lactose intolerance.’

It was at this point that the ruffian proceeded to give me a ‘backhander’. (I imagine he mistook me for Lord Truscott.) Judging by those calloused hands on my privates it was obvious to me he was of artisan class and angling to be taken up the tradesman’s entrance. Notwithstanding his uncouth demeanour, I gladly obliged him. Obviously, as soon as matters were concluded we hastily parted.

I might say it’s unfortunate of late that the Heath has attracted these surly types. Personally, I blame narcoleptic eighties pop-chart singers who, unable to bridle their libidinous urges, have dragged this garden of earthly delights into disrepute. (Wham, bam, thank you juggernaut if you ask me.)

WEDNESDAY

Luncheon with Amelia – the florist from church. Being middle class, I’m somewhat sniffy and moderately condescending toward her. I always insist we take tea since wine induces an unpleasant coquettishness about her which is most unbecoming. Evidently, she’s cocking a beady eye to procuring another husband. I, on the other hand, have never been acquainted with a woman of sufficient refinement or fridgidity to warrant such drastic measures as marriage.

She launched into her customary monologue about the decline of moral standards which, though meritorious, is a most distasteful subject matter. (But then she is inclined to peruse The Daily Muckraker.) I was obliged to steer conversation towards architecture. Naturally one must always comment on her ‘delightful bijou residence’. (I simply abhor semi-detached houses but one must endeavour to encourage the nouveau pauvre). It was only unfortunate that she opted to take gin and began weeping uncontrollably again over the demise of her first husband. Most embarrassing and unsightly! (Ah…I recall with great fondness how I was once nobbled by the very same Barbadian spouse during a full moon.)

An evening stroll led to a very agreeable liaison with a Nigerian pastor who I recalled from my days at the Pentecostal church in Tooting. Not a regular Heath-goer, true, but I soon had him licked into shape. It brought to mind Baudelaire: ‘Surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose, Salt with the memory of the bitter flood’. Ah…that troubadour could toss off a ditty for any occasion. Of course I drove home grinning like the cat that got the cream fondant.

THURSDAY

After rising at noon, I chanced upon a fascinating genealogical discovery. It appears a ninth cousin (twice removed) was a Marquis presiding over Château du Paon and its environs in Provence. It’s an impressive edifice and confirms my long-held suspicion of an aristocratic pedigree. It’s unfortunate that I never quite honed my command of French - though I remain fluent in both legalise and euphemism.

The lingering daylight hours are barely worth a mention and consisted of those usual routines for which I’m a stickler.

By nightfall, one experienced that certain restiveness in one’s loins. As a matter of fact, I’ve often wondered why gobbling hasn’t been introduced as a field event in the Olympic Games. The spectacle of world-class athletes trying to out-gobble each other would really be quite something to behold. Perhaps it might even be combined with the shot put?

It was a clement summer night on the Heath. (Activity tends to bottom out, as it were, during winter months.) A profusion of shadowy figures stalked murky byways. As I loped along a trail and picked through foliage, I noticed an interesting gentleman of ethnic persuasion with trousers at half-mast. I nimbly advanced towards him, whereupon I knelt and was, like a fine vintage port, soundly stoppered. After some further manoeuvring, however, it became apparent that he preferred conducting proceedings in an arse-about-face fashion. Following on, he stripped and angled his rump enticingly. (It was an open-ended offer that I could hardly refuse.) So I reversed a way then drove in there at full kilter. He promptly produced the most extraordinary startled squawk – rather like a guinea foul being buggered by a rhino.

Following the cut and thrust of it all, he requested help with the bus fare home. I was obliged to pull my customary befuddled expression one employs when asked for money. However, he was a persistent and garrulous sort - though I had no intention of being sucked in by it all. Quite fortuitously I managed to fob him off with an old ten bob note, insisting upon a shilling in change (which wasn’t forthcoming).

Feeling somewhat short-changed by the encounter, I was initially unaware of impending calamity. Presently, and much to my chagrin, I discovered my dentures were no longer about my person. A widespread grope around the undergrowth yielded nothing. In short, it was a bally disaster! It called to mind a similar ill-fated visit to the Heath some years ago when I mislayed an antique gentleman’s walking cane. I later discovered the said perambulatory aid being employed for the most unspeakable purposes.

My search was further hampered by a particularly insolent wretch loitering in a nearby grove. When I enquired of him if he’d stumbled across my itinerant mandibles he piped up (and I quote):

‘They’re probably still wrapped around someone’s cock dearie.’

‘It appears that somebody has forgotten their manners!’ I sneered. (I recoil from the repugnant sight of men with an effeminate affectation.)

‘Ooh, hark at her!’ he exclaimed. ‘Watch out girls, the gummy goblin’s on the prowl.’

Oh how it made my blood boil! One would have hoped such a sad loss would have garnered sympathy amongst fellow Heath-goers. ‘Do you know who I am?’ I bellowed, ‘I should have you bloody horsewhipped man!’

‘Promises, promises darling,’ he simpered impiously.

As you might expect, one drove home in a tumult of anguish and fury bemoaning my tragic denture misadventure. Doubtless, they were purloined by some damnable swine from the chattering classes. Needless to say, one is expecting a very generous cheque from the tooth fairy by way of compensation.

FRIDAY

I arose tardily and was obliged to postpone afternoon tea with the vicar. Conveying one’s apologies proved awkward given one’s inability to enunciate consonants. A telephone call to the emergency dentist proved equally troublesome. My spirits were further dampened by an enforced diet of soupe à l’oignon and slurping one’s tea through a straw. Adding to my woes was a particularly niggling itch below the water line necessitating another visit to the potting shed.

I opted to revive my flagging spirits with a dose of Baudelaire. It was not until dusk that I dared venture to the Heath. In the half-light I spent time attempting to retrace my steps and discover the whereabouts of my dentures.

It was while I was groping about the shrubbery that I found myself head to head with a Somali personage. (In all likelihood a pirate on vacation.). Doubtless, he gloated at the prospect of an Englishman being cajoled along his gangplank and taking the plunge. And although I took it on the chin (as it were) I’ll still vote BNP in the next election. Nonetheless, the fellow certainly had a taste of his own medicine after we came to blows, shots were fired and I emptied his vessel of seamen.

Events took an unexpected turn when he explained that his clothing had been stolen. (Why on earth would someone pilfer a buccaneer’s attire?) It certainly left one flummoxed! In some inexplicable clouding of judgement I offered to drive him home. After I’d finally managed to be understood he eagerly accepted. It transpired that he lived in Kentish Town - but a short detour. As we journeyed he explained that he preferred gentlemen of my vintage and wished to provide me with his telephone number. Of course I politely declined - although he insisted on leaving it in the glove compartment. We pulled up at his abode and he scurried to a doorway. A woman of similar years cradling a child answered the door and appeared most aggrieved. Naturally, I made a rapid departure.

6. ‘Le Dénouement’

My experience with the Somalian left me overwhelmed by a peculiar reverie. I contemplated my years on the Heath and wondered at the impossibility of spiriting away one of those gods…To take him home, regale him with sonnets…perchance slumber in some entanglement of limbs until the first blush of dawn. In truth I fear my icon might petrify should I steal him from Aphrodite’s dusky grace…become but an effigy of frozen beauty and unrequited longing. What Pygmalion beguilement is this…? I demand of myself. So I relinquish the balm of a caress, the nocturne of a whisper and the ambrosial musk of passion spent. Better that he remain a paragon of god-like beauty in half-forgotten myth.

Indeed, I have become resolute in the belief that solitude is best. What earthly use is companionship? Besides, sentiment is a cruel mistress: deliverer and despot. She is intoxicating as a rose yet barbed with the thorns of sacrifice and regret. Furthermore, need I remind you that I am not homosexual. Carnality of that nature is an abomination against God and man.

I digress.

Come a time I bid my fond farewells to this world, it is on my beloved Hampstead Heath that I shall be entombed. There may very well be ‘some foreign field that is forever England’…But the Heath, to me, epitomises all that is best in our green and pleasant land. It offers the Englishman outdoor recreation that is both stimulating and wholesome. (It is surely what the Great British stiff upper lip was made for?) So until that fateful day, one must continue in one’s gobbling endeavours with a sense of duty. Moreover, I, Cornelius Queensbury-Gross QC, foresee a mention on the New Year’s Honours List for so tirelessly striving to improve race relations.

I would like to take this opportunity to wish all you discerning chaps seasons cheer and, as I would vocalise it, a ‘feffy mwerry Kwiffmuff and a fwappy Yew Fwear.’

© Edwin Black

The Journal of Queenie-Gross (Part I)

Greetings and welcome from the salacious submariner of subversion. I would like to submit something different for your amusement in this next short comedy skit.

One of the challenges for any writer is to channel a narrative voice through a protagonist who represents the antithesis of the self. I decided to try this out in the form of a journal. It was an enjoyable exercise and a relief after the arduous efforts with the recent trilogy.

As you can likely tell, I’m still honing my skill as a writer. I juggle bouts of creativity with part-time dipsomania and full-time work. Consequently, the postings aren’t as frequent as I might wish. However, I would like to point out that you can follow the blog (click the link), or subscribe by email (scroll right down) to be alerted to any new stuff. Or you might wish to check out older postings should the whimsy take you.

Meanwhile…

I should mention that the following character, ‘Queenie-Gross’, is another ghastly chimera from Edwin’s customary house of horrors. Queenie holds some pretty unsavoury opinions that I certainly don’t share. I devised him to parody old-guard arch-conservatives who remain oblivious to concepts of pomposity, sanctimony and absurdity. It’ll be in two parts. Enjoy…

EB x

The Journal of Queenie-Gross (Part I)

NARRATOR: CORNELIUS (NEIL) QUEENSBURY-GROSS QC, CBE.

Retired barrister, inclining pillar of the community and indefatigable gobbler - aged 75.

1. ‘Préambule’

Upon the advent of my seventy-fifth birthday, I, Cornelius Queensbury-Gross QC, feel it judicious to scribe my thoughts for the perusal and erudition of future gentlemen of refinement. It is to that end that I wish to impart a modicum of sagacity in matters of certain outdoor pursuits.

On the face of it, you might regard me as a pretty traditional Englishman; I reside in a traditional house with suitably staid décor and pursue traditional forms of recreation. In time-honoured tradition, I partake of afternoon tea (with cup and saucer), nibble gingerly at tarte au citron and smoke a pipe. And though the posing braggard is presently considered à la mode, my sartorial dowdiness reflects that understated conservatism borne of classical aestheticism and charity boutiques. In short, I’m ‘old school’.

I cultivate a variety of interests that one might expect of a fellow with my education and social class. Since retirement, I’ve fostered a keen interest in philately, genealogy and I’m a keen antiquarian. My eclectic reading interests vary from Mrs Beeton to Baudelaire - tastes which could hardly be described as conservative. I also enjoy a spot of light intercourse. (Perhaps I might point out that inconsequential conversation is considered the epitome of good etiquette to an Englishman of sound pedigree. Acceptable topics include the: the weather, horticulture, the New Year’s Honours List and so on and so forth. Excessive gravitas conveys that lack of deportment more favoured amongst those hysterical types from continental Europe.)

I am a keen churchgoer and organist. One’s staunchly Presbyterian forebears regarded public displays of piety to be the bulwark of civic decency and personal morality. I have held steadfastly to those upright principals in aspects of both public and clandestine engagement. Furthermore, I firmly subscribe to the supreme laws of our omnipotent God (expediency dictates that the barrister must hold to the principle of salvation).

I confess that I have no compunction about being ‘sniffy’ towards those whom I regard as not being quite from the ‘top drawer’. I can adroitly affect a nuance of condescension towards those hailing from the petty bourgeois classes and, by-the-by, muster mild distain whilst dealing with lowly tradespersons. Naturally, I reserve the full might of my supercilious sneer for those preening liberal popinjays of the nouveau riche with ideas above their station. In fact, it’s the blithe impertinence of these latter social upstarts that so rankles. Obviously, they’ve yet to realise that snootiness coupled with the feudal system served to forge our great nation. Indeed, finely incremented levels of sneer were the very bedrock upon which an Empire was founded.

I digress; though my bugbear concerning the decay of social and moral order is by no means one’s only frustration that demands satisfaction. Throughout my illustrious career, I’ve led something of a parallel existence. By day I’m known to my peers as ‘Neil’ - upstanding member of the community…but by night, I kneel to assorted upstanding members of the community. To wit: I’m a greedy gobbler who loves getting nobbled…

2. ‘Les Préparatifs’

Peers occasionally enquire why I’m seldom in residence of an evening. My rather oblique reply is that I’m attending to a ‘gentleman’s excuse-me’. Should they pry further, I steer conversation towards the vagaries of the British weather and so on and so forth. If really pressed on the point, I might disclose that my constitution requires me to take a stroll on Hampstead Heath in order to contemplate Baudelaire and the right-wing political theories of Rodger Scrotum. This serves to allay concerns and isn’t (strictly speaking) fallacious.

My evening forays onto the Heath require scrupulous preparation if I’m to entice my favoured quarry. As you may well be aware, gentlemen of my superior years sometimes experience difficulties in achieving a ‘standing ovation’. But fear not – the pharmaceutical industry has devised the most marvellous pills that ensure prolonged turgidity as and when one is called upon to rise to the occasion. Another essential is quick-release pantaloons (or ‘track-suit bottoms’?) to assist in the rapid deployment of one’s weaponry. Sturdy brogues, too, will help prevent one slipping headlong into the mire during coupling manoeuvres. Gardener’s knee pads are next on the inventory for obvious reasons. Lastly, the baseball (or ‘George Bush Jnr.’) cap is essential apparel. It not only serves to conceal one’s identity but it also provides the casual the observer with the impression of a substandard IQ. This is a tremendous advantage should one bump into the Lord Chief Justice (again) since it averts those awkward situations of having to discuss the New Year’s Honours List and so on and so forth.

My next stipulation concerns the delicate matter of personal cleanliness. I must say, I’ve never been overly enamoured with that new-fangled craze of fastidious ablution. However, I do make a point of flannelling my testicles prior to an evening’s sortie. That said, I consider a quick spruce under the carapace to be optional since, in my experience, human physiology lends itself to a degree of fermentation just as the brain requires time to ruminate. I might even go so far as to extend the metaphor to allowing a vintage wine to breathe or Camembert time to air itself in order to achieve full potency. In short, I permit my nooks and crannies a good deal of regional autonomy. (I remain convinced that Rodger Scrotum would heartily approve!)

3. ‘Mode Opératoire’

Before I furnish you with further details of my jaunts to the Heath, I wish to make one thing abundantly clear - I do not consider myself homosexual. Gentlemen of my refinement would never engage in such gross or despicable acts. I’m merely a public school educated fellow who, as one might expect, poured over Plato’s Symposium. Hence, I recognise the finer subtlety of éros and that virtuous, noble appreciation of beauty. Unnatural and unholy acts must, surely, remain the preserve of philistines; those limp-wristed, mincing, perfumed creatures sporting handbags and coiffured curls. Let me assure you that I do not mince my gait anymore than I mince my words. Nor do I entertain bestial lusts - I have no desire to stoop to such things.

Once suitably attired, I slip out to the Bentley and pootle up to a quiet lay-by situated near the theatre of operations. (You may have heard of it - traditionally, it’s where Honourable Members of Parliament mislay secret dossiers whilst indulging in a spot of ‘uphill gardening’.) En route, I invariably warm up the old pharynx with a little cantata: ‘If one goes down to the woods today one’s in for a big surprise…’ and so on and so forth.

A brief stroll downhill along a meandering footpath will, by-the-by, take a fellow to entrance of ‘Danglers’ Dell’. At this point, the route dips and the rambler can shoot off in multiple directions. Here, beneath a starry panacea and amongst shrubbery, loiter the furtive silhouettes of those eager to share in that incomparable solace of manly affection. What anodyne to the restive soul!

Having patronised the Heath and its denizens for decades, I’m familiar with the lay of the land, so to speak. Therefore, after a quick scout of my surroundings, I ensconce myself at a suitable vantage point. I consider myself pretty spritely and surefooted for my years so I’m capable of making a rapid beeline towards my favoured quarry.

At this juncture, I should explain that I am, what those Bolshevik liberals would call, ‘ethnocentric’. I discovered these exotic delights during National Service in the Colonies. On the face of it, sucking up to gentlemen of colour may appear incongruous given my vehement opposition to immigration. However thanks to this predilection I’ve often found myself coming across those very same irascible delinquents that I helped to convict during my years at the bar. So it’s extremely gratifying to offer a further duty of care towards their full rehabilitation back into the ranks of mainstream society. (I’m sure the poet John Dryden and his Noble Savage would approve).

Once the quarry is pinpointed, it’s sometimes necessary to circle nonchalantly before veering in and offering one’s expertise ‘pro boner’, as it were. If there’s a rival greedy gobbler already dining, etiquette dictates that one must play second fiddle to him. However, I posses a notable advantage over my competitors: I’m the proud owner of an upper and lower mandibar arch (or false teeth to the layman). This provides great advantage in both the accommodation of girth and the attainment of suction. They can be removed prior to the gobble under the guise of a hacking cough into the handkerchief, to wit: ‘Baar-hum! Baaaaar-hum-hum-hum!’ Thus, with the teeth deposited and stowed in one’s pantaloons, proceedings can commence in earnest.

Initially, I actually bemoaned the sad exodus of my last few teeth. However, having struggled with a dilapidated bridge over very troubled waters, I realised it was finally time to bite the bullet and opt for full prostheses. I suspect this chronic dental decay was brought on by high oral levels of foreign DNA (which is acidic) and humbugs. But at least one’s consumption of spermatozoa has saved money on high-protein food supplements over the years.

Once active engagement has run its course, a quick dab of one’s parts with a hanky remedies any excess dribbles.

4. ‘Le Peste’

Perhaps you imagine gobbling is confined merely to the plebeian classes? Not so! In fact in my experience, the Heath is so well frequented by educated types that it often resembles a cross between a turkey farm and alma mater. However, there are a number of drawbacks for the regular Heath-goer. For instance, a dose of ‘the clap’ may rear its ugly head.  I have no wish to labour the point about one’s own incessant itching around the undercarriage. (After all, even the finest ships in Her Majesty’s Navy have a few barnacles on their bottom). However I would like to impart a medical breakthrough that I chanced upon.

After a particularly distasteful session of poking and prodding at the hands of my sadistic (foreign) Harley Street practitioner, I opted for alternative medicine. So, I resolved to set about finding my own remedy for life’s irksome ailments or ‘streptococcus’ (stripped-to-cock-us?) in the potting shed. Over the years, I’ve experimented with a variety of astringent cleaning products to alleviate rashes and discharge. However, my breakthrough eventually came after dangling my penis in a bucket of creosote* which proved most efficacious. It also had the added advantage of giving one’s external plumbing the impression of a gentle autumnal glow. (Baudelaire would have been most approving.)

* * * *

In part two, the remarkably well-preserved Queenie-Gross will publish further details of his cavorting on the Heath...

* Please do not try this at home dear reader.

© Edwin Black

Liber Gomorrhianus Lima (Act III)

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Liber Gomorrhianus Lima* (Act II)

FOLLIS BRITANNIA**

Welcome from Edwin – court jester to the disreputable houses of Europe and scoundrel to whatever remains. May I extend warm greetings from riotous Great Britain – that grandiose bastion of eavesdropping hacks, looters and more CCTV cameras per capita than the world’s most paranoid theocracies. Could it be that rather than ruling the waves, Britannia’s become a snooping, neurotic landlubber who’s having her metaphorical t*ts sucked dry thanks to a recent baby boom? (I’m curious about the rationale to expand the population whilst human activity compels our planet towards ecological catastrophe?)

…Is it patriotism that stirs in me or an attack of biliousness?

           

Enough of this brooding existentialism! Let me leave you with Act II of Liber Gomorrhianus Lima. So kick off those high heels, pour yourself a glass and enjoy…

*Latin for Book of Gomorrah (see Act I for details). ‘Lima’, means ‘revisited’.
**Latin meaning (literally) ‘wind-bag’. Follis forms the root of the word ‘fool’ – another word for jester. ‘Fool Britainia’ is a notional word play on ‘Rule Britainia’, arguably the most grossly jingoistic anthem known to man.

Liber Gomorrhianus Lima

ACT II – MANNA FROM HEAVEN

(The following story is intended for ADULTS ONLY.)

CHARACTERS (in order of appearance).

MOTHER LUCRETIA - Mother Superior of the Divine Sisters of Mammon.

SISTER CRAVEN - Bride of Christ and general lackey.

SIGNORE CORLEONE -  Dealer in rare antiquities, holy relics and upmarket tat.

HIS HOLINESS POPE CHIPOLATA II – Head honcho of The Roman Curia.
SISTER DIABOLIS - Bride of Frankenstein and hideous old crone.

* * *

Deep within the catacombs beneath Vatican City, the Divine Sisters of Mammon enjoy some fiscal stimulation... [Translated from Italian.]

‘Now did Luigi bring those personal effects for signore Corleone to handle?’ Mother Lucretia enquired haughtily while drumming podgy fingers on a leather topped desk.

Sister Craven glanced up sheepishly from her kneeled position, unable to meet the fearsome gaze of her Mother Superior. ‘Yes ma’am, I have them here,’ she said, offering up a gold collection plate with trembling hands.

Her superior inspected the proffered tray with beady magpie eyes. ‘Is this all there is?’ she snapped. She hauled up her corpulent form and lumbered ponderously towards her minion.

‘Yes ma-’ Sister Craven cowered as the plate was snatched from her clasp and flung onto the desk with a clatter. She felt the customary searing glare directed at her crouched form.

‘Whatever, all ill-gotten-gains help the coffers,’ Mother Lucretia purred. She smirked coquettishly at her subordinate. ‘Now, a little dickie-bird told me you’ve been having impure thoughts Sister Craven…that you’ve been idling in your room and concerning yourself with the visceral rather than spiritual…hmm?’

Sister Craven’s cheeks flushed. ‘Oh no Mother Lucretia…no,’ she bleated, ‘I’d never think about Sean…I mean…Father O’Leering in that way. I just wouldn’t…I-’

‘Father O’Leering is it?’ The Mother Superior cut in with a triumphal sneer. ‘I suspected as much! Is that ye’ dirty little game eh? Jezebel!’ she shrieked. She yanked at a stray lock of her sister-inferior’s hair.

‘Ouch!’ Sister Craven yelped. ‘Oh…thank you Mother Lucretia, thank you.’

‘Filius meretricis…ye’ daughter of a harlot, you!’ Mother Lucretia flared. She wiped away a bead of drool that had begun to irrigate the stubble of her triple-chin.

Sister Craven looked up tearfully. ‘But I didn’t…I’m not-’

‘Not what, hmm? Not virgo intactus? Is that ye’ confession Sister Craven…?’ The Mother Superior bristled. ‘Tell me! I demand to know what you’ve been stuffing into ye’ snatch?’ Without waiting for a reply she took a swipe at the cowering form, producing a startled squeak.

‘I might…perhaps…have touched it accidentally…when I was bathing,’ Sister Craven blubbed piteously.

‘I knew it,’ the Mother Superior hissed, ‘I just knew it…indulging in bestial carnality in this most holy of cities. It’s apostasy! I bet you’ve spent all night dreaming about huge throbbing heathen phalluses didn’t ye’…eh…eh…?’

Again, the quivering form squeaked unintelligibly.

‘Answer me when I interrogate you!’ Mother Lucretia commanded. She raked her fingernails along the subordinate’s flanks, pausing briefly to grapple and pinch at the prone pair of buttocks. ‘Oh, but what a brazen little slattern you are - what are ye’…?’

Sister Craven glanced up woefully, ‘a brazen little slattern ma’am.’

‘To bloody right you are!’ the enraged disciplinarian snapped. ‘Do you know what torments await indolent sluts like you in that infernal abyss, Sister Craven? Ravening demons force you to read Jackie Collins while they stuff pickled chillies up ye’ jacksy and whip up ye’ fanny-batter with an egg whisk! Imagine suffering that for the rest of eternity! But it’s nothing compared with what I’ll do to ye’!’ she screeched.

‘Oh forgive me Mother Lucretia,’ Sister Craven pleaded through her tears, ‘I didn’t intend to commit a deadly sin. It was such a terrible moment of weakness.’

‘This cannot go unpunished Sister. You’ll have to be severely admonished. And if you imagine you can oink and squeal your way out of this one then you’re sorely mistaken. Be at my chambers at eight-thirty tonight…or there’ll be hell to pay…’

‘Yes m’um,’ Sister Craven sobbed.

Oh for those halcyon days of proselytising with the aid of thumbscrews and red hot pokers… Mother Lucretia mused wistfully. She waddled backwards, perching a gargantuan pair of buttocks on the edge of a creaking desk. She hitched up her habit and took a moment to fondle her inflamed sex then dabbed it with her handkerchief.

Presently, she cast covetous eyes back over Cardinal Rightvinger’s belongings. Not a bad little haul… she speculated …the fact that proceeds end up in the pockets of defence attorneys is fecking scandalous. Oh those poor priests… unwitting victims of the most malicious and outlandish allegations. How dare those fantasists, philanderers and fornicators accuse those under the aegis of God’s sacred institution? Was that not the real act of defilement?

Momentarily her gaze strayed onto the tufts of ginger pubic hair that remained wedged in a set of Rightvinger’s false teeth. It called to mind a flaming-haired alter boy, Marcos, who’d loyally served the Vatican before meeting with an untimely accident…odd…?

Shaking herself from her reverie, Mother Lucretia noticed that her charge was still crying. ‘Now, come dear, you mustn’t wail so. You’re simply making a spectacle of yourself. It’s most unsightly.’

‘But I’m unworthy of the solemn vows I took, Mother Lucretia,’ Sister Craven wept. ‘Oh! my mind is so riddled with uncertainty.’

The Mother Superior extended a chubby palm and stroked the trembling cowled head. ‘Of course you’re worthy my delicate little rosebud. Oh dear, perhaps I was a tad harsh on you? I didn’t mean to seem uncharitable. It’s just that you’re such a jaw-droppingly repulsive old troglodyte, aren’t you dear? It’s so difficult to overlook sometimes. But you really shouldn’t blame yourself. Naturally, you will remain with the Divine Sisters of Mammon. We welcome all devout souls no matter how pig-ugly they might be.’

‘Yes ma’am…thank you ma’am,’ the Sister said, attempting a feeble smile.

‘That’s better.’ The dominatrix handed the Sister her frowsy handkerchief to dry her eyes. ‘But just try not to roll those hurt little piggy eyes at me okay? Otherwise, (and I mean this with the utmost kindness) you’ll be sanctified with another slap. Understood?’

There was a sudden knock at the door.

Immediately, Mother Lucretia straightened her robes and ushered her subordinate to the corner of the room. ‘Please enter,’ she said curtly.

A tall, immaculately suited man strode into the room and parked himself on a chair unbidden. His gaze fixed upon the tray of trinkets speculatively. ‘So ‘dis is what you have for me most holy Mother?’ he said, receiving Mother Lucretia’s hand and planting a slobbering kiss.

‘Indeed signore Corleone,’ Mother Lucretia simpered. ‘…and though our church shuns pecuniary concerns and the filthy luca, earthly blessings sometimes fall like manna from heaven. Especially, I might say, in matters of rare and wondrous objet d’art.’

‘Ah yes, I pay ‘da usual prices. But let me see…’ Signore Corleone grinned, plucking an eye glass from his pocket and examining a small specimen jar. ‘And ‘dis is…?’

‘Oh signore, a most prized artefact!’ the Mother Superior exclaimed. ‘I don’t know if our order could ever part with it. You are holding the sanctus gluteus-minimus papilloma - apt only for the most discerning of tastes….’

Signor Corleone shot the Mother Superior a quizzical look. ‘Signora…?’

‘Sir, it is the sacred anal wart. It was appropriated from our most revered Cardinal Rightvinger just before his ascension on that heavenly stair lift,’ the matriarch elaborated. ‘But look, there so are many saintly relics that might also be of interest. We have the sacred undergarments - sanctus pantaloons…and the sanctus pubic saeta.

‘Sanctus what…?’ Signore Corleone enquired.

‘Ah, I’m most happy that you ask!’ The Mother Superior gushed. ‘They are the divine follicles - gathered after Cardinal Rightvinger’s short-crack-and-sides waxing session.’

A telephone began to ring. Mother Lucretia directed her minion to answer it with a withering glare.

‘It’s those researchers from Oxford University again ma’am,’ Sister Craven explained. ‘They wish to carbon date the sanctus skid vestigium to verify its authenticity…’

‘Certainly not!’ Mother Lucretia squawked. ‘Tell them we will never grant permission again. Tell them we refuse!’

Signor Corleone raised an eyebrow. ‘I confess that I’m curious about this ‘skid vestigium’. Would you care to elaborate most eminent mother?’

Sister Lucretia clasped her hands together and took a moment to compose herself. ‘Signore Corleone…it is hard to find words to convey the sacramental nature of this cherished relic. You see, our Saint Rightvinger left a stain on a hotel bed sheet during a visit to Turin. It is said that the mark depicts an effigy of our Lord if you squint at it whilst performing a handstand and possess a keen appreciation for Abstract Expressionism.’

Signor Corleone glanced at his watch. ‘That is all very interesting signora, but I need to discuss a matter of the most delicate nature.’

Mother Lucretia pricked up an ear and pursed her lips. ‘Of course signore.’ She scratched idly between a roll of fat that had acquired a healthy crop of mildew.

‘As you are aware, I am but a simple man,’ Signore Corleone explained, ‘…a humble patron of our church and very much lesser mortal.’

‘Indeed, and we are most grateful for your continued generosity,’ the Mother Superior urged.

‘So my request may at first, seem…unorthodox… Although I assure you it derives from the most steadfast and noble of motives.’ Signore Corleone felt encouraged by his counterpart’s approving nod. ‘I simply propose to take a mould from Saint Rightvinger’s most holy edifice and preserve this great man for posterity.’

‘Edifice?’ Mother Lucretia queried.

‘Yes signora, ‘da sacred manhood,’ her counterpart confided. ‘Then hey presto, admirers might enjoy Rightvinger’s blessings ‘til Kingdong™ come. You must agree to this request, signora, I beg you.’

The Mother Superior needed no encouragement in any profitable venture but feigned an expression of mild disapproval.

‘Perhaps you might think of it,’ Signor Corleone continued, ‘as your saint conducting a different kind of service for parishioners. Allow me to elaborate. Imagine if pilgrims to this most holy of theme parks could take with them a memento of their religious experience…a prized souvenir that might stimulate their faith for years to come…’

‘I’m not sure I understand…’ Mother Lucretia fibbed nonchalantly.

‘Madame I refer, of course, to ‘da Saint Rightvinger marital aid; lovingly crafted in polyurethane in order to preserve the dignity and sensibility of our holy institution. It would also come with a presentation gift box picturing our dear Saint at his most alluring. Furthermore, it could play a selection of his most poignant addresses at St. Peter’s square that would be motion-activated. It might even recite a few post-coital Hail Mary’s to assuage any residual guilt. Surely it would become a prized possession for the faithful and elevate their heavenly rapture to its climax. Let me assure you, Mother Lucretia, it would represent the epitome of good taste.’

The Mother Superior flashed a demure smile. ‘Well, I’m really not sure that would be appropriate given that-’

‘Oh please signora,’ Signore Corleone cut in, ‘will you at least consider my proposal? Naturally, I would make a wildly extravagant donation for your troubles. It is a most equitable arrangement, I think you’ll agree?’

The Mother Superior directed a stern look at her subordinate. ‘Sister Craven, if you’ve quite finished scratching your bearded clam maybe you’ll leave us to conclude business in private hmm?’ she taunted. ‘Go on ye’ repugnant little Caliban…scoot!’

As Sister Craven burst into tears and fled. The sex toy manufacturer raised an eyebrow.

‘She’s such a dear little soul but so terribly capricious,’ the senior nun apologised. ‘Heaven knows how we might help that poor tormented child… Anyway, as you were saying signore…?’

The businessman flashed an easy smile. ‘Signora, let me tell you a little story if you’ll indulge me. You see, a few years ago a holy relic came into my possession. A manhood of the most august pedigree. Indeed, it was the earthly appendage of a Saint. Being as I am a purveyor of only the finest merchandise, I had a cast made which proved an overnight success among those seeking earthly solace. It became obvious to me that there was a yawning hole in the market. So I create ‘da ‘Fred Phelps Fag’s Finger Butt-Bung™’. It also proved an instant hit so I expand operations to America. It was there that I devise the ‘Scott Lively Pink Squat-Tickler™’ and the ‘Terry James Muff-Mecca™’. I cannot tell you, madam, how those good people of the U.S. clamour for ‘da goods. It was then that I set up production in Uganda with ‘da ‘Martin Ssempa Sludge-Funnel, Mask & Scat Blanket™’. And for those who enjoy a sluice-with-a-da-juice, I make the ‘Giles Muhame Gutter-Bib & Slops Tray™’. (Mr Muhame, of course, was prone to spew out the most seminal ejaculations.)

‘I must confess signore; I find this assortment of erm…bedroom adornments a trifle disconcerting,’ Mother Lucretia admitted, ‘…if not a touch base.’

Signore Corleone patted her hand with a clammy palm. ‘Oh no, not ‘base’ signora. I concede that my approach may seem cavalier, but I’m merely providing sermons from a different kind of mount.’

‘I suppose I can see where you’re coming from,’ the Mother Superior conceded.

‘Signora, you are an immensely gracious lady and I heartily thank you for it,’ the businessman crooned, oozing subum and charisma in almost equal proportions. He gazed appreciatively at the near walrus-sized woman slouching before him. After rifling through an attaché case, he presented the object of his desires with an elegantly wrapped box. ‘Perhaps I you might accept a small token of my devotion Madame. It’s a prototype. It is my heartfelt wish for you to be the first...’

‘Why, thank you kind sir,’ Sister Lucretia giggled, unceremoniously grabbing the gift, ‘but what, pray tell, can it be?’

‘You are actually holding ‘da ‘Osama Bin Laden Vulvic-Volcano™’. It spouts ‘Allah be praised’ at the point of climax.’

* * *

‘Mother Lucretia, may I humbly request your counsel? I need to speak with you on a matter of utmost urgency,’ Sister Craven said anxiously.

‘Just remain in my chambers - as ordered. Impudent child! And don’t forget the egg whisk this time or else!’ Mother Lucretia snapped. She resumed her counting of the large bundles of Euro notes piled on her escritoire.

Sister Craven lapsed into melancholy contemplation. The gloomy bowels of the Vatican had served to intensify a suffocating sense of confinement that went beyond mere physicality. She sighed inwardly.

There was a sharp rap at the door. Sister Craven took delivery of a parchment and handed it deferentially to her senior. There was a wax seal bearing the impression of the Pope’s ring. It read:

“It is decried tthat hiss most holey eminence, Cardinal Rat Rimmer be sanctified at too thirty to daye. By order of his hole-in-arse Pope Chipolata II.”

Mother Lucretia scowled at the spidery lettering. ‘That good-for-nothing boss-eyed scrivener!’ She cursed. Jesus, wasn’t it about time they carted the old fart off the fecking glue factory?

* * *

As implied previously, the clandestine rite of beatification was presided over by His Holiness Pope Chipolata II.

Christened ‘Fedele Chipolata’, the would-be pope had been raised in Las Vegas. He was one of six little darlings brought over to the States by impoverished Italian emigrants. A singularly precocious child, he’d been widely disliked by his peers thanks to a preoccupation with snitching over the pettiest infractions of authority. Fedele’s weasely adherence to convention had inevitably drawn him towards the more pious mindset. At the tender age of fifteen he’d experienced his first epiphany and had been ‘born again’. This transformation heralded a meteoric rise in his fortunes. By seventeen, he’d assumed the guise of an evangelical lay-preacher-cum-faith-healer.

After two decades of fabulous affluence (and indeed effluence), Pastor Chipolata opted to return to mother church and mother country. Remarkably, this second ‘Damascus road’ moment coincided with a criminal investigation into his mentoring sessions with a deeply troubled young parishioner (who just happened to be an underage rent boy). In Rome, the Holy See were quick to recognise the talents of their newly acquired turncoat. Consequently, Fedele climbed through the ranks faster a gravity-defying martyr on Ascension Day. On the advent of Pope Rightvinger’s tragic demise, Cardinal Chipolata seemed the obvious successor. His diabolical fusion of sophistry, egomania and sanctimony had already all but bewitched a whole new generation of unquestioning automatons.

Pope Chipolata II eyed Mother Lucretia gravely. ‘I believe we’re ready to begin,’ he informed her haughtily.

‘Certainly, your Grace.’ Mother Lucretia intoned. She proceeded to throw open large set of doors revealing a lavishly adorned baronial hall festooned with flickering candles. The centrepiece was a shrouded coffin on a low marble plinth.

The pair strutted stiffly into the room like a pair of haemorrhoid victims. Mother Lucretia turned. ‘Right, come now youse disgusting little sin-pigs. Get yer fecking arses in ‘ere or, so help me God, I’ll make bacon rashers of the lot of youse. A disorderly herd of nuns clambered and crawled on all fours into the room and congregated about the stage.

‘Right my porcine princesses you know the procedure!’ Lucretia barked. She promptly peeled back the shroud revealing the withered naked body of Saint Rightvinger who’d mysteriously acquired a beatific smile (expression no. 49 of the Mortician’s Guild catalogue).

‘You may begin.’ Chipolata commanded. ‘Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. We are gathered here to slaver the cadaver...’ he droned. When the interminable solioquy was finally over, he regarded Mother Lucretia rather pointedly.

Mother Lucretia unfastened a bullwhip from her belt and sidled over to her minions. With one sharp crack of her whip the jostling, fawning herd began eagerly licking at the suppurating carcass. Amongst the chorus of slurping and sucking noises were gleeful little oinks and snorts.

Abruptly, Mother Lucretia unleashed a stinging hail of lashes upon her cowering underlings. ‘Repent! Atone yourselves damn you, Repent!’ She shrieked, lashing out indiscriminately and mercilessly. ‘Indolent, ungodly swines!’

Pope Chipolata II looked on imperiously from his throne. He grimaced somewhat as he noticed one of the more enthusiastic brides of Christ burying her face in Saint Rightvinger’s leathery groin. ‘Mother Lucretia! Will you get her to stop muzzling his private parts?’

Mother Lucretia’s face fell. ‘With the greatest respect your grace I think she’s rooting for truffles. Ah, will ye’ look at ‘em – happy as swines at a slop trough. They’ll soon have him beatified your grace.’ She looked approvingly as the elderly Sister Diabolis began sucking at the furry papal earlobes. ‘That’s my good little piglet; one should never forget to wash behind the ears.’

After covering almost the entire cadaver with copious sputum, Mother Lucretia instructed her ‘snivelling piglets’ to turn the body over.

‘You don’t find this form of spiritual ablution a little…ah…vulgar?’ Chipolata queried. (Being relatively new to the post, he’d not been privy the beatification ritual.)

‘Ach no, I find it to be the height of sophistication, so I do. It’s a good crack too.’ Mother Lucretia observed, noticing that one of her charges was rimming the recumbent form adoringly. Following another savage round of whipping, she promptly disrobed.

Pope Chipolata II gazed on in disdain as Mother Lucretia emerged from her vestments like a huge, over-brimming blancmange. She wobbled precariously into the fray, clad in only a PVC basque, matching chaps and nine inch stilettos. As she got on all fours, her enormous pendulous cleavage swung apart, drooped and smacked together again as if offering a polite round of applause. ‘Now come here my good little piglets. Mother sow has a special reward for youse. Come and get your teat treat my little suckling porkers.’

As the congregation jostled to take their turn amongst the rolls of fat, Mother Lucretia snorted contentedly and released a long hissing fart.

Pope Chipolata II gazed down imperiously. ‘Mother Superior, I fear you’re charges seem to be labouring under a misapprehension?’

* * *

It was some hours later that Mother Lucretia shambled back to her private quarters. Sister Craven was perched on the chaise lounge and glanced up timidly. ‘Mother, I’ve been thinking about leaving the order. You see I-’

‘Sister, I don’t have the patience for your puerile whining!’ Her superior snapped. ‘Besides, if it wasn’t for your gluttonous self-adoration you wouldn’t even have these misgivings. May I remind you, Sister, you’ve taken solemn vows. To break them is sacrilegious.’

‘But it’s not just the vows Mother. It’s the teachings…it’s the tainting of young minds…of innocents, with notions of guilt, sin and unworthiness…Is that not a betrayal of the human spirit…a desecration of that inner-Eden we call our ‘soul’?’

The Mother Superior glared at her, eyes ablaze. ‘What the hell are you prattling on about ye’ she-devil? ‘Y’know, I think I’ve had just about enough of your obstreperous attitude!’ The Mother Superior fumed and began fingering her whip. ‘Besides, you should never underestimate human folly sister.’

Sister Craven stared tearfully at the floor. ‘But I have irreconcilable doubts Mother Lucretia. Despite your disciplines, there’s no means to substantiate the existence or non-existence of God. Such things are unfathomable and unknowable. Without certainty, all these rules, these rituals…all this guilt, stricture and moral absolutism disintegrates into vain absurdity. It is but a house of cards; hinged on conjecture and propped up with the complicity of sovereigns, knaves and fools. Beyond this toppling wonderland, I aspire for those finer sentiments of human nature and accept its innate diversity. A multiplicity that defines us, our world and the dreams that garland our heavens.’

Mother Lucretia rounded on her. ‘You’ve been guzzling communion wine, haven’t ye’?’ She screamed as she advanced towards her prey. ‘…no-good drunken trollop of a halfwit troll. How dare you defy me! I’ll make pork cutlets of ye’!’

‘Leave me alone, you monster!’  Sister Craven shrieked.

Whether it was her bloated, overfed body, her unduly agitated state of simply an act of God was indeterminate. Whatever, without warning, Sonia Lucretia O’Brien’s carotid artery imploded sending her sprawling to the floor in agony. Sister Craven could only gaze on in horror as her superior plunged into a dark and irredeemable oblivion.

© Edwin Black 2011