11. On the Merits of Grease

What Ho Proles!

Sunday. I can see why the religious types love it so. It can be the most uplifting day of the week when things have worked out right for a chap on a Saturday night. As I wrested the pillow from under my head and stretched myself out more than six feet in a horizontal direction, I couldn’t even complain about the hangover playing darts on the back of my eyeballs. Five large portions of vinegary chips may have done an A1 job of bringing Melvin Jenkins down, but two bottles of strong liquor had done an equally good job of helping him bounce back up again. They had also got him singing the libretto from La Traviata while sliding down the staircase banister wearing his trousers on his head. It brought a tear to my eye just thinking about my success, though I couldn’t discount the possibility that I’d just brushed a lash with some of the aforementioned vinegar still stuck somewhere under a nail.

Since I’d slept in late, I decided to adapt lunch into a free-form breakfast. I dressed smartly for the day and my bon esprit was made all the more glorious in Technicolor when I opened the curtains and saw the Bentley shining superbly in the sunlight. My Man found me bouncing with high spirits when he came up to my room. I even broke every Murgatroid rule and gave the blighter an extra fifty pence after he’d finished packing away my things. The only thing standing in the way of a triumphant return to Murgatroid Hall, down in the happy vale of C---- N----, was the small matter of saying my goodbyes and showing my face at the little fete arranged for the afternoon.

A few of the local Tory activists had gone out of their way to put on a feast suitable for the Shadow Minister of Regional Plumbing who happened to be one of the young Turks in the Party of whom bright things are often said. Not that I cared much about other people’s political ambitions. I was an even younger Turk and I knew even brighter things lay on my political horizon and that sometimes, too, this was also often said.

When I appeared at lunch, Barry Fry Davis came rushing across to me, spilling a glass of red wine over his light brown casual slacks. He didn’t seem to care a spot.

‘Did you hear about the latest scandal to rock the party?’ he whispered as he joined me in the line for the buffet. His face appeared to have reddened to the tough task of talking Tory gossip.

‘And what scandal would that be, Barry?’ I asked. ‘Our unwillingness to attack the government on its health record or the inability of the opposition to fashion a workably solution to the problems of Iraq?’

‘I mean the scandal about Rosa Shaw,’ he gushed. ‘She cleared off in the early hours. Seems like there’s been a big bust up.’

I avoided the obvious joke about feminine undergarments and instead, but a hand on Barry’s shoulder. ‘I know all about it,’ I assured him.

‘You do?’ he asked.

‘Of course I do,’ I replied. ‘I compiled the complete dossier when Melvin Jenkins and I sat down in my room last night and enjoyed a bottle of whisky. Actually, there were too bottles and one contained gin. But that’s mere detail, Barry. The point is: I’m intimate with the facts. It’s amazing the confidences you can build during a late night drinking session with a friend.’

‘He’s a friend now?’ he asked, eyes agape as more of the red stuff flew out of his glass and stained a shape like the Turkish flag on his crotch.

‘Oh, we quickly established a very hearty friendship,’ I assured him. ‘And when I heard about the little trouble he was having with his previous employer, I was only too happy to help him jump onboard a passing ship. I was in need of extra staff for my campaign and seeing how the poor chap was facing unemployment on that front, I thought I’d nab him while I could.’

‘Well, that’s all a bit quick,’ said Barry, though to be fair, most things are too quick for these Welsh Tories. It can’t be easy having to think in a language with so many ‘l’s. ‘Still,’ he added, ‘so long as you’re going to keep up the good work and see that he stays fit.’

I could at least assure him on that point. ‘I’ve instructed him that if he comes down to C---- N----, he must continue to lose weight,’ I said. ‘My Man’s a devil for arranging things in that department. Used to be in the army, you know, so he’s tops when it comes to chin ups. Biceps like lumps of putty. He’d have old Jenkins down to proper fighting weight within the month.’

‘A month?’ asked Barry. ‘Are you sure that’s safe?’

‘It’s war, Barry,’ I said. ‘Not much is safe when there’s an incumbent Lib Dem to defeat.’

Lunch lasted longer than I’d anticipated on account of Melvin Jenkins joining us, around one, and polishing off a hangover of his own by introducing two rather delicious looking steaks to his gullet.

‘You look like you enjoyed that,’ said Barry Fry Davis, a little sourly, as Jenkins wiped his mouth on a napkin.

‘Not eaten steak in a long time,’ he wheezed and knocked back another glass of wine.

‘Well, perhaps you shouldn’t overdo it,’ I offered. ‘You’ve got to get through a garden party. Leave room for a few cucumber sandwiches, what?’

Jenkins flicked my words aside as easily as the crumbs that nestled on the knoll of his stomach. ‘I’ve eaten more cucumbers, lettuce, carrots, and broccoli than is healthy,’ he said. ‘Give me a good steak and some roast potatoes and I’ll win you an election.’ He leaned over to declare a confidence. ‘To be honest, my digestion hasn’t been right since Christmas. I say you need a certain amount of fat in your gut otherwise nothing gets through.’

‘Oh, I completely agree,’ replied Barry as he chewed on a breadstick. ‘I’ve heard experts say that without a little oil in your body, your stools lack the will to achieve vigorous motion.’

I made sure to thank Barry for the medical explanation.

Jenkins chuckled. ‘Oh, I can put your mind at rest on that score,’ he said. ’That advice is right where the money should be. I’ve not had a vigorous motion since the tinsel came down.’

I was not unhappy when the meal came to an end and the subject turned away from the problems of Yule logs. Somehow, I knew Christmas around Murgatroid Hall wouldn’t be the same after this conversation.