Dr Mark Wankstain

Sad to relate, Dr Mark Wankstain is inescapably puny. No more than five foot six or seven in his Cuban heels, and sporting a hideously flared three-piece brown suit. Up at her he smiles one of those effeminate, mannered Henry James smiles. The thought, unbidden and unwelcome, assails his mother: a ponce. I brought into the world a ponce. This, with an effort, she pushes to the back of her…

The Wankstain luggage crouches beside him on the gravel: two branded suitcases - Giovanni di Smegma or some such.

But Dr Mark Wankstain, now in the vestibule, is of a sudden aflutter.

For his part, Dr Mark Wankstain tolerated this imposition with his customary equanimity; and when, vey late that night, he finally returned to the familial bungalow in Mangotsfield, it was with the consciousness of having gleaned from the tsunami of his uncle’s verbiage at least one nugget, namely that Uncle Curmudgeonly felt a profound personal distaste for Mr Crass Cheseham.

…Arrogation never had been I’ll wager you that Bristol never had been been graced with the presence of Dr Mark Wankstain putting himself forward in the Conservative interest for Montpelier, nor would Mr Crass Cheseham have become the drinking partner of a gentleman in the unique trade of supplying … er … interns to dignitaries of the left establishment.

In truth, Dr Mark Wankstain has strained himself vey little in arriving at a perfectly sound if somewhat limited understanding of the state of relations between his mother and the two gentlemen. And it has to be said that his findings discompose him vey little, for Dr Mark Wankstain is of the tribe of the morally indolent. Transgressions of whatever fleshly or fiduciary or financial nature appear to Dr Mark…

There being no ready riposte to this observation, a silence falls over the company. Dr Mark Wankstain makes of his fingers a church steeple, and occupies himself with the important business of chuckling silently at certain private amusements. Seated by his side upon that cheap and dirty divan, Mr Crass Cheseham stares miserably and beseechingly at the outer labia of Mrs Gamina Dročerpyatova-Buggery who, perched for this precise purpose upon…

…Much as it was entirely understandable that one such as Mr Cheseham should resent the egregious Wankstainian tendency of interposing himself between a fellow and the public trough at which the fellow was accustomed to sup, his habitual anomie was given an extra and, if Mr Crass Cheseham had been disposed to be more frank with himself than he ever was, not unwelcome savour by the eagerness of the gentleman…

…of Mr Crass Cheseham, and then, recalling the recent orgy, replaces them with the altogether daintier qualities of Dr Mark Wankstain.

…That his fellow Garter snake Sir Hearty Luncheon should also be sponsoring Dr Mark Wankstain as the Candidate in the Conservative interest is likewise of no concern whatsoever to Sir Ezra Tertiary-Syphilis. For Sir Ezra prides himself on his professional discretion, and does not go beyond the bounds of his designated role, viz. to helicopter in daily and stand, or at least pose, as the Candidate in the Whig interest.

…that Holy Ghost a Father in the form of Mr Tad Curmudgeonly and a Son in that of Dr Mark Wankstain. The Gospel according to this Trinity had proven to be a confused, contradictory, warped affair. The Holy Ghost would monosyllabically grunt his command that a hapless Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole perform X, the Father becoming brusque and choleric would demand X’s undoing, the Son with his maddeningly cheerful “yeahyeahyeahyeah!” and…

One morning a few days later, Dr Mark Wankstain breakfasted at home in Mangotsfield with his darling Mummy and Daddy. This represented something of a departure from his normal routine, according to which he rose with the larks, languidly indulged five minutes or so of alarmingly frank yoga, followed by a second similarly brief interval of frankly alarming ablutions performed according to an obscure and recondite system of, one can…