Temptations of the Flush (Act II)

Act II - Hollow Throne

Characters:

CARDINAL BERTILLONI – senior administrator, Vatican City.
CARDINAL SODOMIA – financial advisör and chinwagger.
POPE RIGHTVINGER – outgoing pope.
POPE FRANCO – incoming pope.
CARDINAL FELATITTIO – screaming queen.
SIGNORE GARIBALDI – mafioso boss and utter cad.

* * *

In a sumptuous anteroom within St Peter’s Basilica, a coterie of cardinals thronged about a dais endowed with a peculiar throne…

‘It’s most improper I say,’ Cardinal Sodomio lisped agitatedly to his counterpart amid a general hubbub of gossiping and conniving. As if to emphasise his point he wobbled his clammy jowls disapprovingly. ‘I mean, this hasn’t been part of Curia protocol since the Middle Ages. It’s outrageous.’

‘Indubitably,’ Cardinal Bertilloni concurred noncommittally, ‘a travesty even by his standards.’

‘I mean really, who’s going to hide something like that under their bushel anyway?’ Sodomia grumbled. ‘And besides which, why in God’s name are we still waiting, hmm?’ He attempted to elevate a hefty, squat frame onto tiptoe and peer over a polka-dot pimpling of zucchettos.

‘God knows’. Bertilloni elongated a hoary neck and reconnoitred the entrance. ‘Still no sign of them,’ he reported back, glancing at the time again.

‘Well, I suspect it’s the Emeritus holding things up – Rightvinger,’ His rubicund associate muttered conspiratorially behind a sleeve. ‘In fact, I have it on good authority he’s awaiting delivery of some state-of-the-art wheelchair…complements of Fritz von Vinkel no less.’

‘Oh really?’ Bertilloni shot his accomplice a quizzical look. ‘You mean the new holier-than-thou dickwad heading up the IOR*?’

‘Oh, so you’ve met him?’ Sodomio responded with a rhetorical air.

‘Met him? Oh I’ve met him alright.’ Bertilloni sneered. ‘But he’s evidently not acquainted himself with us. He hasn’t stopped bellyaching about möney laundering for the Garibaldi fämily and payoffs to all those bum-boy blackmailers since he arrived. And now he’s whining about donations to far-right terror groups. Last I heard he was poking around the catacombs trying to locate that shipment of Nazi gold from Croatia. Honestly, one wonders why the prick even took the job if he had scruples.’

‘Ah well, perhaps he’ll find a suitable bridge to dangle himself from like the other guy, hmm? Well, with a little helping hand from Signore Garibaldi, naturally.’

‘We’d best give him enough rope then.’ Bertilloni muttered scathingly. He glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time. ‘So what’s all this about a wheelchäir?’

Sodomia cast his eyes askance then sidled closer to his associate. ‘Well, Vinkel’s previous employer used to build battleships for the Nazis. But they were also involved in covert wartime research. Vinkel got wind of this and managed to lay his hands on blueprints for the ‘Kriegvagon’. It’s combat-ready wheelchair. Turns out the Third Reich planned to station homicidal heaven-dodgers on the Western Front. Anyway, I hear Rightvinger’s expecting delivery of a prototype.’

‘God help us all,’ Bertilloni groaned.

‘Quite,’ Sodomia commented. ‘So what do you think of our new heavenly-harbinger?’ he quizzed, scratching listlessly at a heavily perspiring arse-cleft.

‘Pope Franco? Not much. I mean the only reason that bastard got in was down to the spoiler-effect on my own candidacy,’ Bertilloni seethed. ‘I was deliberately scuppered from the outset.’

‘Why am I not surprised? I mean, if the swines can’t build their own little empires they gang up and put their weight behind the weakest candidate. That way they can wheedle more grace and favour,’ Sodomia reflected. ‘But then pettiness and pharisaism are among the few causes that actually unite us.’

‘True,’ his counterpart murmured, staring impassively into the middle distance.

‘But what of God’s choice, I wonder?’ Sodomia ventured with more than a trace of irony.

‘Who..?’ Bertilloni said distractedly, ‘…oh, him. Frankly, I think he favours a laissez-faire approach don’t you? …Prefers to leave it to his temporal agents to wade into those stygian depths of politics and human folly.’

His counterpart nodded in agreement and glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Well this is intolerable,’ he hissed. ‘Where the hell is he?’

Belated but on cue, the doors swung outwards. Pope Emeritus trundled grandly into the hall in full ceremonial finery and on an enormous whining, whirring contraption - evocative of a lunar landing vehicle. He caused some of the cardinals to start as he cut a meandering swathe towards the platform. Following him, an entourage led by his strutting successor clad in a simple white smock.

Hydraulics hissed as Rightvinger awkwardly wheeled about face to his audience. With the flick of a switch his seat elevated until he was nigh on pulpit-level.  ‘Welcome, my…ah…ah…esteemed cardinals,’ he announced in a warbling German accent. ‘We must be succinct for once, since our new pope-elect here, Pope Franco, wishes to conclude matters swiftly. So without further ado, we wish to inform za Curia that we have reinstated the sedia stercoraria - as you will observe.’ He motioned towards the hollow-bottomed wooden seat.

‘As you are no doubt aware,’ he went on, ‘those plotting revolutionaries among za fräulein species will stop at nothing to infiltrate our ranks. After due cogitation, we decided to safeguard against the possibility of a lady-bottom ever contaminating the seat of Saint Peter. Of course, we must never permit zis effrontery. Accordingly we have made provision, henceforth, for all appointees to undergo za test. A test that, without wishing to seem vulgar, will ensure nature has endowed the candidate elect with the prerequisite (if redundant) trappings of office.’

There was a hussed titter amongst the assembly. A hand shakily arose from the ranks.

’Yes? ’ The outgoing pope called out, inclining his head down towards the inquirer.

‘Um…what, precisely… does that mean your Holiness?’ A doddery, rheumy-eyed cardinal piped up.

Momentarily, the Rightvinger became introspective. ‘Err…what it means, is zat the investiture will observe with tradition; graced below waist and yet bereft of a cleft.’

‘But I don’t….’ the rather befuddled questioner began to splutter and attempted to hawk up some phlegm. ‘I don’t… (ahem-ahem) …understand…?’ he gurgled.

Rightvinger glared at him. ‘Good God man is it not obvious? Our pope must demonstrate he’s enhanced with a lance…adorned with a horn… y’know…a wrinkler with a sprinkler? Is it so hard to grasp? I mean, should we now question God’s divine misogyny? Certainly not! Zis is why his temporal representative must be replete with a meat and have za knob for the job.’ His expression pacified somewhat as his gaze flitted to a canvas of the Virgin Mary. ‘In short my good cardinals, we wish to guarantee that those who ‘amen-us’ are packing za penis.’

‘Ah…hmm…I think…I understand,’ the muddled prelate burbled as look of relief finally ranged across his features. ‘So we uphold the testicles in our vestibules and keep the testes in our vestries. And I suppose, similarly, one might maintain a throbbing-gristle to preach the epistle?’

Rightvinger glowered at him but before he had a chance to vent his spleen he was forestalled.

‘Oh!’ the cardinal exclaimed, ‘oh dear…if you will kindly excuse me gentlemen…I think I need to power my nose.’ With that, he lurched and shambled towards the exit awkwardly. The gathering afforded him a wide berth.

‘If we may proceed?’ Rightvinger growled, scowling at a muddy discolouration that had mysteriously appeared on the rich Persian carpet. He twiddled a joystick and turned himself to his victorious successor. ‘Now, if you will be good enough to mount za chair, yes?’ As he fidgeted a muffled trump emanated from the base of his Kriegvagon, swiftly followed by a sluicing sound and then the whoosh of air. ‘You will of course excuse us, gentlemen,’ he muttered nonchalantly, ‘it was merely a little effluvia.’

In stark contrast to his self-effacing public performances, a cocksure Pope Franco mounted the platform and with all the imperious bearing of an emperor. He and hitched up the back of his smock as far as modesty would allow and lowered himself into a reclining position. ‘We are ready,’ he stated simply as he shifted uncomfortably.

Rightvinger turned to the assembly. ‘Now, we require a candidate to undertake an inspection of za ‘hanging fruit’. Do we have a volunteer…anyone?’

A tall, gaunt figure began willowing towards the front ‘Ooh, ‘scuse me dear… can I just squeeze by… I believe this is where my services are required…’

As he sidled up to the front row he was unceremoniously barged aside by a rival of vastly superior girth who then bulldozed his way to the fore.

‘Oh no you don’t dear! I’m ‘aving some o’ that,’ the man-mountain spat viciously at his rival. ‘Coming through!’  He announced, lolloping up to the dais.

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen…there’s no need to fight,’ Rightvinger admonished. He eyed the forerunner severely. ‘Hmm, Cardinal Felatittio - what a surprise,’ he muttered sardonically. ‘Good. I think we are ready. Cardinal, if you would be so good as to-’

‘Just tell me how you like it your Holiness,’ Felatittio butted in as he rubbed plump hands together gleefully.

‘Just get on with it!’ the reclining pope bawled angrily.

‘Ooh yes your holiness. With pleasure your holiness,’ the corpulent prelate gushed and simpered. ‘I believe I know what I’m doing here.’ He lowered himself clumsily onto a supplicant knee and promptly slid a fat arm upwards between his prey’s legs. In moments he began to grapple at something fleshy.

‘Oouff!’ Pope Franco howled. ‘That’s my fuh…haark…king haemorrhoid you bumbling imbecile!’

‘Oops, sorry dear,’ the grovelling cardinal apologised. He abased himself further in an attempt to peer up the skirt. After a series of ungainly pulsating motions, reminiscent of a floundering dungong, he finally caught sight of his quarry. ‘Oo-ooh! It’s a big one too!’ He announced shrilly from under the smock.

There was a subdued ripple of applause among the audience.

Meanwhile, Cardinal Felatittio inched further in, hoping to give the holy sceptre a worshipful gobble on the sly.

However his plan was thwarted by the eagle-eyed Rightvinger. ‘Will you desist from your wanton bootlicking!’ he thundered from on high. ‘Halt I say, we command you!’

The beached-walrus-of-a-cardinal peered out from under the smock whilst cupping the pope’s testicles lovingly. ‘Sorry your Holiness, but I wanted to be unequivocal, y’know dearie…I mean your Holiness…?’

‘Get your hands off me you abominable wretch!’ Pope Franco bellowed. He extricated himself from the unwelcome tryst and hoisted himself up. He then glared up at Rightvinger. ‘He just tried to play dingdong with my bell-end!’

‘Well there’s not much chance of that flaccid thing chiming is there sweetheart…?’ Cardinal Felatittio bitched as he clambered to his feet and waddled back to join the onlookers.

‘Good. Matters are concluded.’ Rightvinger announced. ‘Thank you gentlemen. I’m sure we all wish my successor well in his enthronement upon the holy seat of Saint Peter. May Almighty God shower him with his blessings. In nomine Patris et fillii…yada-yada.’ He lowered his chair and bade his successor follow him to his private quarters.

As the congregation dispersed and formed into gossiping enclaves, Bertilloni slunk off and passed through the Sistine Chapel. Momentarily he gazed up at Archangel Michael reading from the book of the damned. Saint Michael…the cardinal mused…who thrust into hell those who prowl the world seeking the ruin of souls...wielder of the sword of God, herald of judgement… He slunk into an alcove and withdrew a cell phone.

‘What is it?’ A gruff voice growled at him.

‘We have a problem,’ he murmured, ‘there’s been another ‘mishap’…an archbishop, no less.’ There was a long pause. The cardinal stared into the gloom with icy, deadpan eyes.

‘So what do you want me to do about it…ah? You handle operations. I supply the boys and girls, you supply the premises…remember?’

A conflagration of anger engulfed Bertilloni. He struggled against an impulse to deface a nearby depiction of the Resurrection. ‘Did you order the hit?’

‘Who’s asking? Who is that? You asking me?’ came the menacing retort. ‘You asking me who I choose to waste and who I choose to don’t waste? Hey you must be out of your fuckin’ mind buddy! Listen, I don’t give a shit about them pious perverts who patronise your whorehouses. This is strictly business, ah? So long as they gimme the dough, I don’t give a fuck if they’re banging the maggots outta’ their own dead grandmother.’

Bertilloni took his crucifix and stabbed at the mural. Fragments of plaster fell as he gouged at the eyes of the Creator.

‘Hey, you there? Where d’you go…?’

Bertilloni became placid. ‘It would appear we have an assassin in our midst. And he’s receiving help.’

‘So what? You think I got some hidden agenda or somethin’? You think I wanna wind up operations now, while all the dough’s rolling in? Hey, now that would be goddamn sacrilegious right?’

‘The point is someone’s onto us!’ Bertilloni snarled. ‘Two cardinals executed in the same place is hardly an act of God!’ He exhaled slowly in an attempt to curtail his rage. ‘I think it’s Fritz von Vinkel. He’s too interested in those bank transactions.’

‘Well maybe he’ll find himself hanging under Blackfriars Bridge like that other prick, Calvino, ah? Oh yeah, I’m sure you appreciated the irony of our choice of bridge given your Dominican business ventures, eh cardinal? Anyway, he was about blab to that bitch reporter he was banging so we had to waste him fast.’

‘Listen Garibaldi, the spotlight of the world is on Rome right now. I’m not sure if I can pull the veil over another ‘accident’.’

‘I told you not to use my motherfuckin’ name Bertilloni! Are you fuckin’ nuts? Okay, tell you what; let’s say I get one o’ my crew to sniff around…check out a few places…ah?’

‘I need this sorted.’

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever. Hey, I said I’d look into it, right? Period.’

The phöne went dead.

The cardinal’s searing gaze fell upon a scroll adorning the defaced fresco it read: ‘Deus videt omnia’; God sees everything. He drew out a marker and scrawled furiously over it: ‘Deus est forsit manu temptans’;

- God is probably short-sighted.

* Institute for the Works of Religion (Vatican Bank).

© Edwin Black 2013

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