Mr Roger Buggery

Mr Roger Buggery has attained such an age and station in life as to find it advantageous, or failing that expedient, or failing that completely normal, to present to the world the demeanour - which is to say, if speaking frankly, façade - of the sort of defrocked priest who, no matter how vile and cringing and abject in person, is nowhere to be seen without his knuckledusters. It is…

Some hours later, Mr Roger Buggery, by this juncture no longer trouserless - tantum gaudiamus! - and being once again prostrated upon his nasty, dirty chaise longue in the middle of the sea of feminine underthings, re-read for the thousandth time his nasty, dirty little speech, all the while doing his utmost to ignore the spasms by which his shambles signified their protest at the indignity lately inflicted upon them…

Nobody amongst the extensive acquaintance of Mr Roger Buggery knows quite what to make of his imbroglio with Ms. Gamina Droçerpyatova, save that it is really rather nasty. The widespread and, it bears remarking, entirely reasonable assumption is that he picked her up in some dirty little bordello somewhere, although opinion divides as to whether the somewhere in question was Semipalatinsk or Solihull.

“Chill,” intoned the disembodied voice of Mr Roger Buggery nastily, “like if like the like revolutionary like vanguardist like examines like constructivist like discourse, yeah?” and here drew breath, before adding, “like chill. Like she or ze or like he is like faced with like a like choice, yeah? Chill. Like chill. Like either like accept like fuckin’ like neodialectic like desublimation, yeah? Or like conclude that like fuckin’ like…

…In this latter respect, it is more and more Mr Roger Buggery who, having been vey nastily supplanted by Mr Rex Anusol in the affections both of Ms. Amelia De’Ath and of the Senior Cadre Intimate Needs Commissariat, finds himself in his turn - and considerably more nilly than willy - vey nastily supplanting Mr Widdles in the affections of Lady Luncheon.

“Chill,” whispers Mr Roger Buggery nastily, nastily framed in dawn’s wan light, “oh it’s you,” and just as nastily, “chill,” and with comparable nastiness, “not altogether whom I was expecting,” and finally and with the utmost nastiness, “peace.”

…of application having rendered Lady Luncheon’s handbag not intolerably grubby and malodorous, although it was still rather nasty, Mr Roger Buggery once more wrapped the grubby t-shirt round his nasty face and replaced the nasty perverted-looking safety goggles upon his nasty fishy eyes. Then he slipped back into his nasty dirty overcoat, and lowered the nasty dirty crash helmet over his nasty old head, and pulled on the nasty dirty…

Upon the morrow Mr Roger Buggery, purposing to enjoy a brief respite from the claws of his Grimalkin, was early down to breakfast. As he with a furtive and undignified gusto slurped his bowled congelation of Cheerios, he became aware of a quiddity, the uncompromising physicality whereof was even then imposing itself upon the gluteal portion of his anatomy. Thereupon, breaking off his gustation and hazarding to dip two fingers…

The hiatus is foreclosed by, inevitably and nastily - and it is, inevitably, nasty - the entry of Mr Roger Buggery.

In this chamber, as Stalin looks down his nose at them, Mr Crass Cheseham and Mr Roger Buggery dance an exceedingly loathsome and furtive and skulking pas de deux around one another’s sublimely hypocritical susceptibilities. Mr Crass Cheseham flinches and winces and shudders at the reiterated utterances and ejaculations to which Mr Roger Buggery is given of tokens such as “like” and “fucking” and “Tory Jew”, bookended inevitably with his…

As will be readily apprehended from the paragraph foregoing, Mr Roger Buggery was upon this morning in an excellent mood. His anxiety - itself always and necessarily ambivalent - regarding the cuckolding propensities of his dearly beloved, was more than offset by the windfall boon of being for the present time at least spared her objurgations. The dilemmas and imbroglios, which during the long dark night of the arsehole had…

Upon the departure of Mr Tad Curmudgeonly, Mr Roger Buggery had fallen into what in a more elevated personage might have been accorded the dignity of being described as a brown study, but which in the case of Mr Roger Buggery amounted to nothing more than a pissy funk, notable only for the quality of its nastiness.