Mr Crass Cheseham was vey little disposed to rejoice in the company of the personage who had been so good as to take the part of the troisième during the menage described in the preceding chapter of the present chronicle. 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 in question to introduce, into all the discourse in which he was called upon to participate, an admixture of postmodernist twaddle and vey slightly age-inappropriate millennial nonsense. In this connection, Mr Crass Cheseham had lately developed what may not without felicity be characterised as a Contemporaneous Traumatic Stress Disorder or Shallow Shock, whereby he was given to wincing and flinching and shuddering at the deployment by Dr Mark Wankstain of solecisms such as “triangulation” and “yeahyeahyeahyeah!” —
Dr Mark Wankstain, Mr Crass Cheseham, Contemporaneous Traumatic Stress Disorder or Shallow Shock
It was, on this account, with a certain quality of curmudgeonliness that Mr Crass Cheseham found himself, upon the afternoon following, entertaining that self-same gentleman at his place of business, Mr Crass Cheseham’s place of business being a generously proportioned former retail outlet cum warehouse, which was published to the world as the Fascist Dictatorship of Stokes Croft. —
The Fascist Dictatorship of Stokes Croft
The business upon which Dr Mark Wankstain was this day visiting Mr Crass Cheseham concerned the allegations raised by Mr Helix Folt regarding electoral malpractice on the part of Mr Wankstain’s agent Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole. Quite what Mr Wankstain personally made of the complaint of that eponymous gentleman, indeed quite what Mr Wankstain made of anything at all, was utterly mysterious, given the notorious disposition of that ejaculatory gentleman to prove, by such antinomies as he unfailingly mustered whenever there arose the necessity or indeed the opportunity of doing so, that up was down and that black was white and that falsehood was truth; in relation to which conundrum, the plausible conjecture must suffice us, that Dr Mark Wankstain was at bottom a gentleman given over to praxis rather than theory, who viewed the capacity for obfuscatory and contradictory twaddle vey much as a soft skill enabling him to get on in the world, or, as he might vey well have himself put the matter, a vehicle for his triangulatory propensities. —
Helix Folt
As the footsteps of Mr Helix Folt receded, Mr Crass Cheseham, gratifying the company with further winces and flinches and shudders, stepped aside to reveal, lounging on one of the nasty plastic chairs strewn about the place, a figure clad in immaculate but vey dirty tailoring. —
The nasty plastic chairs
Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole not unreasonably took this ejaculation as his cue and rose from his chair. —
Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole
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