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.
White Goods
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.
Shag Pad
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.
6 comments:
Cool! You found a place?
When's the house warming? Expect lots of said buxom babes, and plenty of vermouth.
I love your writing. I think I have a cybercrush on you. Manboobs and all.
Ha! There's a pub in Putney called The Arab Boy, and we used to a LOT cos the credit card statement looks so good - 'Monday 25th, Arab Boy, £40'.
Anon,
*blush* why, thank you. You can read more of my ramblings at http://rhodes9094.blogspot.com
Re: The Hustler Mags - surely you mean "Garden & Home"?
Sadly buxom's are more likely to come on hire and purchase than useful hired help - but hey it might prevent the wank and the cry!! Looking forward to some burgundy in your sunken lounge
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