Sunday, November 17, 2002

My Dear Boy,

A quick note to tell you that your vinaigrette receipe was an enormous hit. Our guests could not stop gushing. Served with baby greens, well, let's just say it made the day. Just that the doctor ordered. As the sun went down on another lovely weekend, all you could hear on the back property was the sound of our guests wonderfully munching the delicious salad. I mentioned it to Herb that it sounded like a bunch of goddamn cows grazing. Munch, munch, munch! It nearly drove me insane! I made quite a little scene, I did...rushing up the lawn and onto the deck, covering my ears, face contorted. I ran directly to the kitchen, pushing poor Peter and James out of the way. I poured myself a tall glass of Johnny Walker and downed it in one motion. After a few minutes, I'd recovered, thank God.

Have I told you about my vacation idea? A cross-gendered, cross-country tour. That is correct, my friend. We will rent a sporty coupe of sorts, and take off from Manhattan, boldly across this great land. Cross-dressed! I myself am starting off with something smart, a short mini and simple silk top. Full make-up and a long blonde wig. Pumps or platforms? Hell, either one will put the pedal to the metal, don't you think? We'll hit all the truck stops in New Jersey! How long before I get beat up? We could place bets. Could we make it to Pennsylvania without a black eye, broken teeth? A different outfit for each day, one more revealing and pathetic than the last. What fun!!! As bad as we want to be. By Ohio, I'd have a fairly serious drug habit, heroin hopefully. By the time we hit California, I will look like an old tramp, worn-out, defeated, but still sexy in my own way. Will you come? Think of the possibilities. We will be a huge hit in places like Elkhart, Indiana or Grand Forks, Nebraska.

Do us a favor and think about it?

Now, sod off!

Dear Mr. Tobin,

In the name of brevity, let me get straight to the point. Having done business together for years, you know I am a straight shooter, not a man to pull punches. I feel our transactions have been mutually beneficial, with back scratching on both sides of the aisle. You have always had my best interest at heart. We have mastered the art of the deal and had some laughs along the way. If I had a dollar for every Manhattan I've had with you. Not to mention chicken fingers at every goddamn hot-plate from here to Sonoma! Ah, there have been good times, haven't there, Thomas? The booze, the floozies? (Remember "Christy" from Dallas? Good Christ!)

Unfortunately, after meeting with our suppliers, superiors, the Board of Trustees, assorted underlings and of course, my lawyer, I've decided to pack it in. For any number of reasons, too numerous in their staggering numbers to calculate or bring before the board, I must cash out. I trust you understand me and would tell me if you feel otherwise, but I feel as if you've grown tired of my banter, my anecdotes, old war stories, boozy breath and bad gas. The indigestion of it all. I won't blubber on your shoulder, for chrissakes. I'm a businessman above all else. If I can't make the sale, no hard feelings, but I am out of that room faster than you can say "blow it out your ass, you pluky-faced ratfuck"...I'm not one fo those A-holes who wears out his welcome. If f you can get a better price from someone else, do it! I have always respected the work you do, the way you finesse the deal. And of course, the way you move product. You are like me, from the old school, where class and style and thinking on your feet still meant something. We come from a place where a firm handshake still means something; something other than "I'll meet you on the back nine"; I have sensed for some time that the scene is changing, all these cocky young bucks moving in, not giving a rat's ass for protocal, friendship and loyalty. The come in with their suits with european styling, $35 ties, the hair grease, their goddamn sports cars with hi-fi's and t-tops. Ah, hell, I can't get worked up abou tit, the doctor told me to take it easy. In any case, Hildie and I bought a place in Scottsdale and will be spending winters there, doing the things we enjoy. Cocktails at five, a steak around 7:00 and an old fashion fucking by 9:00. She hasn't slowed down a bit, and asks for you often. Anyway, I will be here for one last round before heading up to Boston in a week or two. The Spring line is in and somebody's gotta move the goddamn shit. Let's plan on meeting at the same bar; have a double, straight-up waiting for me, you old fuck!
My Dear Kenneth,

For the love of Christ, it's been too long, hasn't it? The last time we spoke was at the annual shareholders meeting at The Quay at Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. Remember, I jostled you awake during that blowhard Sowden's trying little harangue? God, help that bloody bore, but you really should not have had the rowe with him later at the pub. He's under intense pressure, compounded by the fact that the bird he's been shagging clipped him good by making off with much of his savings. One look at him tells you he's beaten. I saw him just the other day at Cockfoster's chatting up some tired old nag, puffy and red-faced with drink.

Now Kenneth, I'm not sure you received a message that I called Friday past. I placed the call after fearing that you had forgot to sell my shares in Swithens International. I'd gotten word that their 3rd Quarter earning will be much lower than expected and the price is sure to plummet. I hope to sell half my interest and put it into something much more solid. I've taken a bath in any number of ventures this year and Hildie is beginning to wonder if I'm properly off my nut. I, too wonder sometimes, after my usual two scotches. Staring at myself in the mirror as the barkeep prattles on about his beloved Manchester United, I see a middle-aged man who has never quite lived up to his potential. Definitely not what the schoolmaster at Kent had in mind for me. What I'm getting at Kenneth, is please do make that transaction if you haven't already. Then go out and get yourself properly knockered and have a go at that Gretchen. She's a wild colt, isn't she, all leggy, and needed a bit of the riding crop!

Please phone me to let me know details,

I remain, yours faithfully


Friday, November 15, 2002


How funny that you should mention spending the day in the park! I was thinking the same thing, just before you phoned. We could spread a blanket down on the new grass, all wet and dewy. How fresh, nature's dew. I'd fill grandmother's wicker basket with hard rolls, cheeses, kippered beef, lettuce, fresh tomatoes from the garden. Young Hildie would come along later with a large jug of wine. Nothing fancy, but perhaps some robust red, a red so fruity and red, as red as the reddish lipstick on young Hildie's coquettish lips. We watch in splendor as sweet Hildie hoists the jug to her lips, taking dainty sips at first, then giving in to her unquenchable thirst, taking huge gulps of the fruit of the vine, a thrirsty young thing she is, drunk with life! Ah, nature's wonderful bounty. Then, falling back into the grass, young Hildie would catch your randy eye. Hiking up her skirt, Chadwick, she'd bekon you with her milky white thighs. Oh dear boy, what a picnic indeed!

But back to the reality of the day. It worries me to hear about your rowe with Piffington. It is my sincere hope that you will find it in your leathery heart to patch things up with him. Now I don't need to tell you what an ass he can be, not to mention a ruffian. But damn it, Chad, we need him on our side. All you have to do is pick up the morning's paper and take a look at the financial page over your plate of bubble and squeak to know that all is not well in the Commonwealth. All the signs are there -- the lower classes are beginning to grumble about their lot in life. In their view, we are all a bunch of dandies, regular poufs -- lining our pockets at their expense while drinking and fucking the night away. And while that may be the truth of the matter, we musn't let on. For all that is great and good, what you can to win back Piff. Plus, I think the bugger owes us a night on the town. Our favorite spot in Kensington calls!


My Dear Mr. Tobin,

I hope you are taking this sitting down. It has been quite some time since I've felt in necessary to give you a proper ass-chewing. I was hoping not to have to go through such unpleasantries again, and I must say, I'm sick over it. I should have known better than to leave the company in the hands of you and Nigel -- you two are nothing more than a couple rat-faced wankers just looking to get pissed as a fart and jmore interesting in finding some tramp to roger than doing a spot of business.

I have been checking with our brokers and the news is indeed not rosy. We have lost the confidence of our customers and must right this boat, immediately. I suggest calling our higher-profile shareholders in for a chat -- one at a time, mind you. You have permission to use my office. There is something about a businessman in a leather upholstered chair, sitting behind a fine mahogany desk, that instills confidence in the client on the other side. If you feel the need to loosen the bastards up a bit, I keep a bottle of scotch behind the copy of Tory Law Proceedings, 1914-1919: The Lanceshire Report in the right-hand bookcase. It is in your hands, Mr. Tobin. I do hope you will rise to the occasion.

As for me, my extended respite has been much needed. Dear Hildie, she pleads with me not to return to the grind -- she has grown quite accustomed to having me around the flat -- to make her morning tea, service her desires, etc. She is a randy one. Hell, she'd bonk all afternoon if she had her way! It pays to run with a younger girl, she keeps me active and I give her the years, wisdom and proper breeding that a younger fellow could not. She does attract the younger suitors. Indeed, on Monday past we made a jaunt into London and were standing in front of the Charing Cross Road station when some forward bloke pinched her bottom as he passed. Hildie let out with a bewildered shriek, alerting me to the perv's activity. Why, Meddings, you've never seen me move so fast. I chased down the pluky-faced bastard and gave him a bunch of fivers in the mush. Bloodied him good and then gave him a nice kick in the ass! Hildie was so taken by my swift action that she took me into the loo at Euston Station and showed me her gratitude. From there, we ambled down to the King Fergus and got properly twatted on a few pints.

As you can see, I don't know when I will be returning to the office. For God's sake Tobin, step up to the plate on this one. Make me proud.

Tits off then,


Monday, November 11, 2002

My Dear Wallace,

Ah, the winds of change are blustery, gale force and autumn enters into our sphere. The colors, my dear boy! The splendor! It does bring back memories, doesn't it? The dazzling, sun-dappled days of our youth. How alive we were. I recall fondly motoring with you through twickenham in that green roadster of yours, the wind blowing a carpet of leaves across our path, you at the wheel, a popular song of the day playing on the radio. Yes, that moment is frozen forever in time, in the frosty crags of my cobwebbed mind. How I remember that autumn's bountiful harvest, row upon row, furrow upon furrow of squash, melons, corn. Ah, husks of golden corn. Gourds, pumpkins. Do you recall the time we hallowed out a number of gourds, making our own musical instruments? my, what a time we had, two youths, drunk on whatever we could find to drink to get us drunk, sitting in the barren field after a day's harvesting, playing our homemade musical gourd instruments. What a racket we could produce. A heavenly racket of gourd-music. Oh, dear Wallace, the sheer beauty of it. These were the days of our youth. The salad days. I am not speaking of the fancy salad made with gourmet lettuce and endive, but the plain, simple salad. The humble iceberg lettuce salad, we knew no better, nor did we care. Iceberg salad with french dressing was good enough for us. Honest and simple. Innocent salad. Those were the days of our youth. I bedon you to travel back to those days with me, dear Wally. Let us once more play on the hallowed gourd. Let us meet in yonder fields, in crisp autumn mornings, each with the spirit of maturity in our leathery hearts and tall bottles of ale from which to drink. The fields north of Twickenshire, after the good farmers clear the harvest. A time when the barns and silos are filled to the brim with God's bountiful feast and the corn has been husked, the millet has been milled, the soybeans are stored for winter and the farm animals slumber in their hay pens. Hibernating in their pens. Let us meet and relive such golden times. The reverie. The revelry. How I wait for such a sweet day, Wallace.



In my haste this morning, I forgot to mention that Hildie and I are going to our weekend home in devonshire weekend after next. As usual, we will leave Friday morning, arriving at dusk -- just in time for a quick romp in dewy meadow as the moon rises. If the weather is chilly, Hildie will be clad in her supple brown riding boots, woolen skirt, knickers, white blouse and sweater. She'll usually start in about 30 minutes before arrival, reaching for me as I try to navigate the narrow roads. I'm usually properly knockered after our usual stop in Wolverhampton at Fergus Twickenbotham's and all I need is Hildie clutching for Mr. Johnson as I downshift.

All a roundabout way of saying that if you and Christian would like join us, I'm sure it would be a wonderful respite. Hildie subscribes to the "more the merrier" school of thought. And she adores Christian. Do try and make it.
My Dear Boy,

Woke up with a start this morning, as I'd forgotten to remove the bloody blackbook from my office desk. As I am taking leave today, the documents sit there like a plump duck, ready to be nicked by any of our adversaries. It's up to you to get in early and retrieve it before they do. Knowing full well that early for you constitutes 11:00am, I know that we are, in fact, doomed.

I'm wondering, Piffington, just what it is you do to earn your keep. Always showing up looking like you've had a marathon session at the boozer; wreaking of cheap scotch and even cheaper women. You and your mates think it's all one big joke, don't you, the business of high finance. I didn't bust my ass to get where I am just to have it all undone by some young upstarts -- hooligans really -- who feel as if they are entitled to their salary, an envelop at christmas, a sly peekaboo down the blouse of my secretary, Hildie, *and* a corner office. Bloody Hell, I say. If you can't show me a little respect, how do you expect to be taken seriously by the client?

Do us a favor and close the deal with Mr. Sowden? He's a bit of a poof, and surely you can reach into his pockets without much trouble. And in my absence, please try to stay away from the pub until at least 4:00. Just because I'm sick as a parrot, doesn't give you license to tie one on.