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