The personage in question, who went by the nom de guerre ‘St Just’, was a close associate of Boyde, who was 13 in the Spartacist nomenclature, and it will be recalled that we have encountered this pair once or twice previously, on our forays down to Montypee, where they made it their business to loiter with the junquies and the drunques outside the pharmacy in the precinct at the bottom of Picton Street. I am given to understand that Mr Luvvertory sold them both quite a lot of quetamine, and that they were in consequence quite often dizzy, and also martyrs to bladder trouble. Being a thoroughly callow pair of idealists, they had been taken under the wing of Lord Snatch, and had very much enjoyed his hospitality during his residency at … er … Squattocrat Heights, a garishly daubed and structurally unsound edifice in the ‘Nam Road, where they tarried a while after Herod’s blind fury despatched that natural aristocrat, and where they read and propagated the ravings of Mao, Kim Il Sung, Pol Pot, Proudhon and Abimael Guzman, and were generally to be found at the forefront of the witless hipster riots which periodically racked that part of inner Bristol. They espoused a fervent wish to smash the system, withal they relied upon its benefits, these being supplemented by the generous stipends paid to them by their respectable and doting parents (concerning whom this is neither the first nor the last word on the matter – see below). Often to be found in the Old Disgrace, where they aspired to the disciplined vanguardism of the original St Just, they lacked the counterfeited gravitas required to pose and hold court there as charismatic eccentrics with big personalities, and were treated by those denizens of that place more practised in that fell artifice as civilians They were, in short, a very Dostoyevskian pair of twats. —
Herod, Squattocrat Heights, St Just
It so happened that the father of St Just was none other than that most sanguine fellow Gilles de Pantalon-Rouge, who as it might be bestrode the quarterdeck of Quads & Pex down like fuckin’ Easton. For all that gentleman’s sanguinity, the fruit of his loins was ever the source of anxiety and no little embarrassment to him, and the frustration of all the hopes which that fond parent had reposed in young St Just. On at least one previous occasion, it coming to the notice of Gilles de Pantalon-Rouge that the forces of lawn order had received intelligence of the preparation inside … er … Squattocrat Heights of Molotov cocktails, and were even then besieging that edifice with certain diverse Engines, that fond parent betook himself thereunto, and with a megaphone lent him by the rozzers did entreaty the apple of his eye to return to the bosom of his family; being sadly met upon the said occasion with the most foul execrations which the twat could devise. —
Molotov cocktails, Gilles de Pantalon-Rouge
The ceremony was due to begin, and I thought that I should dance attendance, for all that it was the most meaningless theatre of cruelty with which I had ever unwillingly associated myself. And so I made my way up the stairwell, not as yet this morning defiled by the aforementioned spoor, and pushed through the doors into the Spa Elysium. —
Spa Elysium
As I was considering these matters and turning them over in my mind, the awareness came upon me that all the coughing and whispering and the shuffling of feet and surreptitious farting had died down, and I had the presentiment that the ceremony was about to begin. And I saw Herod, dark of beard and stern of countenance, standing in his cantilevered coat. And he rubbed feverishly at the White Willy, as if he thought to produce a genie from that sedulously faked penis, to spring forth from that terrible white thing and do his bidding. I also saw St Just then. That youth ever did seek to give offence to the lares and penates of every hearth he crossed, and in no wise did he modify his behaviour at his own hour of reckoning. He had not stripped, had not donned the simple white shift which would have been condign. Rather, he slouched truculently in the habits of Stokes Croft. In particular, skinny jeans hanging halfway down his arse meant that all assembled there could see his pants; and sooth, when that miscreant at one moment bent over, we were rewarded with a singularly unedifying view all the way to Nebraska; moreover, it seemed very much as though there was glued to those pants an anciently encrusted version of the terrible Rorschach papillon which had so blighted Wanksy’s passage out of this world. There were those who upon scoping this egregious solecism strove not to add to it, but retched and gagged and endeavoured to keep their breakfast down by swallowing anew what vomit they could. —
White Willy
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