Seven

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from: richardvhirst@acemail.com
to: martintrhiggins@acemail.com
sent: 10.02.10 at 04:58 pm
subject: RE: Hello!

Hey Martin,

As you can see, I’m up early this morning. Not for any particular reason: my sleep was interrupted by yet more David Blunkett nightmares. This time I dreamt I’d managed to trap him inside a jar of mayonnaise but he was using a pair of genetically altered arms -a masonry drill-bit on the end of one, a mad basking shark on the other - to bore his way out whilst giggling like a tickled cretin.

Sorry to hear about you and Veronica breaking up. That’s terrible news. But, as you’d probably gathered, I was never a massive fan of hers and I do kind of think you’re going to be better off without her. But still. I don’t imagine sleeping in French Tony’s bath is exactly a whole load of fun. At least you can get some much-needed peace and quiet. Does Tony still live in that tiny flat above the pneumatic drill museum? And does he still breed those Croatian Shrieking Lizards in his toilet cistern? Is he still hosting those late-night primal-scream and shotgun-practice therapy sessions? Of course you can come down and visit me whenever you want. As long as you don’t mind sharing a sofa with a tramp - Virgil’s still hanging round my place till the bonus cheque from his gang comes through for him to put an deposit payment down on a luxury penthouse apartment in Pelmet Heights. Don’t worry though - Virgil won’t interfere with you! Ha ha lol ha! (Seriously though, he has done a stretch for violent sexual assault fairly recently, but I’ve had no problems with him. Not really.)

I didn’t really want to tell you this, but this seems like as apt a time as any to come clean: Veronica once made a pass at me. It was about eighteen months ago. Remembered when I was round at your place with Dog-Patter Geoff for our fortnightly Malibu And Guess Who ‘poker-evening’ and I borrowed your dvd of City Slickers 2: The Legend Of Curly’s Gold? Just as I was leaving I said I’d bring it back next time I was over to which Veronica replied: ‘No need for that. Just post it through the letterbox.’ Understand? See what I’m saying? Just post it through the letterbox. Get it? It’s pretty unambiguous, right? Clearly she meant ‘just post it through my letterbox.’ The ‘letterbox’ in question clearly being her groin-slot, the ‘it’ requiring postage being my throbbing chapwand, and the act of ‘posting’ being a few minutes of trouserless and semi-rhythmical jiggling mayhem. It might sound like I’m projecting a meaning onto this insignificant-sounding little statement she patently didn’t intend, but it was there - in her tone, in her coyly standoffish body language, in the way she glared at me when she said it. A palpable level of disgust registered on her face when she looked at me. Was she disgusted because I’d just triumphed after you and Dog-Patter Geoff had dared me to eat a tube of Pringles using a full family sized tub of Flora as a dip? Or was she so turned on by the thought of me making love to her right there, amongst the empty marge-tubs and Pringle-lids, that the prospect of it not happening there and then disgusted her? The answer seems pretty obvious: she was what I believe is medically termed ‘gagging for it.’ ‘It’ once again being my erect memberstick. But before you go mental Aunt Maggie’s and start smashing apart her fax machine with pork-chops and copies of Razzle like some kind of nihilism-age Othello, just let me just state emphatically that I didn’t take her up on the gymnastical sexual wizardry that was clearly on offer. I just left and, a couple of days later, literally and non-erotically popped the actual dvd through the non-euphemistic letterbox. I don’t want you to get the idea that I’ve got an inflated sense of my own sense of magnetism or anything, but the only reason I’m telling you all this is because I think it maybe has something to do with the problems you and Veronica were obviously going through of late. I literally can’t imagine what being turned down by me would do a woman’s mind: Christ only knows what witless fuck-donkeys she turned to in her squalid hunt for a sex-shag.

Anyway, never mind all that, right? You’re free! Free! Free! I gather men are normally encouraged to think of the abrupt conclusion to an intimate relationship in this way: free! Said repeatedly with an exclamation mark on the end. You can do all the things you’ve always wanted to do: setting up that roleplay society to enact the woodland battle scenes you always said should have been in Basic Instinct, teaching football at the local cattery, making tiny effigies of Joanna Lumley from dehydrated porridge so you can repeatedly live your dream of watching her dissolve when you put them in hot milk. You could even make your move on Marigold Globfash now. You always had a bit of a thing for her, right? I know the fact she had rather a large testicle growing out the side of her nose is a bit off-putting, but she’s got a great sense of humour. And all the doctors were in total agreement that any rogue man-hormones were almost definitely safely contained within the unsightly Sid James and she was, therefore, all woman, legally speaking.

Things here are more or less the same: work is now a routine, soul-withering experience, the initial novelty having pretty much totally worn off. I’m starting to think I might even look for some other employment. On the plus side, know that girl Agatha I mentioned? The one I kept trying to talk to but instead of normal, human words all that came out was medieval tactical military history of the Middle East? Somehow I’ve arranged a date with her. Don’t ask how - the whole thing was agreed whilst my mind was lost in a fug, listening to myself list the reasons behind Basil II’s initially successful attempt to conquer the Balkans. Before you say anything, I know! I’ve jumped both backwards in time from Kublai accepting Planocarpini’s papal visit to the eleventh century- I’d hoped that, by now, I’d at least got as far Chu Yüan-chang establishing the precedence of Ming dominance over the Mongol regions - and geographically: what the hell am I doing in the Balkans?! I'm out of my depth. Anyway, by some miracle a date was arranged for next week. Wish me luck!

Richard











PS: Funny about French Tony speaking French. Are you sure that’s where his name comes from? I could’ve sworn it came from the fact that he looks like French toast. You’ve got to admit he does look a lot like French toast.