|Rene les Flames! on t'stereo:
Mommy & Daddy - What Is The Function?
Well hello there, gentle reader, and I must say it is rather nice to see you, as things have been damned quiet here at Wrath Towers of late, what with most of the merry troubadours being out "on the road", as purveyors of the modern parlance would fashion it. (A phrase which invariably summons images of that check-shirted lush, Kerouac; and though one always found him and his picaresque self-mythologising roman-a-clef masquerading as stream of consciousness spontineity ripped screaming from the bloody poisoned womb of modern America all very well, blast me, he hadn't an ounce of the sartorial panache of Burroughs. Don't you agree?)
I say, where was I?
Oh yes- the hollow, windswept corridors of Wrath Towers. The echo of my own footsteps in the vast, empty ball room; the rattle of rodent teeth on dust-caked gold- discs, and me, dressed for dinner, devoid of human company save the odd, hopelessly inebriated member of Galitza dribbling against the tapestries and bleating about the state of the music industry through lips stained green with bitterness and absinthe.
Morning brings no respite. Indeed, for all that the sun, that bold-faced slut of the heavens, means to me, it might as well be the very stygian extremis of an eternal howling midnight. I wander the deserted, electric pink boudoirs of The Scaramanga Six wing and find no solace in the assembled collection of rare medaeval inquisitorial devices. In the Incident's compound, Procktaur's inflatable hareem lies like a forlorn vista of unstuffed sausage casing. Meanwhile, twenty fathoms beneath the wine cellars, the 747 Laboratory flickers with a sickly green light, yet still there is no sign of life other than a hideously realistic wax model of Henri Les Flames, strapped to a steel table with wires protruding from his every orifice. Atleast, one rather hopes it's a model...Spit spot, there's only one thing for it. Handing a banana to Urko the lift monkey I am swiftly hauled back up into the inner recesses of the mansion, whereupon I make haste to my sanctum sanctorium, broach a bottle of champers and, weilding my letter openner like a razor-edged tulwar, have at this month's mail bag:
"Dear Lord Shuteye" writes a Ms Peacock, of Tadcaster, North Yorkshire, "I recently saw a BMW taking up only two parking spaces at my local supermarket. Is this a record?" Indeed it is, my dear, and I've taken the liberty of reporting your sighting to my good friend the Reverend Frank Lee Gullible, who's currently compiling a list of similar mysterious and unique phenomena in order to prove the existence of the Yeti, Big Foot and the BMW driver who's not a complete self-centred arrogant shitehawk.
Now, here's a name I recognise from my occasional paddles in the slime of the Wrath public forum, one Granville South of London, who enquires: "where can I purchase vegetarian wallpaper?" The problem is rather, Granville old chap, where can't one? Wallpaper is the poor man's oak panelling. A processed cheese slice compared to a matured truckle of Shropshire Blue, it smears the nation's interiors like graffiti befouls a public latrine. Avoid it, sir. A hundred weight of raw silk hangings and tasteful crushed velvet drapery will do the job just as well, and will not discolour when subjected to a nightly barrage of cigar smoke.
But Hark- I think I hear the sound of rubber on gravel. Could it be those gay vaudevillians returning from their exploits, or has Emma Bob Three taken the whip to the driveway again, in order to punish the very Earth for the bestial sins of patriarchy? Either way, it could be a long night...