‘Hey mister are you from a circus. Give us a penny will you mister.’
‘Now little boys of course, here are your pennies. Here are your shillings. And halfcrowns I scatter for you.’
The Count throwing money back down the street. Towards the Dail Eireann. The newsboys fighting. Kicking and punching each other. Screams bites and scratches. As they chase and snatch at the coins.
‘Ah Darcy, you see, how sad. They maim. They hurt. Come let us go. If they did not steal so I would invite all these little boys to my party. But like the colours of the rainbow, I invite the Black Widow. The White Prince. The Lemon Lady. The Purple Fucker, the Green Shit, Josintha, the musical sow. She grunts and squeals as she gets fucked standing on the head. And, my dear, did you know what Lois say about you all over Dublin. Ah you blush already before I tell you. She talk so much about your private part. O I do rush on don’t I. Ah you blush again. She too shall be at my party.’
‘I am certainly not blushing.’
‘Ah but we know so much about you dear boy, much more than you think. Lois say you are well endowed. And of course I see her painting of you. In which is your prick, is flaccid of course. She knows better than anyone, the size of all the pricks in Dublin. She say when hard you have the second biggest. Not the biggest balls of course. But you would not expect god to be so kind to give you both. Would you. She adores to paint mine because I have myself so very wonderful, wonderful balls she says. Tending to be of the more aristocratic perfectly ellipsoidal instead of the more peasant rounder Irish variety. I admit my prick is not the very biggest. But if you come to my party you shall see my portrait. Ah but maybe now you wonder. Who it is who have a bigger prick than you. I tell you. His name is Harry. He is the aesthete. He is poetic. Harry comes to see me dance. Backstage I lock out the crowds. I say in the dressing room to Harry to show me your prick, Harry. But like you he is too shy. And the girls they are too many who push us boys away from Harry. He is so handsome. So I do not see his prick. I take him to Jammet’s for dinner. He eats like a horse. So he must have a cock like a horse. Otherwise we must take such a big cock on trust. But who cares about such monsters. It is the little tiny beauties of the mind, my dear which matters so high above all the long thick delicious cocks and balls like grapefruits. So perhaps if you show me your hard cock I shall know how big is the second biggest, my angel. Don’t answer yet. Later I ask you again. Maybe then you answer yes. But always let us have ghiribizzo giocoso and grazia in all things.’
The Count gathering in his scarves and coat as he goes sweeping across the black and white tiled front lobby of the Hibernian Hotel. That reassuring coal fire blazing in the grate. The porter nodding and smiling to see one. Girls behind the reception desk giggling, digging each other in the ribs. As I take off my cap. And the Count shakes his blond locks back over his ears. Sauntering by the grand staircase into the lounge. Pirouetting left and right past the little groups gathered about their tables. Under the faint cerulean blue skylight, conversation stopped. The Count casting upon the sudden silence merry and highly suggestive quips.
‘Hello, hello, all you so nice people. Who are so nice to see you. Hello. Hello. Now that I am so unforgivably rich my dears. We shall later together all lift up our dresses, let down our hair and get to know each other better. All our lovely selves we shall unite in love n’est-ce pas.’
The Count waving his departure. Darcy Dancer following him down stairs. Thank god, into the darker cellar labyrinths of the Buttery. Where there won’t be so many eyebrow raising gentry. But plenty of socially outcast untouchables. Whom one should avoid, if not to end up spending the entire rest of one’s shortened life in besotted drunken debauch and penury. Not to mention being flung into a cauldron of the Count’s friends unmercifully prodding each other with their pricks and gigglingly squeezing each other’s balls. Already hear certain loud voices one knows only too well.
‘Bash on regardless, all you damn nae hope commoners. And may I remind you that it is only through the fault of my stern handsome father and my beautiful mother who abandoned me to numerous doting nannies who overindulged me at an early age and set me upon the road to debauchery that I am here among you. I know that my charm and unbearably good looks attract the many queers among you, drinking far too much of my excellent champagne, but would you please stop edging the women away out of my proximity. And do fuck off about your own bollocksing buggery.’
Rashers. My god look at him. In tailcoated splendour, striped trousers. Red carnation. Amid this plethora of misfits. His Ardagh Chalice on the bar being stuffed with another magnum of champagne. As he hefts the aperture about and empties the bottle into the Black Widow’s glass? The mirrors, the murmurs deep down in this Buttery. Rashers grinning with both bulging cheeks. Absolutely on top of his form. As if money were no object. Judging now from the new number of hands holding out glasses which he so readily fills.
‘Drink up, nae hopers. Drink up. And let there be more dreams ahead of you upon which to sail your injured spirits.’
Rashers cocking back his head under his own upended glass. And now he sees me. As his empty glass hits the bar. A distinct if brief apprehension flashing across his face. Disappearing in his welcoming smile. Dismounting his stool. Pushing his way towards me between the jam of shoulders. Of jockeys, trainers and ballroom dancers. And here at this end of the bar, right in front of me, bloody hell, is the poet. Whose first terrified sight of me strangely turns to a most sickly ingratiating grin. His brand new shiny regrettably blue suit. And thoroughly inappropriate red, white and blue striped tie. And taking his cigarettes, not out of a pack of ten, but from a whole pack of twenty. And who suddenly appears to be surrounded by doting admirers instead of the usual indifferent habitués who normally would take great pleasure in shoving his sheets of poetry back in his face and kicking in his teeth or slowly lowering their heels crushingly on his balls.
‘Ah my dearest friend Darcy, my dear Kildare. The noble Marquis of Delgany. Let the man pass. Let him pass through to me. My most triumphant and honoured fellow. Forgive these about among whom one must momentarily rub elbows. But how are you my dear boy. The soul comforting pleasure of your great country house lives still in my heart. Come. Let me lead you. You are of course to drink some champagne. For any moment soon, we shall sadly be hearing our host behind this bar singing last orders now, and time ladies and gentlemen please. From Gray’s Anatomy let me recite for you the muscles of the throat and neck. But oh dear, in a gathering such as this, perhaps it is more appropriate to treat of the muscles of the pelvic outlet. The corrugator curtis ani. The external and internal sphincter ani.’
‘Rashers. I believe you are staying at the Shelbourne Hotel.’
‘Good lord. Am I. How do you know. O dear you do know. But ah not so loud dear boy, not so loud. Although I am in partial incognito up there, there are those still about whose ears I should not like that personally pleasant information to sink into. At least not quite yet. But damn, it is such a nice relief to shake from one’s person the indignities of low life.’
‘I believe you are occupying a suite. And also, so it appears, assuming a title. You do seem suddenly awfully prosperous.’
‘Well yes, but don’t you think it suits me. A few winners at the races dear boy. But heavens above, am I to assume by these questions that you are being shirtily aggrieved in some manner. Pray not be. All is to be well. Of course you shall meet soon my nearest and dearest. She’s bought another pub. Dear girl. And would you believe it her accountants have agreed to her acquiring, at my suggestion, also a turf accountant’s shop. Where I shall in future credit my bets. These are times for acting one’s true role in life. Do taste, my dear boy from this plate. The brown breads and the orange pink of this smoked salmon. Our dear Count Brutus MacBuzuranti is giving one of his soirees tonight. As he did last night and the previous night. And the night before that. You’re coming of course. To frolic among the folk singers and authentic Aran islanders in their pampooties, not to numerously mention the lesbians, nymphomaniacs, literati, the nancy boys and lepidopterists.’