Francis MacMahon

…The narrator, one Tomalin, seeks out his girlfriend Francis in her rural retreat, but alas!

…and betook himself through the door in the wall into the parlour lying beyond, wherein as he surmised Mr Francis MacMahon was likely to be found attesting to the sadness of the postcoital state, in which state that disgusting old ogre might perchance prove susceptible to being coerced into one of Ianeass’s sacerdotal chess marathons.

Now from within emanated those cultured vowels immediately recognisable as belonging to Lady Snatch’s theatrical agent, Mr Francis MacMahon.

…and smaque addiqutes and more craque fumeurs, and numberless chaps who, each taking his turn in sequence after Mr Francis MacMahon - the inverter, which is to say perverter, of the motto “First come first served” - presumably enjoyed second, third, fourth etc etc dibs upon a wicket which must in its later hours have become so sticky as to be downright unplayable, and the air about His Lordship suffused…

…rogue who thus piddled on the sands as having been an utterly sociopathic and egregiously bibulous oenophile called Francis MacMahon, whose uncanny resemblance to Emperor Napoleon III was entirely of a piece with his tendency to nervous prostration in the back of the sedan garaged at the top of Snandrews Road, in which he had made his home. Mr Francis MacMahon scratched a living retailing certain choice Maghrebi gums and…

Mr Francis MacMahon, midstream now, chortled in the privacy of his cerebellum, and considered that there could be no harm, at any rate to his personal interests, in answering the question with one of his own.

…Skimpolish shiftlessness most grievously ponced off her; and necessitated moreover that she be much in the company of Mr Francis MacMahon, who applied himself most sedulously in the office of her Ladyship’s theatrical agent, which is to say pimporetto - an office which he very smartly combined with that of being the pharmacist by appointment to the household at … er …Squattocrat Towers. Ever was her Ladyship very badly in…

By a considerable margin, the most disgusting of the visitors to the Pierpont Morgan of Anchor Road were Mr Francis MacMahon and Lord Snatch, who sought an audience together. Concerning the latter, while he may not have been a barbarian by birth, he most certainly was one by adoption. For, much as William of Wykeham would have it that manners makyth man, so most assuredly and ineluctably doth the absence…

…delectation caused to be sent out to him from the kitchen of that place. True it was that Mr Francis MacMahon had dropped by in order to convert some of the red wine previously abiding in his coat pocket into the water just then gushing from his nub’s tip all over the children’s sandpit. Nevertheless, Mr Ian Corby was not in the least discombobulated by his erstwhile captor’s cataractal munificence,…

…Geronimo hath devised vollowing moy theft hov materials germanly to this wery purpose be hin the lock-up hov Mr Francis MacMahon, hup yonder hon Montypelly Hill. He be keeping them,” added the philosopher of Turbo Island Opposite the Ghastly Hipster, “hin ’is jalopy that his parked therein.”

…a corner of the room they shared, and he seemed quite beneath the notice of Lord Snatch. Even Mr Francis MacMahon, visiting to make solicitous inquiries about the health of Lady Snatch - withal, he brought to the bedside of that invalid no grapes or flowers - even Mr Francis MacMahon, in whom was distilled the acme and the essence of degeneracy, even Mr Francis fucking MacMahon looked with infinite…

…There was no loss of life whatsoever, for Lord and Lady Snatch, and also Mr Francis MacMahon - who was with that happy couple in virtue of keeping yet his close vigil over the convalescence of Her Ladyship - had ample warning of the conflagration, and were able to make good their escape in a most orderly fashion via the front door; while for his part, St Just was plucked…