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
