Sir Hearty Luncheon read with malice the management accounts of bank and finance house. A jaundiced eye he brought to bear on forecast cash flow, likewise on columns celebrating profit, alike on those denigrating loss. Mission statements and other idealistic chaff aroused in him seigneurial disdain. Most of all he disliked agm’s, which left upon his tongue the acrid aftertaste of armpit of provincial shareholder and fund manager’s bum. —
Sir Hearty Luncheon
A vernal forenoon. They'd taken the usual route to Anchor Road from his estate in the Mendips. —
The Mendips
“Turned out nice for once,” had ventured from behind the wheel Mr Jagtar Singh, to which, behind him, Sir Hearty Luncheon had returned a grunt. —
Mr Jagtar Singh
Just by the Blagdon cricket ground, there’d been a sudden riot of daffodils. He’d bid Mr Jagtar Singh pull over to the verge, broken off the face-chat with the Kazakh goldbug in Dubai, stepped out onto the roadside, and silently glared for a space at the pretty flowers. And then, embarrassed in the presence of Mr Jagtar Singh to have forgotten or, perhaps, never known how he was supposed to appreciate deodata, Sir Hearty Luncheon had muttered some specious obsequy, clambered back into the rear of the black Lexus, and bid Mr Jagtar Singh continue on down to the Portway. All of it: all of it had been cant, which he never had borne. —
Blagdon cricket ground, Cant
Now, in his office, listlessly, Sir Hearty Luncheon bought some money, and fretfully sold some other money. His partner, Lord Handjob, came to mind then. A wicked old goat, considered Sir Hearty, moreover one who revelled in his wickedness. Eminently suited to that dissolute life in Palm Springs. A fine thing, no doubt, to own such a thick skin as did Lord Handjob, to be able to withstand so blithely all that cant. Sir Hearty Luncheon's mind's eye now presented for his delectation various images of that estimable peer patting winning thoroughbreds, and patronising bewildered-looking boxers, and canoodling with showgirls in hot tubs. —
Lord Handjob, Palm Springs
and there bustled in a minion, whom he thought he did not recognise, all exquisite tailoring, thick hair, exposed cufflinks, flashing teeth. This twerp bore upon a silver platter a small rectangle of card, intimating that Mr Don Quicksotte was below, and desirous of an audience. Sir Hearty, considering that an interruption to his brown study was perhaps not entirely to be deprecated - and quite discounting the risk of high winds attendant upon opening that particular bag - bid Hermes admit Aeolus into his presence. —
Don Quicksotte
“I certainly would,” said Mr Don Quicksotte, nodding his great head vigorously enough to concuss himself, “to put things at their plainest, Sir Hearty, I have peered into the entrails of the eagle and the dregs of the cup and so forth and wotnot, and have formed an opinion. Not to put too fine a point on things, I fear that there will shortly be an episode of civil disorder.” —
Don Quicksotte
“Certain members of the … er … squatting community have taken exception to your proposal to demolish a particular edifice in Stokes Croft.” —
Stokes Croft
“My point was,” continued Mr Quicksotte, “that if this … um … Cheseham could somehow be as it were induced to curtail his recklessness, his sowing of the seed of discord, then the demolition and redevelopment in Stokes Croft would go much more smoothly, with all the attendant benefits that would bring in terms of sustainable energy and rejuvenating the Stokes Croft area, and of helping the Native American people of Agua Caliente in their laudable attempts to diversify away - one might almost say, liberate themselves - from that dreadful casino business they’ve got entangled in through no fault of their own. And y … er … Monchild-Rothsanto would trouser a nice profit. Everyone benefits. What’s not to like?” —
Stokes Croft
This site would like to use cookies to count visits and measure advertising. Nothing is set unless you accept.
