We have always maintained that a healthy mixture of mammality and malevolence is desirable in a good [wet] nurse. On the latter score we recommend various facial characteristics redolent of the subfamilius murinae (in prosaic English – aka the apogee of your limitation: RATS). As a refined man*, we are sure that you appreciate the luxuriant sexuality of the rat is found not in the dualithic mass of the protruding incisor, but, conversely, in the delightful gap between the straw yellow teeth. On the former count we refer you to the immortal words of The Bloodhound Gang “[thus shewn to] us[,] them [sic] titties [italics ours]”. There are other lyrics to different songs, but none so cogent as those semi-intimated here. Do you notice the theme of our epistle yet, o’ Auteur? We are talking about pairs of things. (You do get pairs of other things – but they are not what we want to mean)
Three weeks or so ago I woke up. So far, so good. I walked to the village shop and bought Mars x1, 2l milk, newspaper. I was alright, though the itching in my left ankle was slightly discomforting. We didn’t care though, because we had sought help for the condition from the wise Auteur. We had begged him for advice, and all was sure to be cleared up, dermatologically and epistemologically.
Three days ago exactly, I woke up. I went to the village shop. I Went. Not walked. That pleasure is sadly denied to me since the operation. The relatively benign scabies which plagued us when we wrote our plea for help had metastasized into a rather more serious case of the gangrene. Even sour old Akela was so surprised by that turn of events that he let slip his vise-like grip which had held our cocks in limbo for a decade or so. I know that you, the Auteur, are expecting that I shall start writing about the new focus of this letter, things which are now singular. I am sorry Auteur, but I am writing about more pressing issues (for a full and pitiful story of the loss of the leg, see appendix 44ND12B), namely a debt which I hope to see repaid, and something which is now non-existant. Yes, such is the Societiy’s sad fate that it is now castrato. Let us explain.
I once watched a document[a]ry that said that pigeons were ‘rats with wings’. I deny this categorically. Pigeons are just pigeons. Now we got that straight we need to tackle the other problem of yours: weight. Your obesity has been tolerated by the police for over a week now only because they have been concentrating on our own areas of concern re. shirts. One of our junior members told us to wear shirts when we go scrumping, but our operations within this sphere have been curtailed recently. Where are the apples which were on the trees?**
Oh heck, sorry, I appear to have misread myself and suffered from a logical torsion. What I meant was ‘the other problem of yours: weight’, only with a total change of semantic emphasis. The problem is your weight in society ie the extent to which you matter, or can cause effects or consequences. In this regard, your obsolescence has been tolerated by the police for over a week now, but it remains a matter of indifference to them as much as it does to me. We however, despite our ambivalence, are less tolerant than Rozzer in the matter of our missing bollocks. Last week, at 3.34 pm (afternoon – is that correct?) we conducted the societal examination with our former wet-nurse (detailed by mother to make annual checks of hands, feet and “parts”). Although she was never explicit, we deduced from her facial contortions, as she put her hands over her nostrils and clamped them shut almost as one does to counter-balance noxious pungencies, that we were ‘a man down’ (I think you know (because you are a subtle bastard when it comes to bawdy talk) that we mean balls rather than ‘men’). At this point she was apolplectic with rage: what a nonsense we had made of the father’s rental of complex photographic equipment (ones that don’t use light) and invitaion to the spectators’ gallery of his most prized clients in the Sherry trade.
After the loss of the leg, locomotion has been something of a problem. When we go to the dogs (not really, go, just look at) we have to get a bus now, and because we don’t exactly know where to see the dogs, it takes a lot of riding around. Sometimes you have to nap on the bus when this happens, and the day of the incident was exactly like this – only we weren’t going to the dogs, we were going to the knacker’s yard. When we fell asleep, you weren’t on the bus. Remember that. When we woke up, you weren’t on the bus. How about the interim? Do you dare deny – even now as you move your mouth while you read this – do you dare deny that you were on the bus in this time? You weren’t on the bus when we checked, two times out of two. Soild gold truth, mate. So what, what are we to expect, that three times out of three, you weren’t on the bus. No, way, that’s a thousand to one shot, and what’s more, I know you were on the bus anyway because Deryl (a portmanteau of Derek and Daryl) told us. You were there, and you were fiddling in our pants for whatever you could get (if only you had looked in there the previous day – you may have been satisfied with the truffles and a quick feel (rationalize it as a ‘massage if you must, but there is no such thing as an ‘inside massage’, mam told us so)). I know that at that time, on the bus, the society were, respectively, dreaming of ‘Roy Jenkins riding a horse’, and ‘Roy Jenkins in a room without props’. I can therefore assure you, without reservation, that in both aspects the balls were unprotected from above by any flaccid member, and totally open to your nefarious theft. Going in through the fly is totally your M.O. What do we have now? A crime scene you visited, a witness, a motive, your profile. You had adequate opportunity to commit the outrage, and inadequate decency to leave innocent balls at rest. We have dusted our down-parts for finger prints and all we could smell was ‘Brut’ and eggs but we are proper detectives and have made casts. Once the plaster of Paris dries, we may even have you! (though without meaningful content, our bozaks’ reproductions will resemble little more than empty envelopes made from balding carpet (by the way, at what point do you think it’s appropriate to remove the incident tape from our thighs and pull our trousers back up?))
Well, because of your world-renowned ball-envy (it SCREAMS through your blog like a banshee on heat), we therefore prize you sir [read: madam] as our chief suspect in this ghoulish episode. We are even so sure that we are prepared to bypass your whole confession and concentrate on your repentance and focus on our restitution.
As you are doubtless by now aware, the societal balls are performatively useless. It doesn’t matter how carefully you tie them on a string, or how hard you shove them up your arse, they never vibrate. But a theft has occurred and a previous debt (we are too polite and proper to specify) exists, so we are calling it all in, or we are calling in the Old Bill, Father’s Bailiff, and Bill Roach. Here are our demands: precious semen: namely your famous sweet syrup. I know this is a difficult commodity to transport, and I know it is hard to preserve in perfect condition, but I have thought of a cunning solution.*** Please freeze one ice cube of this per day (it will save you from leaving it lying around the park in any case), and post it to societal H.Q., clearly labeled: ‘For Presidential Consumption Only’. Trust us when we assure you it will work out well. As strict Lacanians, we know the essential maxim “A letter will always reach its destination”. ****
* One capable, where necessary, of using MSN messenger.
** Do us a letter about how trees work. Address it to Claude or Claudette (your preference), 41 Rue d’Ponce, Chateau Petit-Prick, Paris.
*** Re: extraction, the thought of your penis appalls us (we are feminine in that respect), and we would rather you syringed it out of the testicle (not medically possible).
**** If you are concerned about the trustworthyness of the post, you are more than welcome to come to Societal HQ personally: the President is more than capable of touching his toes when necessary.
The loss of the leg came as a direct reproof to our folly. The season: autumn, the date: Wednesday. Feeling the pinch, we attempted to secure solace, comfort, heat and more importantly money from our local French Club. The French club is the fourth best club available (1, Quoits club; 2, Leek and Onion growers; 3, Methodist Hall Quoits team; 4, as above; 5, Handlebar and Harris Pub Quoits team). It boasts the following list of facilities which are rated as ‘Excellent’ in its own brochure: Floor, table (sans chairs), ambiance, and is popular with the quilt-makers’ guild of Spenny. The special speed dial for ‘999’ if anything goes wrong is ‘99’, saving crucial time. You already know we are not good with ‘9’s’, don’t you? You already knew that the past has been cruel and that future promises are even more intolerable. You didn’t lift a finger to help though. Your concerns stretch no farther than your ‘delete’ button, supposed purifier of the self-image.
I Hate Jean-Louis and Francoise. They constantly abuse my mint jar (humbugs and imperials especially) and often are found ‘making number two’ in my en-suite, just because I can’t speak funny like they and stepfather can. Their stools are loose and florid. I am always left out of games at mother’s house, or am reduced to the victim of a cruelty. Mother says I should learn French and put on the same cut of hat as these ruffians (beret). They can all go to poppycock as far as I am concerned. I am an Englishman and I wear a homburg. What to make of these brutes? When father says that mother is now ‘in the French club’, he always looks rather reproachfully at his top-trouser, as if his shifting position has made visible a tea stain. I haven’t seen him drink tea since the divorce papers came through.
You didn’t help us with the leg rash, so we had to turn to more dubious sources of succor. Is Dr. Oetker a medical professional? We had one of his pizzas and it gave us the runs, so we rang his helpline and a lady answerd. I don’t think lady doctors count as proper doctors, just like dentists because lady dentists are ok – they can manage at any rate. They asked us how we cooked it and we said “why” and they told us it was important they knew how it was prepared and we told them no, why would we cook it? Its not like there’s an oven in Lidl car park, down near the bench where you can cadge fags from the commuters at the bus stop. Or over in Matlock street where that empty lock up is sometimes left open and there’s a broken old mattress and some dustcovers someone used when painting. Who does this stuck-up bitch think we are? Trevor from the Black Bull, who once gave us a lift home and asked us in foir a cup of tea which he made from a proper kettle, like he was Little Lord Fauntelroy with his appliances? No, the hot tap in the bogs is fine for us and has been for ages. At least since the day the boss came in and told us we stank of gin and that he was “letting us go for our own good”. What does he know, I remember that it was vodka we’d been drinking that morning, though there was an incident with a traffic policeman which precipitated the need to eat a significant quantity of grass.
The grass came in thick and fast. Hour upon hour we engorged ourselves and felt delighted. We eventually broke free of the tethers self-imposed on us and the freedom afterwards left us with little else to do but read. Anyway, turned out that the lady told us the best place for the runs is in the toilet, or at least whatever ‘the runs’ make. Runnyness or something. We shouldn’t have done ‘stand-ups’, and really shouldn’t have left the trouser on. It was a bit like that thing which John the Butcher says when we ask him for some marrow bones for Ruprecht: piss up a rope. You can’t make it go up in the end, it always makes trickles. Well this whole thing was very bad for the legs apparently. The Presidential experience of IBS made us see the wood for trees. His day of revelation had come when he crucially mixed two metaphors: ‘Stand up in defiance’ and ‘shit or get off the pot’. Upon feeling the ‘need’ he elected to ‘Shit in defiance’ and ‘stand up in the pot’. The verruca on his left foot turned sceptic because of ‘poo germs’, and that’s when he started to walk with a slight limp. It’s not pronounced, but if you let him wander around a salt-plain or other open space he’d end up listing slightly to port and would go in a circle of radius approx 1300 yards. We once saw his todger you know. It was alright. After a furlong or two of this perpetual pirouetting of his, his left leg had becomed markedly shorter than the other.
Nurse is always the one who cleans us up before we have to go on the euro-train to visit mother. She was the one who, after scraping the brown matter of our lower body, discovered the miraculous ‘rainbow leg’ our lefty had turned into. I say rainbow leg, but I really mean it was green, though bits where the puss came out were a more yellowy green, and the bruises had turned a resplendent blue. She called papa down from his study to have a look. It seemed like this might have been the Christmas miracle we were hoping for, and that finally we would be allowed to come out on Christmas eve to the cristingle service with father. But as you doubtless know that maudlin brute is a creature of base habit and insisted we stay indoors whilst he performed the necessary surgery to ‘make do’. A haggling process begain instantly between nanny and father. He initially wanted to end it all and ran for his 12-bore, but Nanny managed to moderate him (by winking and offerering some services which we didn’t understand at the time (nor subsequently)) into settling for an amputation – the limb to be determined, after consultation from his medical books, by a game of TwisterTM. I think he might have shaved a bit off ‘willy’ while he was down there, because it doesn’t get big anymore, even when I think of mummy measuring the horse. The game was certainly rigged by nanny who has a certain speculative interest in us being immobile, the result was that the leg had to removed with immediate effect. That was the amputated leg.
PS: Where is your local tennis court? I’ve been promising Rueprecht my basset-hound somewhere decent to give voice to his bowels.