My name is Yoricks Bonksome and I’m a bit weed ‘orf as Her Majesty would say. I have had a terrible week. A man shouldn’t have to put up with it in the name of an honest day’s work. Now there is the rub. Honesty!
If I get accused of being a pathological liar, one more time, I will pop. Why can’t they use the proper name for it – mythomania sounds much better for a man with a degree in classics, and pseudologia fantastica, even better.
But ‘liar’ is a cheap shot. Of course I lie. I’m public school. Have you any idea what sort of a life you had under the prefect system, if you couldn’t think of a quick porky to assuage the smell of guilt around the dorm? You lied to save your arse and you can interpret that anywhichway you like.
Yes! We learned to lie at Fretton. It was viewed as an essential skill. It prepared us for our future careers in politics, or as a captain of industry when those trades union idiots got round the collective bargaining table and if you took a vain swish at a leaver outside off stump and got an edge, you weren’t going to trudge back to the pavilion without some sort of excuse by the time you got there.
Public School kids don’t lie all the time. An Eton Mess is genuinely a mess. That must put us some way onto the map of honesty.
Talking of maps, there we have another problem. It’s jealousy I think. Just because journalists can’t afford the most expensive real estate in the country, they mock. I can’t help living in Upper Bumble. Poor old Glove lives down the way in Lower Cackout. They are names – not descriptions and of course I know how many children I have sired.
There you go. A chap uses the oldest nod nod, wink wink, locker-room joke in the book and it offends some right of something for women who consider it something with sex in it. Well everything has sex in it. I thought we’d fucked that lot off the day we got rid of Jerkow as Speaker and now I’m pilloried for not having said 8, when asked.
8 offspring. Let me tell you what that costs in maintenance and then you’ll feel sorry for me. I don’t have to pay for them all because some gals – the more feisty ones I might add – took a lump sum straight after I’d unhitched my trousers from the bed post, but I pay for 4 at a thousand a month – £48000 a year on my salary of nearly £200 000 is a lot. If I pay full tax on that 200k I’m down to less than 100k after maintenance. And seeing as I took a whopping pay cut to be where I am now, people could show a bit of understanding for some of my other failings.
Don’t you think?
Category is flash fiction – fiction! This has nothing to do with anything real. All characters are figments of my imagination.
Clive and Eva La Pensée 