Confessions of a Victorian Veteranarian

1. To Warminster

I alighted from the train at Warminster, refreshed and invigorated by
my travails across hill and dale, and set off with a spring in my step
to meet my new employer. I espied a hansom carriage from the corner of
my eye, and issued a hearty, "You, my man. Carriage to Bogle Moor Manor
perchance?" I jumped up and into the handsomely bedecked carriage and
whiled away the journey in meditative contemplation; ruminating on the
curious circumstances which had necessitated my leaving the Academy in
such shabby fashion. Why had Professor Shawcross thrown doubt - albeit
with such erudite precision - on my thesis of llama harvestation in the
Northern Hemisphere?

The turn of events was all the more surprising, given that I had
usually met with the approbation of the learned Professor. Indeed, had
I not generally been assumed as his heir and successor given my initial
brilliance? But alas, my clarity of mind was not what it had once been,
and so I sank back into my seat to rid myself of this gloomy
reverie.

It was in no time at all that we arrived at Bogle Manor Hall, the
ancestral home - and now working place - of Sir Gladstone Rhodes Boyce.
The magnificence of the stately abode defied easy description, looking
for all the world like the handsomely appointed frontispiece of a great
tome. I had received prior notice of Sir Rhodes Boyce's sartorial
idiosyncrasies, but nothing could have prepared me for the vision in
lilac houndstooth which greeted me at the stair entrance.

Resplendent in greasy mutton chops and matching britches, this solid
oak of a man with ruddy red apple rosy cheeks planted his hand in mine
and said, "Ah, Charles, glad you could finally make it. Pleasant
journey I hope?"

"Why yes sir. The countryside on the way is surely one of England's
greatest treasures." He coughed, clearing his throat. "I'm glad you
think so dear boy. We didn't drag you all the way up here for nothing
you know:" Well yes, exactly. For it was this which was the very cause
of my vexed perturbation. I had responded to a most interesting
advertisement in the Situations Vacant column of the Warminster
Thunderer for "a well appointed gentleman, of refined breeding and
class, to second in cross species copulation study." Imagine my shock
and horror when I was made aware of the duties expected of a 'second'.
But alas, my pecuniary situation and my disgrace at the Academy had
brought me to this.

2. First Night at Bogle Moor Manor

The Story so far. Young Master Charles Davenport has come to Bogle Moor
Manor after losing his position at the Academy in strange and
unexplained circumstances. Down on his luck and living in reduced
circumstances, he replies to an advertisement in the appointments page
of the Warminster Thunderer. Travelling to Warminster he meets with his
peculiar new employer, Sir Gladstone Rhodes Boyce. Now read on!

Old Doyle, Rhodes Boyce?s faithful retainer, escorted me to my sleeping
quarters, paddling softly on carpets of the finest Axminster and up
stairs surrounded by heavy oak panelled walls bearing the portraits of
Rhodes Boyce?s noble antecedents. And such a fine and rich lineage it
was too. Why, wasn?t that Viscount Rhodes Boyce atop his silver mare
Meg, leading his men in the charge against the Coolies of Calcutta? And
there, above the stag?s head, wasn?t that my host?s itinerant
adventurer grandfather, Sir Clarkston Rhodes Boyce? Sir Clarkston
Rhodes Boyce was famed for his ill-conceived expedition of 1789 which
began in the smoking room of a Kensington club, snaked through the high
glaciated Andes, and ended ignominiously in the lush green Amazon basin
with the unabashed explorer wiping his posterior on the decapitated
head of a hapless missionary. I was stirred from my romantic reverie by
the phlegm soaked tones of Old Doyle, ?It?s to be the Master Bedroom
for you sur? said the doltish dullard in an accent which nodded to an
Irish heritage of squalor, degradation and potato blight in equal
measure.

?Oym sure sur will sleep soundly here tonoyt. Am oi not royt sur? Heh
heh!?. His insubordination was becoming really too much, so I answered
him in the only way I knew how: with a deft raising of the left eyebrow
so as to leave him in no doubt of my own superior class, breeding and
station. That would show the wretch.

I breathed a sigh of relief on closing the door on the whisky sotten
old bogtrotter who - by means foul or fair - had wormed himself into
the affections of mein host. Ye gads! a bounder if ever there was one.
What was Rhodes Boyce thinking letting this rapacious Irish tinker into
his spiritual home? Nonetheless, I was a little perturbed by the
lascivious undertones to Old Doyle?s comments, and even more so by the
salacious wink of an eye he proferred before scuttling off to sleep in
the coal cellar. Why, I doubt if it was ever more true that ?misery
acquaints a man with strange bedfellows?! I caught myself laughing at
the obvious parallels between my own fall from grace and that of my
host?s ennobled grandfather. Ha! Oh, but what a piece of work is man!
Why, even the bard would have been hard pressed to summon up the words
to describe my current parlous predicament.

I brushed my sweating brow and deliberated to face my fate with all the
strength and dignity that a man in my implacable position could muster.
And so it was with a less than heavy heart that I stripped myself off ?
stockings first - with almost indecent haste, slipping between the
mauve silk sheets of the Master Bedroom?s magnificent four-poster,
decked out in the soft drapes, twists and furls of an Arabian
fantasy.

My reduced circumstances hurt like the dickens, but I was a man of
esteem by jove! and I certainly wasn?t about to let happenstance deal
me a rotten hand. And so, sleeping in another man?s bed linen, I closed
my eyes and ruminated over the bard?s immortal words one more time
before succumbing to that other world. ?To sleep, perchance to dream ?
ay, there?s the rub??

Mater, will their be muffins for tea?

I awoke with a start. From behind the door to the master bedroom I
could hear the faint muffle of voices gently raised in disagreement.
There words were indistinct, a veritable grumbling of the gizzard and
urgent murmuring masking their true identities. What in the blazes was
underfoot? I feigned sleep as I heard the doorknob being turned and the
gentle creak as the heavy wooden door opened up into the room spilling
jagged shafts of light onto the bed. Two shadowy figures advanced on
the bed - and before I could do anything! - a heavy sack was thrown
over my head to prevent my eyes giving testimony against my attackers.
I writhed and wriggled for all my worth before succumbing to an
exhilirating but paraesthesiac gas, my mind and body stricken; palsied
and insensible. I struggled to make one final shout, but my throat
constricted leaving me gasping for dear life. And then, darkness.

3. Morning

?I trust you had a pleasant night?s sleep in the Master Suite, young
Davenport? Do you know, the last guest to sleep there was the Raj of
Rawalpindi. You?re in esteemed company my young fellow!?

?Um, why yes Sir Rhodes. Most envigorating indeed? I managed to answer,
but my mind was elsewhere. I struggled to make sense of what had come
to pass in the night, had it all been a dream? Were my recollections
merely the machinations of a subconscious mind trying to rationalise
unfortunate recent events? I could not honestly say that I knew. All I
knew was that something wasn?t quite right ? of that I was certain ?
and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

?Charles? he said, his tone becoming heavier, ?you do know what is
expected of you, don?t you? I wouldn?t want there to be any confusion
at this late stage. It is of course a rather sensitive business.? And
didn?t I know it. But the truth of the matter was that since my beloved
mater and pater had fallen to their deaths under the wheels of a London
carriage I was alone in this world; with naught but my good name to
guide me. Thereafter, I had set my course against becoming a spunging
fellow of the sort so commonly found in London?s less salubrious
saloons and public houses. I had witnessed at first hand the fortunes
of several good men become Squires of Alsatia ; their lives gone to
wrack and ruin in the alehouses of Whitehall thanks to their pecuniary
profligacy.

?Yes, Sir Rhodes. Though I must confess that I was a little shocked on
discovering the true nature of the work to be carried out. But I am
here now, and my resolve in the undertaking is like steel. This
undertaking ? unsavoury as it may appear to the common man in the
street ? may well prove to be one of the greatest scientific
breakthroughs known to man!? He visibly relaxed, slipping his huge
thumbs into his paisley patterned waistcoat pockets. ?That?s more like
it Davenport! I can see that we?ve made the right decision. Why, your
parents would be proud of you. Now, if you?ll excuse me, I have some
pressing business to attend to. We begin this afternoon. Oh, and
Charles dear boy? do call me Rhodes, so much more informal don?t you
think!?

And with that he was gone. But this afternoon? I had hoped that we
would ease ourselves more slowly into the work that lay ahead. The
peculiar niceties of social etiquette were really the least of my
worries. Rhodes Boyce reputation as an arch beard splitter fond of
blowing off the groundsils preceded him. That much I could contend
with.

But rumour had been circulating around London for some time that Rhodes
had taken into his employ two of Warminster?s most notorious
Buff-knappers who were charged with finding the beasts for the ?wicked?
experiments ?against nature? being practiced at Bogle Moor Manor.
Rhodes had already demanded and got satisfaction from three society
prigs who had cast aspersions on his character. My mind resolved, I ate
the remainder of my breakfast and decided to set out for town directly
thereafter.

4. Market Day

I arrived in Warminster town just in time to see the local
costermongers setting up their carts in the town square; their barrows
a riotous assembly of colour, all manner of vibrant greens, multihued
reds and yellows tumbling over each other. It was still relatively
early, and so the market was still quite empty of customers save the
odd Florence and the occasional village Mad Tom going about their
itinerant business. Warminster was a picturesque - if unremarkable town
? better known for the quality of its fayre and its hospitable welcome
to outsiders.

???Ere, hark at the cackling farts on ?im! I ain?t never seen queere
drawers of the like in me whole bleedin? life!?
I turned around to see who in the blazes would issue such a defamatory
remark in broad Warminster daylight.

?Why, if it isn?t Snodgrass Junior! What in the blazes are you doing
here Snodgrass Junior??
?Wouldn?t you like to know sir. Let?s just say that my father has
allowed me to come to Warminster in order that I might earn myself a
not inconsiderable penny!?

This really was most peculiar. Snodgrass Junior, whom I knew through
his East London butcher father (?Best Bangers in Bow!?), was kept on a
very tight chain. Snodgrass Senior was a man who - despite his
undoubted sausage making skills ? liked to keep his brood of snot-nosed
urchins very much within close reach, in order that they ?might be kept
from mischief? as he was colourfully wont to put it.

?And pray tell, what brings you here Mr Davenport sir? Or would that be
telling?? This was probably the worst thing about Snodgrass the
Younger; his bare-faced impudence dressed as harmless youthful
curiosity. There was no denying that he was a handsomely appointed lad,
but I was in no mind to discuss the whys and wherefores of my being in
Warminster with the itinerant wastrel son of a London butcher ?
beautiful young rosebud or not.

?I do beg your pardon Snodgrass, but I have a pressing engagement which
sadly precludes me from detailing my reasons for being in this charming
market town. Now, if you?ll excuse me, I really must be going!? And
with that, I made good my escape, breaking into a march as I climbed
the cobbled Main Street away from the busy market square.

Good Lord! I come away from the filth and grime of London only to find
only that it follows me. Ah, but what filth and grime! Young
Snodgrasses ambivalent charms had not gone unnoticed by some of the
more unscrupulous denizens of Bow?s blighted back alleys, who, on
seeing him skipping down the street, would subject the lad to no end of
scurrilous badinage and common banter. It wasn?t unheard of for one or
more of the brawny street lads to pull Snodgrass stockings and knickers
down before delivering a meaty slap on the buttocks. I recalled with
some shame, the tumescent heat that flamed up in me on those occcasions
where I had witnessed Snodgrass being bested and cajoled by one or more
of Bow?s street charmless ruffians. Yes, the very same feelings that
enveloped me whenever I saw a naked table leg (my chronic priapism, I
noticed, had not abated on leaving the attractions of the city). And
here I was, Charles Davenport, in Warminster on a repugnant duty
masquerading as science, whilst the very attractions I had sought to
leave behind me in London were once more at my doorstep. Be still my
beating heart! Sensible fellow that I was, I knew that any behavioural
lapses could put pay to my attempts at rehabilitating my character in
the eyes of London?s more brilliant scientific minds. I made a mental
note not to be deflected from my purpose in Warminster. Clarity! Yes, I
should employ the selfsame clarity of mind which had brought me near
the pinnacle of academia. I was reminded of the school motto, Tempus
Fugit, as I mulled over the radical changes that had come to pass in
but a few short months. Time does indeed fly. Why, it verily flies like
a?

Scot t-i-s-h Shop- p i n g tro ll ey....?

5. Kultchural Overlode

Glasgow?s foremost Japanese supermarket trolley boy, Yoshi Cuntye,
surveyed the car park of the identikit suburban shopping complex, and
saw that the rich cunts that taxied in and out of this place in their
flashy motors had left a fair number of his trolleys where they fell.
Cunts. How could they no put them back when they were finished wi them?
It meant merr work for him. Yoshi. Yoshi Cuntye. Muggins by any other
fuckn name he thought.

A lot of these places had sprung up in recent years, with their
attendant batteries of Sainsburys, B &; Qs, JB Sports, Tie Racks and
CarpetWorlds. The Great British Commuter Shop. That?s what it was. It
was the same all over. Big fuckn shopping car parks designed for thay
rich teacher cunts that lived in the Mearns or Milngavie or wherever
rich cunts lived. Of course, these monolithic monuments to DIY and
consumerism were never on their own doorsteps. No sir. They were always
at the edge of one of the fuckn schemes, where the locals couldnae
afford the fuckn bus fare never mind the entrance price. And so it was,
that on this balmy summer evening that Glasgow?s foremost Japanese
trolley boy (three pounds twenty an hour), Yoshi Cuntye, saw his fallen
empire of trolleys, prostrate like so many fallen soldiers after the
onslaught. He looked at his watch. Half past seven. Still two hours ay
this pish before he could nash hame and get tae fuck oot ay this
shithole. The need to reinvent himself as something more than that
bright red Sainsburys overall. Trolley boy. Significant ugh-er.

He remembered the pishy joke about blondes and supermarket trolleys ?
?What?s the difference between a blonde and a supermarket trolley? A
supermarket trolley?s got a mind of its own?. Boom boom. Aye, he
thought, and opinions are like arseholes ? everybody?s goat wan.

?Heh you, Chinky! Mah granda sais that you cunts pished in ays mooth
during the War! And ye made him eat ays ain shite! He?s in a fuckn
wheelchair noo ?cos you dirty cunts made him wank aw thay officer boays
aff!?

He knew it was too good to be true. Bright summer evening. Bright
summer Friday evening. Bright summer Friday evening only meant one
thing round these parts: Friday night cairry-oot ay Beer and Buckie.
Yoshi Cuntye, Glasgow?s foremost trolley boy (and Japanese to boot) was
in no mind for fannying aboot wi a bunch ay special needs neds on this
beautiful, heaven sent evening. No sir. That David Niven had a lot tae
fuckn answer for, no question. Tenko too, he thought. Although it was
highly debatable whether these lads had ever seen Tenko given their
youthful ? if pallid ? complexion. Yup, Glasgow?s finest: hand-reared
on a diet of Gregg?s cheese and onion pasties, Nintendo and Buckfast
tonic wine. Bit of a paradox that overt anti-nippon sentiment though;
considering their maws owed a collective debt of gratitude to messrs
Sony and Nintendo for playing babysitter tae these cunts while they
dropped their drawers in pub car parks. Impudence! Damned sauce and
more besides.
?C?mon lads! It seems to me that you?re missing the point here. Despite
my outward nipponesque appearance, I am in actual fact a Maori Warrior
like in that film Once Were Warriors that wiz oan last week. E nga iwi,
Mai I te Rerenga Wairua, tae noa ki Rakiura, HAERE MAI, HAERE MAI,
HAERE MAI!?.

V-I-C-T O RIA ?it verily flies like, like? like what indeed? The
unexpected meeting with Snodgrass had left me with an inflamed member
and a physical faintness which gave wobble to my legs. I had immediate
requirement of a sharp dose of smelling salts or somesuch to help
counter the physical faintness that had overcome me since arriving in
Warminster?zzzzzzzzzz

6. Office Boy

"MegaKnowledge ? Stemming the flow - from a haemmorhaging market. Who
knows what pain the deaf dog endures in order that it might hear
finally hear its master?s voice. Who can calculate the innumerable
sufferings of the child born without legs who yearns to play for
Manchester United. A cute analogy you might say, but these and other
questions are central to the role of modern market players tricksy
pursuit of tangible market metrics. Yes, let's hear it for those unsung
heroes: the thousands of men and women whose lifes are a living
testimony to the struggle to bring a little bit of globalising light
into an ever darkening world.?

My my! the nights were fair drawing in and the pseuds corporate ideas
evaporating like a can of week old condensed milk left standing on a
faulty radiator. Wiping his forehead with his matted shirt sleeve he
sat back in the standard issue office swivel. Looking over at the clock
on the westerly wall of the vast open plan office he saw the bobbing
heads of the hard at work cleaners - three pounds ten an hour -
furiously at work cleaning and dusting computer monitors and desks.
Their adolescent daughters and junkie nieces were outside this very
office block earning ten times the amount for gammies, gobbles and more
besides. You pays your money you takes your choice: ?You?re paying five
bucks and I?m making ten thousand. So screw ya!?. He was blocked and
becoming blocked-er. The more he tried to write the requisite 500 words
about financial markets and Italian young professional job entry
prospects the more he found himself walking up literary cul-de-sacs
inhabited by Victorian sexual repressives and teenage Japanese trolley
assistants. Try telling the cleaners that ?pity is extolled as the
virtue of prostitutes? when you?re trying to write the corporate
website magnum opus. Who said that? Why, Phil Collins of course.
Admitting defeat, he shut the computer down and put on the jumbo cord
sports jacket which always made him feel more open university than pop
literati cool. Truth be told he looked and dressed more West Bank than
Left Bank. Only paler, of course.

He?d been trying to cultivate his image after reading in a dentist?s
waiting room that women were more interested in men whose dress sense
extended beyound the range of cartoon socks and ties normally sold in
airport and shopping complex Sock Shops and Tie Racks. Not that it?d
made any difference. Even the mockit cleaners remained indifferent to
his new image. Walking to the lift he tried to remember the last time
he?d had more than a dirty grope with one of the one or other middle
aged divorcees or soon-to-be divorcees who he worked with. The trouble
was he couldn?t. He waved a good night to security and stepped out into
the early evening light. It was time for the Christmas shag: so what
that he?d have to buy his own Christmas present ? wasn?t it always ever
thus?

It was a bitterly cold evening, but he was fortunate in that the red
light district so-called was only two or three blocks walk away from
the nondescript office block that was his second home. The sound of
office worker shoes falling crisply on ice filmed concrete and the
early evening commute enveloped him as he watched blotchy faced women
heave their credit card paid for Christmas plunder into buses and
taxis. ?Christmas Eve and they?re still shopping for wee Jordan?s
Barbie? he thought.

?You looking for business mate? Do you want me to pull your
cracker??

The dishwater blonde teenage junkie whore collapsed into a paroxysm of
honking guffaws and donkey whinnying laughter. She also had the teeth
to match. Customer services these days wasn?t worth a fucking bean.
Carrot and stick.

?Erm, yeh?I mean it depends on what you?re offering, eh?? he managed to
splutter out. The garbled splurge of words was another Christmas
convention he?d not been able to kick into touch. He tried to recover
his cool, ?if you don?t mind me asking, what?s your name??

?Fanny Batter. Whit?s it to you? I offer the full works mister ? with
and without ? but nae funny business and money up front.?

?Course. No problem. The thing is?I?ve got a sort of funny request ? if
you know what I mean??

The wee lassie harridan stamped out her fag on the ground and looked at
her scuffed white Filas. ?Nae S &; M mister, and nae weird stuff.A
good stuffing is it? Or would you prefer a gobble?? She broke into yet
another convulsive laughing fit of the same; snot running down her nose
at the thought of her steady flow of sexually tainted seasonal
witticisms.

?You know, you?re not far off actually. But no, I was thinking more
about eating your christmas dumpling?cunning linguist so to
speak.?

Wee lassie harridan began to visibly lose her patience. ?Listen mate. I
don?t care how many languages you can speak. D?you want business or
not??

?I don?t think you?ve quite understood? he said, using the placatory
tone he normally reserved for meetings with Bawbag, the works
supervisor.