An hour or so 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 suede-effect gauntlets. Finally, seizing hold of the cleft stick, he ran to ground a snarling Mr Widdles in the corner of the nasty, dirty downstairs toilet in which he had succeeded in confining the little shit. —
Mr Roger Buggery, Mr Widdles
Vey much contented with these ruminations, Sir Hearty looked up from the Metal Bulletin tittle-tattle he had been perusing on the screen propped up next to the remains of the urchin’s haunch. In a not unpleasurable abstraction, he gazed along the length of the vey long and vey shiny oak dining table at which he sat alone and in state, to where the French windows gave upon a sunlit lawn patrolled by three or four pairs of gentlemen in vey sharp suits with submachine guns and guard dogs. It was all too delightfully perfect. Whither Arcadia, so transient and fleeting! The Second Law’s inexorability. All was vanity indeed which, when Sir Hearty came to think of it, bore a disconcertingly close relation to cant. Wherefore Sir Hearty Luncheon, who never did bear the cant, now forbore by effort of will to consider beauty’s transience or other similarly morbid abstractions. —
Cant, Sir Hearty Luncheon
As if on cue Lady Luncheon bustled in, and flopped down next to Sir Hearty. —
Lady Luncheon
An hour or two later, Mr Jagtar Singh presented himself at the door of a certain rather forlorn dwelling in Eastville. Said door being opened by the master of the house in question, Mr Jagtar Singh flourished an embossed envelope, and said. —
Mr Jagtar Singh
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