Ruin Nation Read Free Page B

he-be-she-be swine, I think to myself, let’s see how you like it! And I charge blindly upwards, yelling “Hello, sailor!” or something equally crass, and grab man-crotch. Or what I thought was man-crotch. And, as glass after glass shatters around us, I realise I’ve just floored my own wife.
    Now, like I said, I don’t make excuses. I state facts as I see them. You can’t go wrong with the truth, I figure. Stupidly.
    “I thought you were a transvestite.” It’s not the best hello. Her cheeks turn puce. She doesn’t shout. She never shouts. She hisses, and her angry words hit cold air and come out cloaked in steam:
    “I wore this for you . This dress! And now you tell me I look like a man in it?! I don’t know why I... I don’t know why I bother with you! I... I...”
    She’s now speechless with rage – for which we should be thankful because, as her voice rises up the register, it’s a danger to the eardrums. And all I’m thinking is, I’ve never said anything about the dress; I don’t think I’ve ever even seen the damn dress. And who are you? And where have you hidden the woman I loved?  But I’m a married man and our thoughts don’t count – as anyone, either side of the gender divide, will tell you.
    “Elton,” I begin, “allow me to introduce Rachel Jupiter. Or Rachel Bactrian-Jupiter when she likes to remind me she married beneath her. But, whatever convoluted combination of our names she’s using today, she’s my wife. Darling, this is Elton, from my old division. I patched up his intestines. Couldn’t fix his brain, though, and now he works in television.”
    “We’ve met,” she growls. “Many times. But you’d be too drunk to recall.”
    In fact, perhaps I do remember. I have a brief recollection of introducing someone as The Queen of The Damned and saluting. She turns to Elton.
    “How long have you been here?”
    Elton snaps to attention in a passable imitation of sobriety and, suddenly, I look like the drunk.
    “Not long,” he says.
    “So why’s he... why’s he acting up ?” And she turns that gorgon gaze upon me. “Child,” she whispers under her breath.
    “I don’t know,” he says, the traitorous bastard, pointing his bleary eyes in my direction, shaking his head. “Don’t ask me,” he goes on, “’E’s been in a funny mood all day!”
    Rachel harrumphs once or twice, indicating all chance of reconciliation is over and that it really is time for a divorce. And some old cove in the background’s bemoaning young people, saying that it’s a shame they can’t behave themselves these days. And suddenly I’m aware that the whole bar’s looking at me. And they’re all shaking their heads. 
    “I…” I start, but it’s useless. Because there’s nothing I can say. And nobody likes a whinger.  
     
    That’s enough of me for now. Let’s head back to 10 New Downing Street:
    Faded wallpaper with a disturbingly symmetrical flower pattern – peer closely and it looks pleasingly like a vagina; dim, dusty bulbs in ornate brass up-lighters; an aspidistra plant on a marble plinth; a man being drowned in a turquoise washing-up bowl; a highly polished mahogany table and, reflected in its surface, the fine features of Humboldt Bactrian.
    Bactrian is all you could ask for in a Prime Minister: his words are true and his heart is stout. His handshake is firm. He has a winning smile and a charming personality. He’s also everything you can deplore in a human being, for his true words are often brutal words and that stout heart is as black as coal. His hands have killed. His dick has whored. His ego is colossal, as is his size. His affability and enthusiasm are chemically induced and he sweats accordingly. His plummy vowels drip poisoned honey. And the fact you can’t dislike him makes him very, very dangerous. He holds the most powerful position in the country but, strangely, has no power at all. He’s the mouthpiece for Malmot’s Military junta.
    Malmot is rapier