At length, a candidate acceptable and even agreeable to all parties was found: Guy Pigge, who was one of the personal trainers. Guy Pigge was undoubtedly everything a personal trainer should be. His functional illiteracy having in no way hindered his graduation with a Diploma in Sports Massage, he was toned, buffed, six-packed, and united in his person a particularly trying combination of over-familiarity, strong opinions and profound inarticulacy. Moreover, he bleached his gnashers, wore headphones round his neck on which he was fond of listening to modern r&b, rocked a daft haircut much in the manner of Virgil the Placemaker, and offered personal training sessions to both ladies and gentlemen. Complementing his full-body wax, he sported shaped eyebrows. Such effrontery of its own sufficed to consign this epsloot ponce to the whirlpool although it is beyond doubt that the jealousies and plain revulsion he quite generally inspired also entered into the equation. —
Guy Pigge
But these dissenting voices were abruptly silenced by somebody, Nero Cesare I think, giving Guy Pigge a shove. He floundered awkwardly into the jacuzzi, and stood in the middle, bending over slightly, hands clutched to his groyne. You could not look at the expression on his face without turning to stone. —
Nero Cesare
- Dio che pompinaro, said Nero Cesare over Guy Pigge’s tribal burps, oh well look, I not want to get drawn into debate with you Costa, but it does not matter, everyone really know deep down, even you, that quaint Edwardian compounds have no super-placebo effect when diluted beyond Avogadro’s Constant. —
Costa
- Guy Pigge didn’t have his full hour so this disgraceful little episode proves nothing, said Costa hotly, and if you didn’t want to get drawn into debate why rehearse your vicious and insulting anti-homoeopathy agenda yet again, it’s getting tiresome, as I’ve told you again and again, homoeopathy does work, and it works because of water-memory. —
Homoeopathy
- Oh bugger that, said Nero Cesare, the point is we need to get on and test my natural and organic method. John Virgil, kindly attend to Guy Pigge, I fear he is resorting once more to the recidivism. —
John Virgil
Even so, Nero Cesare never got his full hour of Guy Pigge either. Everyone kept a close eye on the sacrifice, and made sure that he stayed in that hot tub, at least until they got bored of staring at this narcissist who wanted to leave the pool. Then all the lifeguards and personal trainers and Kurts and Troys and Slovakian cleaners and elderly satyrs and uncouth louts and sexually ambiguous nymphs started drifting off back to their work or play. Petra Mountjoy swept out of there, Colloid sauntering after her with a sneer plastered across his prison face. Costa suddenly remembered a pressing engagement elsewhere, and Mr Luvvertory pled some kind of a fortiori principle on his own cognizance, and made himself similarly scarce. Virgil had evidently retreated to his windowless office. Eventually, after twenty minutes or so, the salon was deserted but for Nero Cesare and Stig O'Dump. The latter made an insultingly half-hearted attempt to restrain Guy Pigge when that personage inevitably gathered the pathetic remnants of his gumption and fled the scene again. At last the disappointed howl of Nero Cesare was to be heard echoing through the vaults and halls and salons and vestibules of Pex ‘n’ Quads: —
Pex ‘n’ Quads
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