The Day of Reckoning had arrived. The dry whispering bones of hipster exceptionalism were at long last to be dressed in the reifying flesh of the Montpelier plebiscite. The Flake Nut, the Old Disgrace, the York Road Buggerfuck, and the Startling Farter had all been commandeered to serve as polling stations - withal, the thrusting upon these excellent institutions of so singular an honour had in no wise prompted them to leave off the day’s sale of fortifying liquor. For this reason inter alia, Superintendent ‘Gloucester’ Oldspot, acting in his capacity as Area Commander, had petitioned the Justices of the Peace and the Aldermen in the Council Chamber, and had sought and obtained leave from those estimable ladies and gentlemen to suspend our faubourg’s status as a designated yobbery, in order that he might summon the assistance of the Newport Constabulary and, if necessary, that of other Constabularies of the Principality, in the anticipation that the Montpelier beat officer Constable Wifebeating-Cokehead would find himself overwhelmed by the behaviour of the over-indulged brats of the parish. —
Superintendent Oldspot, Montpelier, Constable Wifebeating-Cokehead
Persons drawing open their curtains as dawn broke that day were presented with a decidedly mouldy welkin suppurating a slimy and ubiquitous fluid. This, as the wags termed it, Bristol particular was quietly welcomed by Superintendent Oldspot and his counterparts in the civil and judicial authorities, these personages apprehending that the precipitation might serve to put a damper on some of the more irrational exuberances typifying that parish, thereby permitting at least some semblance of decency during the plebiscite. With the passing of an hour or two, however, the downpour was seen to relent - in despite of the welkin’s continuing vey mouldy - inducing Superintendent Oldspot and Constable Wifebeating-Cokehead and their colleagues to fear the worst. —
The Bristol particular
Amongst the citizenry of the parish, feelings were mixed. Many of the longterm residents, tending to be conversant with the fractious and febrile history of that quarter, affected notwithstanding a breezy blitheness, somewhat in the manner of charismatic eccentrics with big personalities, towards those deemed civilians by virtue of their residence being of shorter duration, montypeesplaining to those ingenues how the informal Sanhedrin, under whose aegis was regulated the sacred institution of disorderly assembly, always saw to metters in such a way as to ensure that Montpelier’s riots never actually took place within the borders of the posh slum itself, but were always outsourced to a comparably insalubrious location such as Stokes Croft, or one that was convenient just because it was nearby, the obvious examples being St Pauls or Easton. The insouciance of these personages was more than matched by the ebullience that day of the monks and nuns of the Eglise de la Bouteille, who positively welcomed the opportunity to engage in the sacred dionysian mysteries of their cult. —
Stokes Croft, Easton, Sanhedrin
In contrast, notes of caution were sounded by two vey disparate groups. Firstly, the quietly sensible, who were vanishingly few in that parish, quietly and sensibly deprecated the likelihood of damage to property and danger to life and limb, although, being quietly sensible and ipso facto prone to being shouted down by the profane vulgus, they encountered insurmountable obstacles to the wider dissemination of their view. However, common cause was, somewhat anomalously, made with these good folk by the local sex offenders caucus, the principal spokesmen in this respect being Mr Luvvertory and Coaley Sleaze, these for their part deprecating the tendency which vigilantism had of establishing itself as a central theme of civil disturbance. A dissenting voice from this tendency was that of Mince who, over the days following his bill-posting exploits, had begun to fancy himself as somewhat of a player in that segment of the Great Game pertaining to our city, and whose self-regard in this respect had received a boost in the form of the surprisingly generous remuneration bestowed upon him by Mr Tad Curmudgeonly when he had called in by appointment at the Fascist Dictatorship of Stokes Croft. Mince having expended a portion of his bounty upon the acquisition of several variously mustard, salmon, and puce waistcoats, and several variously puce, salmon, and mustard singlets, that handsy person cut, at least in his own estimation, a vey fine figure indeed, exhibiting his armpits and his handsy tendencies in an entertaining variety of social situations. —
Mr Luvvertory, Mince
The precautions taken by the authorities proved well-advised, for Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole had once again set himself up as a vey cheritable lendlord in Montpelier Park (although in whose interest he was acting was this time obscure; it was the sort of thing Old MacDonald revelled in, and also the sort of thing which Mr Milton Djugashvili played an emotionless role in arranging and managing. I rather suspect that Sir Gerald may not have been unacquainted with the matter, and Sir Hearty may on this singular occasion have condescended to bear the cant by taking a hand, albeit at arm’s length, in things). In consequence, the street-drinking, already just as well-entrenched at eight in the morning as usual, was threatening to get completely out of hand by nine. Tensions appear to have been exacerbated by the gradual infiltration into Montpelier beginning around then of a large number of gender nonbinary persons in brown shirts, many of them flourishing bicycle chains and socks filled with billiard balls. These announced themselves as Maomentum, and concerning them it was said that they acted in somewhat the capacity of personal security or retinue to the grands fromages of the acid-chucking left. There did not appear to be any sort of response to their affront from any opposing tendency. There was certainly no hint of phalangism, and the sober citizenry hurried by as though it was embarrassing, which of course it was. —
Mr Vercingetorix Bumhole, Maomentum
Even Everyman, who happened to have been visiting the banlieue on business, the dwelling on which serves no present purpose, even Everyman was moved to avert his gaze, inasmuch as it was a shameful spectacle, and all things considered he vey much preferred not to acknowledge it. In averting thus his gaze, Everyman chanced to run into and instantaneously recoil from a familiar figure, orange-turbanned and exceedingly dignified in bearing. —
Everyman
“Why Mr Singh!” he spluttered, “whatever brings you to the Prostitutes’ Quarter?” —
The Prostitutes’ Quarter
Mr Jagtar Singh did not smile at this, although his moustache twitched and his eyes glittered. —
Mr Jagtar Singh
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