“Binky I’m flabbergasted. This is really high quality this little set up of yours. Real clouds. Real god damn smoke coming out of the chimney.”
“Do you really think so Schultz. This is what I like to call my little theatre in the home.”
“Jesus the fucking lighting and sound is god damn magic.”
“Do you really think so. Ah Schultz you are a charmer you know, just when one’s spirit needs a lift you come suddenly to the rescue. I was so worried about the standard of lighting. Especially dealing with black and white contrasts. I occasionally have had big black men come to perform with the girls. Alas the former developed the bad habit of stealing backstage valuables.”
“Christ you fucker, you have everything, everything at your feet.”
“Not quite Schultz, the stage is at knee level. But Schultz it’s fun to have a little spare money. Of course there are those who simply don’t know what to do with it, when indeed it can be so useful to one who has, by a lifelong training been taught how and how not to spend it.”
“The sumptuous luxury, the scones, the cake.”
“Ah Schultz happily along with his Royal Grace, one does also try to avoid that dastardly English habit to entertain on the cheap.”
“Where did you get that girl in the mask.”
“Ah Schultz her breasts are a little perhaps on the large side.”
“They may be but this is one guy in the audience who is going wild over them.”
“Yes Schultz, I think we must settle for the word delicious for her.”
“Jesus I feel I almost know a fucking girl who nearly has a body as beautiful just like that. Only all I could do was just feel it, I never saw it. Holy shit, what have I said. All the while I’m watching I’m wracking my brains. That’s fucking Agnes. Agnes for christ’s sake.”
“Schultz, are you alright.”
“Holy christ what’s going on here in London. I got to go see her.”
“Strict rule we have Schultz, the audience is not permitted backstage.”
Binky touring Schultz in and about the various erotica on tables and on walls and encased in vellum. Schultz now instead of being relaxed, was hopping, skipping and jumping all over the place. And now strolling with Binky through Mayfair on the way to the Dorchester, Schultz was slapping his forehead again and again.
“Where the fuck did you get that girl Binky.”
“Ah the one you call Agnes who has given you apoplexy. Well as a matter of fact I have a rather elegant little Greek friend who does my casting. One doesn’t normally enquire too closely into such things. But she I believe, Schultz, was found at one of those dinner parties at which, if one is not careful at introduction time, one might miss all the prime ministers and heads of state.”
“Jesus Binky that was my wife’s best friend.”
“You don’t say. But how nice Schultz. Perhaps the little wife Schultz. Surely she too might fancy a little spare time activity. Top prices paid you know.”
“Binky, you know, you guys really do take the cake. The marvellous god damn way you got life arranged. To think I missed all this kind of culture growing up in a backward place like America. Jesus, again, why wasn’t I born with such good fortune like you guys.”
“Ah you Americans Schultz, are sometimes so full of shit. You really are. Wanting the way you do to contribute something to the benefit of mankind, instead of, as we British do, donning our straw boaters and popping off at mid morning to Henley to watch the chaps do their very best stroking their oars over the water but you’re forgetting Schultz, that a dog once ate my cake.”
“O christ, yeah, forgive me, Jesus I forgot the tragedies you have to put up with.”
“And Schultz as we stroll along this civilized Mayfair Avenue, let me tell you I had one yesterday. My chauffeur Tobias was attending a relative’s funeral, as he often does every couple of weeks. And I actually decided to descend into the underground thinking I might take the tube from Green Park to Knightsbridge. There I was, a hundred feet down in the murky neon lit shadows. On a bench minding my own saucy business of watching the better legs passing. When this chap in a blue overall and pail of glue and brush came by putting up posters. One which he proceeded to affix right over my shoulder without so much as a by your leave. The blessed glue was dripping and flicking from his brush as he took out one of his folded posters. Believe it or not, it was for Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot. I was most impressed. Stunned in fact. A train was just pulling in. Yet I just sat. Couldn’t wait to see it resplendent there on the underground tunnel wall. Well upon my word, there this chap was, carelessly splashing and slapping it up over another poster. I said most politely, please do mind your sloppy brushstrokes and drips my good man. Well he absolutely ignored me and continued. I glared at him. He dipped his brush rather deeply I thought, back into his pail of glue. And I sat there waiting for his apology, the train now just ready to pull out of the station, the chap wielded his brush as if he had a fish by the tail. Immersing me across the countenance in a single brushstroke. He then jumped on the train just as the doors were closing.”
“Holy shit Binky I can’t walk another inch.”
“Schultz this is the first laughter one has heard from you in a long time. I knew my little story would make you happy. Dear me, Schultz one must suppose that a successful life is one in which one’s enemies who enjoyed laughing at one’s misfortune, have all preceded one to the grave leading one with no such enemies left to take their place. But I did stand and look at the poster. And Schultz I thought of you. The splendid battle you were fighting. And especially the brazen billing. Sigmund Franz Schultz in large letters followed by our firm’s title in a print size one could hardly read. But Schultz, before you scream it was a printer’s error, let me tell you what happened to me when I got off the train. Rising upwards on the escalator I was feeling quite miserable. Stinking of glue. Wondering how one would tell such a tale to the little wife. Then stepping back out onto a Knightsbridge street, thinking well, at least in this respectable part of town one is safe from further insult. Then there, just yards away, was a chap. Standing right on the border between Brompton and Belgravia and the chap suspiciously looking like a barrister in cutaway coat and striped trousers. He was stamping the end of his brolly on the pavement, with his bowler listing on his head. Shouting at the top of his lungs. That what a bloody diabolical outrage it was, going on in this country, no one giving a damn, an absolutely bloody disgrace, country in a bloody mess. Naturally in the aggrieved state I was in, these were words that I stopped immediately to hear. I really don’t know what overcame me. I’m usually most shy of others, especially just having had my face slapped with a paint brush full of glue. But summoning up my courage I went straight up to this chap and offered to shake his hand. Just to let him know how awfully good his sentiments sounded. Well he, without even taking my proffered paw said, well what sir, are you doing about it. Dear me I must confess I was utterly speechless. The only thing that crossed my mind was my small improvement program recently introduced to the household to raise the standard of butlering. Somehow I knew if I had mentioned this to the chap, that he might have considered it most lightweight. Plus I think my face was slightly glue frozen in an expression of amazed horror. Then he shouted and stamped his brolly once more. And my goodness so many people had stopped to watch across the street. As he shouted directly at me. Grave matters sir, are being perpetrated in the Houses of Parliament with the acquiescence of silly nits like you. Silly nit he called me. I fear I rather withdrew. Of course had I said that good butlers were hard to get these days, it would I’m sure have led to instant further ridicule of me.”