I am moving house. The leaking, lop-sidedly listing scow of a digs I’ve been living in for the last eight years has been sold, so the hounds and I are heading to greener pastures. I’m packing my meager possessions: bed, kettle, and a pile of brutally frank ’70s Hustler magazines that informed my formative years and have been treasured ever since I stole them from Andrew’s dad’s attic in 1988.
Household necessities like a fridge, stove, and pliant Moroccan boy cost money. And to add insult to injury, I am reliably informed that Moroccan boys don’t come on hire purchase.
My new flat has a sunken lounge, spiral staircase and a drinks cabinet the size of Westminster Abbey. I plan to spend my days lounging about suave as David Niven, in a cravat, smoking jacket, and reading Somerset Maugham. Nights shall be spent in the more louche smoking lounges of my new leafy high street, trying to snare buxom young fillies with my jovial, urbane bon mots, lashings of pomade, and tweed three pieces. If experience is any teacher, these nights will end alone, with a wank and a cry.