It Comes to Pass, from time to time, that I have do Things myself. Real Things, you know, not just reading the paper or going for haircut, but Proper Things, and today is just such a day. The Flame-Haired Temptress has gone away (but says she'll be back soon...) and Truss (my retainer) has had to go and spend some time with his family, which he does with increasing regularity, so I'm left to my own resources. So I've been sitting here, reading about Tobacco - God's gift to Man and other Flat Earth society tomfoolery, which diverted me for a tad. Then I was wondering how 'Pastor' Haggard was up to, and sure enough it's monkey business. What did I tell you? Then, I found this - blooming heck! I was reading about a Theory of Civilization too, but you decide if it cuts the mustard. Finally over to Kirby's museum - why not download the PDF and read at your leisure.
Anyway, I felt that I should be doing something constructive with my day, so I decide to Go Out. On my own. I took a car from the garage (eventually deciding on the white one that Truss calls 'God' - as it moves in a Mysterious Way), and drove off. There are few things in this life more dangerous that driving into IngerLand (taunting tigers, maybe, or ignoring the Flame-Haired Temptress), but that's what I did, my dears. As a general rule of thumb, I pay people to do Things for me - which is the whole point of being rich - but as I said, I had Things To Do, which meant going into IngerLand.
For those of you who live in Foreign Climes, IngerLand looks, at first glance, quite like England, but somewhere along the line, the Loonies took over the place and Mayhem Ensued. The first difference you notice is the Driving. Now, I'm a Gentleman Motorist, as you would expect. I let others join the flow, I give way readily, I wave pedestrians across the road, I respect the rights of my fellow drivers.
The IngerLish, however, do Things Differently. For one thing they drive something called 'a 4x4' - which I would assume should be 'a 16', but there you go. These '4x4s' are simply hideous. They are great, bulky, wardrobe-shaped jobbies, with bull-bars on the front and back (though they never, ever, go anywhere near livestock), they are covered in chrome and spare wheels, and have a special device fitted as standard that interferes with the mentality of the driver. This causes them to act like Bounders and Cads. It makes them screw up their face in a rictus of venomous spite and drive straight at you. I've seen them descend from these '4x4s' and it's not a pretty sight, let me tell you. The males are invariably overweight, with bullet heads and more tattoos than a Tahitian war chief. They dress like sportsmen, when exercise is obviously an unknown concept to them, with liberal drapings of 'gold' jewellery (making them look like a barmaid from a particularly low stew) and they all carry portable telephones, into which they bark like demented walruses. They are called 'Jase' or 'Gaz'. The females, in contrast, are bitter-faced, scrawny, raddled harridans, squeezed into acrylic clothing that is four sizes too small even for their skeletal carcases, who screech like harpies at all and sundry. They are called 'Trace' or 'Shaz'. Don't get me started on the odious offspring of their base couplings.
But I'm getting side-tracked. I parked the jalopy and made my way to a nearby emporium, for I had Things to Buy. In I went, and blow me if I didn't have to help myself. Not an assistant in sight. I was, following the example set by the other patrons, obliged to take a wire perambulator and put my purchases therein! And what purchases - everything was in tins and packets. I thought I might treat myself to something moreish for supper, but fat chance. Not a pheasant or lobster to be had, even for Ready Money. I settled instead for a tin of Bully Beef and something called a 'ready meal for one'. It had a picture of something brown on it, with what looked like game chips and an apple propped against it. I asked a chappie in a polyester suit, who had a plastic badge with 'Manager' on it pinned to him, where I might find the Armagnac but he said Something Rude so I left it at that, and made my way to the 'checkout', where I paid the blank-eyed shopgirl for my stuff and hot-footed it out of there.
I took a belt from the old hip flask, fired up the motor, and proceeded to the Bank, where I had my Things to Do. The last time I was in the Bank a fellow from the Officer Class took me into his office, gave me a small, passable sherry, and fiddled with a pile of papers. I signed a couple of the papers, shook his hand and off I popped. Not so this time. I was made to join a queue and wait until a 'cashier' was ready to attend to my Banking Needs. She was a personable enough sort of a chit, in her way, but I suspect she wasn't altogether au fait with the Mother Tongue, as she interspersed the conversation with sprinklings of 'youknowslike' and 'innits'. Top and bottom of it all was that everything was tinkerty-tonk after all, and I had too much cash in some account or other, so I should consider 'Spreading my Investments' or some such. Well I don't know. I said that she do what she thought best. I don't expect the Bank ever bothered Father with this Sort of Thing.
I thought about slipping round to the Club but I was feeling jaded and drained, so home was my next port of call. I gave the 'ready meal for one' to the hounds, but they turned their noses up at it. The Bully Beef went into an stew, which my batman had shown me how to make many years ago. There should be a decent claret left in the cellar somewhere, if I can figure out Truss's system.
I'll tell you more about IngerLand at a later date.
