Tim Burtonesque high-class supervillain and irritable nice guy thespian Hugh John Mungo Noseyparker De Pfeffel ‘Hacked Off Hughie’ Grant recently turned up at my plush London apartment in his good old time honored hysterically excitable porch-tramper manner. The flamboyant Brasenose fop looked at me with a steel, Nicholsonesque grin, something from the pre Boris ‘The Joker’ Johnson and Nigel ‘Bane’ Fromage era, and seductively purred…
Feeling a curious sentiment I’d never felt before, almost as it were a tangible, even OUTRIGHT PHYSICAL sensation of some kind of another.
I gazed in wonder as his accompanying shaman, Chuka ‘Chuka’s Corbinated Chickens’ Umunna, appeared out of nowhere with a bewitching grin…
Well HELLO there, pretty darling!
Hacked Off Hugh purred, about against as seductively as one might wish.
Or perhaps it was to the rather strapping lass next to me. Still, ‘any port in a storm!’ as his great antedecent, the QUASI-inimitable Fanny Hill, might say.
Oi! Mate! Yer gonna vote on principle this time, or what?
Chukka smirked, with a swaggering viciousness that could not fail to strike me as paradoxically magnetic, more than repugnant to those of us with more cultivated.
Aye! Labour it is!
I told him. To my undying horror, Hacked Off Hugh’s face froze like granite, and I trembled to see that what I had previously considered the pleasantly endearing grin of a cheeky, cheery, happy-go-lucky West End Luvvie was actually the sinister, menacing grin of an unhinged psychopathic lunatic. And although his lips could not be seen to be moving at all, I rather fancied that in the depths of my soul, perhaps by means of some malignant telepathical necromancy, he had growled again:
Staggering on my feet in agony, I saw his sinister companion spit out the following words, an unspeakable contemptuous glint of evil in his hollow eyes I (for my part) should never once have expected to survey in an elected member of this most honorable parliament of ours, on the land where William Blackstone and Jeremy Bentham themselves once did tramp our hallowed porches of erstwhile philosophical ignorance!
The howls of demonical laughter proceeding from the cavernous lips of the two Satanic apparitions (or so they seemed, for they appeared to me, as it were, to smack something of the UNDEAD), nearly buried me alive.
But there was more evil to follow.
As the Luvvie of Pandemonium once again stabbed his menacing mantra with all the plunging force of a latter day Lance of Longinus, the other fellow twirled his hand, in a kind of infernal yoga beyond the most utterly disarmingly destructive, opium-fuelled dreamscapes of Dante Alighieri (may we all be happy to share his lot! Or not!). With almost preternatural force, I managed to mutter, as though a man possessed by a greater power still:
Don’t… hurt me. Please… don’t hurt me.
But such a happy fate was not to be mine.
The Witch King of Endor cackled again, and repeated once again his magicke spell.
The other chap, almost half as terrifying, and yet in a way, hardly capable of inducing any truly menacing horror, of anything like the order of his comrade, (who was clearly the superior rank of archangel of the left hand), howled with demonical laughter:
… I’m NOT going to hurt you!
Why, I’m just going to bash your GORGEOUS little brainikins in, well how about that then, honey?
“But… I’ve always been a wonderful friend to the workers,” my heart trembled, hoping they could not read my thoughts.
But nothing could be hidden from their piercing, flamboyantly artistic oyster’s eyes.
After another spine-tingling self-invocation, his subordinate growled in a voice so deep and husky my last lingering doubts were gone: here were too passionately hysterical luvvies that were truly not of this earth.
I liked you workers….
I ALWAYS liked ya.
I was almost as speechless in my very heart of hearts as in my long-paralysed lips. At this point my very waking consciousness, such as it was, flitted in and out, like a moth daring with a flame of seductive south of the M1 emotionally uninihibited raw luvvie passion and libidinal frenzy, a purely animal lust neither of heaven, earth nor hell… We want to remain unburnt, but the dazzling, luscious splendour is ever drawing us on, and up…
And the next thing I remember is this.
Well here’s to 7 miserable years on the non ethically sourced quinoa souffles, and all the irreparable harm it has caused our social conscience.
All of a sudden, my best-beloved Tinder concubine du jour sweetly simpered:
Ow about we ave a brew then, love?
Well, they do say the devil is an angel of light now, don’t we?
Well, I should know!
A true English gentleman never shows his hand.
Hacked Off Hugh squealed, thoroughly consumed with very epitome of Culkinesque unthwarted innocence and ingenuous juvenility.
Why, DARLING! Why didn’t you say so before! Why, I just LOVE Early Grey! Pray do nab us a saucer of fig rolls and prawn marie-rose while we’re at it now, luvvie?
Planting a supremely delicate kiss on her rosy cheeks.
But just as it seemed to be going well at last, BOTH demonic apparitions growled, albeit through the mouths of one of them alone:
God, I’d give anything for a drink. I’d give my god-damned soul for just one tiny little glass of vintage Moet-Chandon from the Islington Waitrose… Can you serve it in the Harrods glasses, luvvie, it tastes just like fresh blood. Fresh, pale, chubby-cheeked virgin BLOOD.. OH DARLING, LET ME JUST TAKE YOU BY THE THROAT AND…
As the eyes of the two chthonic comrades-in-an-evil-cause turned a most implausible bloodshot scarlet, as they rushed for our throats and…
Well, whatever part ELSE had awoken this final manifestation of unhinged, Satanic fury, craving and undying bitterness. I had once considered them to be men of considerable virtue and intelligence, with the most wonderfully disarming prudence and wisdom in great affairs of state and all more or less profound and recondite matters that have exercised the greatest minds and spirits of mortal man. However, I had already begun to suspect that behind the sweet, seductive, honeyed winsomeness of the Nirvanic idols of mine own dear humble heart and good self’s polling card, there lurked something menacing. But NOW, at this PRECISE moment, I saw, as it were, not through a glass, darkly… But then face to face. It was as though I was standing before old Lucifer himself, Son of the Morning, who hath kept not his own goodly estate, for that he was discontented with his appointed lot, however felicitous it may appear to us, in the mass; and had left his first station, and departed to foam rant upon the earth, a shipwrecked soal, foaming up the endless gulf of his cavernous mouth with bitterness, rancour, rage and a most inconceivably malevolent COVETOUSNESS that so ill befits a true artistic genius and political savant, that whenever I take it upon myself to recollect it, my heart almost ceases to beat…
But then, when all hope was seeming lost, a most sublime and miraculous deliverance broke upon us, at the eleventh hour…
She howled in a not entirely unpleasing and characterful manner, whilst the terror-stricken wraiths proceeded to tremble and quiver before the unparallelled storm and fury of a Yorkshirewoman scorned.
Fuck off, ya stuck-up-yer-own-arse, south of the M1, quinoa-munching southern fairies! It’s a raet bangin’ cup o’ TETLEYS, or nowt at all!!!!!
There was simply no refuge for the two hysterically flamboyant London luvvies, faced with the excruciatingly agonising asphyxiation of a pair of backward cousin-fucking Northern working folk… With a piercing howl that venture fair to shatter every single unproclaim’d cottage rooftop in the vicinty, the two demonic ghouls departed to their eternal abode, never once to rise and trouble the earth once more.
We don’t really fuck our cousins, do we?
I asked her, finally managing to find my voice, lips a-tremble in a holy fear of she who now appeared to emanate forth the redolent blissful splendour of an Esther, a St Catherine and a Strictly Come Dancing Ann Widdecombe tribute band in one more or less economical, yet nonetheless pleasingly expansive and supple package deal.
No, this is fake news. Fuck off back under the M1!
Passionately drowning in a veritable Dead Sea of salty social climber tears, I wailed:
But DARLING… We’re in ISLINGTON!
The final memory I have is being hurled off a bus in the shivering cold in deepest, drabbest, most uncongenially plebeian Armley.
Prithee bestow upon us a simply SPIFFING glass of Pedro Ximenez…?
I begged the tramp.
She smirked and said nothing.
Perhaps I’m not her type then…
I sighed, in a sublimely graceful rolling of the eyes to the once sapphirean vault of azure providential blessedness above us.
The heavens opened, the rain poured down, and I cursed the day I had ever put my trust in the unsteady, shrieking, screaming, flouncing, simperingly-seductively-siren-purring hearts and minds and intellects and spirits and very SOUL of artistic pretension of my false idol, the ineffably woke Ashera of my erstwhile bourgeois nescience and delusion.
For what, after all, is the deepest, most profoundly empty, vain and contemptible ignorance of all the hosts above, below and here among we mortal maggots???
I lowered my eyes to the sputtering asphalt like Milton’s Mammon of old, for I knew, at last, the root of all depravity, folly and mindless imbecility in this world, and in any Makrokosmic entity even half worthy of the reckoning of mere mortal flesh, to say nothing of anything more pristinely pure, etherial, celestial, and prelapsarianly paradisaical-pretty…
I whispered, as I tottered to the ground like old Nebuchadnezzar.
Hell opened up to meet me at her coming, as Lily Allen’s legion screamed in an unspeakably terrible and tremendous pronouncement of a doom and bane no mere rugged Northern monkey could ever begin to render in half the exquisite prose her Lilith’s Orgy should deserve…
Oh f**k off, I shout out my privilege every 5 minutes!
“It’s because of my privilege and proximity to it that I know what inherently greedy c***s we all are!
By now, I almost longed for the days of austerity we had once enjoyed.
My final thoughts as I descended into the eternal hellfire of all social climbers and aspiring luvvies were a reaffirmation of my beloved Hugh, who I loved and hated, as I loved and hated myself, a true Gollum of the metropolitan elite, an interloper, and no true bourgeois roader by blood, by birth, by lineage…