Between A Devil and a High Place

What Ho Proles!

I read in the paper this morning that Downing Street’s resident incompetents have vowed to stop children buying alcohol from shops and pubs. To which, I say: ‘Pah!’ Stop them if you must, but I say let them get as tipsy as they wish. They can’t do any worse job of it than some people I could mention. In fact, some people that I dare do mention.

Never take a Murgatroid by the horns. That is the lesson I would want you to take from the following sobering tale of insobriety. I warn you now: we are not a breed that enjoys being led by the nose, dragged by the ear, nor indeed, poked in the rear, despite what you might have heard about my cousin Alfred. Unfortunately, not everybody has been made aware of our fierce independence, bred into us through generations. People do not see the sinews of Vikings stretched out beneath my well tailored suits. Quite honestly, I have no idea what they do see, which perhaps accounts for the evening I had ruined by female hands that strayed too far hornwards for my liking.

The Dolands are a fine enough couple as far as new money goes. He’s an investment banker in the city, always good for a few jolly tales about hedge funds and whatnot. He told an awfully amusing story about bulls, bears and capital gains tax, but it would be better for him to tell it to you when you next run into him. And should you not move in his circle, don’t you worry your simple little minds about it. I doubt if you’d understand the jape anyway, my dear proles. Needless to say: I found it very amusing. Very droll.

His wife, Prunella, is, shall we say, not the sort of woman to hide herself behind the slimmest twig in the forest. She’s something important in the musical theatre, a would-be Tory candidate for Upper Whooping in Surrey, and has an insatiable passion for the grape. She’s been known to knock back a bottle of the stuff while she’s waiting for the first course. I can’t confirm that this is what happened last night, but neither can I recollect the last time I ate a meal while being serenaded with the full libretto to Evita.

The meal dragged on for the sort of age usually calculated by rock strata and I had to make an excuse to escape before we hit the second verse of ‘Don’t Cry For Me Argentina’. I wanted to say that weeping was the last of my worries and that my full bladder had many less noble intentions, none of which had much to do with South American dictatorships. Instead, I made my excuses and nipped off to the bathroom where, in all honesty, I hoped to enjoy my pipe and a few moments free from Tim Rice’s lyrical genius.

Getting to the bathroom involved a journey of no small distance ending in a vertigo inducing clamber up to the second floor landing. It was there that I was assaulted by the drunken reed who, through some devilry or black magic, had somehow managed to slip out of the dining room and get ahead of me.

‘Oh, darling Jacob,’ she moaned as she pressed me back against the balustrade. ‘You left before I sang you my very special part.’

‘Did I?’ said I. ‘It all sounded pretty special to me.’

‘You think so?’ she gushed. I believe she also blushed, though it could have been the wine finally claiming victory in her nose. ‘I’m glad you say that, J.P. You see, my husband doesn’t understand me.’

Are there any words more certain to put a shiver up a man’s spine? ‘Indeed,’ I replied and then found myself at a loss for words. The smell of drink was heavier than her perfume which, in my humble opinion, was no heavier than two or three pounds on the old imperial scale.

‘Do you understand me, J.P.?’ she carried on. ‘Oh, I think you do.’

As, indeed, I did.

‘Got to rush,’ I said and, as quick as a flash, tried to slip under her arm and into the bathroom.

The woman’s reactions were superhuman. ‘Don’t go, J.P!’ she said, snatching me back by the windpipe. ‘Don’t you like me?’

‘Liking is not the issue,’ I squeaked. ‘I think you’re a wonderful woman, Prunella, only I could never love someone who backs David Cameron’s green policy. It’s just something that’s beyond me.’

I said this knowing, that Prunella is so ardent a green that she’s almost emerald. Her response was as I anticipated. Her lips fluttered as I imagine a heart was torn asunder deep beneath her panting breast. I also felt her fingers slacken from around my throat, and with that, I threw myself out of her way and dashed into the room with the best seat in the house.

I don’t know how long I was in there, but the meal was finished when I made my return journey.

‘My doctor’s warned me to pass water regularly,’ I explained as I rejoined the other guests in the main room.

‘Where did you go to pass it?’ asked Mr. D. ‘Vauxhall Bridge?’ I smiled as an appreciative ripple of laughter went around the room at my expense. All the time, Prunella is glaring at me through heavy watery eyes, not unlike the eyes of a warthog that’s had too much sherry.

‘Your doctor should check your heart,’ she said, her words were laden with meaning. ‘There might well be something wrong.’

‘Nothing that can’t be fixed by a return to old fashioned conservative policy of decimating woodland and selling the lumber to the Chinese,’ I replied, making sure that my point was well made.

What can I say except she looked at me as though she were casting mahogany darts my way.

I left promptly at ten and dashed to the Bentley. My man made quick time through the city and we arrived home around eleven. Never have I bolted the front door with the same intent as I did last night. My fear today is that in the next election, I could find myself sharing a bench with Prunella and, party loyalty or no party loyalty, that is something I can do without.

Yet this is, alas, the way with Tory politics. Sometimes the heart overrules the brain, and old Dilly Cameron plays with fire so long as he encourages the likes of Prunella Doring into the party. I ask it again, as I’ve asked it so many times before: what must we do to get back to the old Tory ways?

More anon.