The Lesser
Titted Mantitt
Things are so dire financially at the moment that in order to live I
have had to defraud myself just to generate money. When I find out what I
have done to myself I am not going to be very happy. It could spark an
internal dispute in Codger Mansions. I have also had to spend money
that I have not yet got, which one can only do with great difficulty, using
guile, cunning and skill. I have even cashed in my Christmas club
money and it is only June, which means it’s going to be a miserable festive
season this year. In stead of “Christmas is coming and the
goose is getting fat” it will be “Christmas is coming but the balloons are
going flat.”
Just to rub things in Lowlife has learnt that the lavish and
gluttonous Willy Mantitt had two steaks for dinner last night, whereas I only
get one dose of quality red meat a month at the Flagon & Gorses steak
night, which fortunately falls just after pay day. Mantitt tried to justify
his covetous consumption by stating that as Mrs Mantitt is a vegetarian he
always has to eat two of everything. All this overeating means that
Willy’s waistline is getting bigger, as are his man boobs, both of which he is
keen to reduce so he can once more sunbathe in his garden, which will mean
that a certain rare species will be able to be sighted on Willy’s
lawn again: the Lesser Titted Mantitt.
Willy could of course freeze one steak or even better invite me round to
dinner, where I could do him a favour and knock a hole in his booze stocks
which presently represent an unwelcome temptation in his house due to his
pledge of sobriety for the month of June (see Lowlife 21).
Mind you, like Mantitt I will be dry today as I will be blessed by the
presence of my wonderful son Kenteke later and besides my internal organs have
organised a petition and are campaigning for a better deal which involves less
alcohol and more oily fish; I could more frequently oblige them with the former
but as for the latter they obviously don’t know the price of fresh
mackerel. It is usually my mind that is rebellious but now my body
has followed suit meaning that (quoting a poem I wrote in 1989 entitled Return
of the Soul Destroyer [yes I was cheery then too]) “all I have left is my
soul, refusing to budge from the whole.”
Willy queried if I feed my rank sausage casserole gruel to Kenteke but I
replied emphatically that I certainly do not as it would amount to child
cruelty and I don’t want to be cruel with the gruel. Kenteke would be straight on the blower to
Esther Rantzen at Childline and I wouldn't blame him.
Esther Rantzen is now a senior citizen of course and according to the Observer
a growing proportion of pensioners are p*ssed half of the time. The
Observer article was explaining how boozing is particularly bad for
elderly people's health but I am sure most of them think that as they have made
it to advanced years they may as well do what they want and enjoy the time that
they have got left. One senior citizen that will buck the trend is the
Abdul as carelessly he has crocked his leg and he is not supposed to drink for
a week give the strong painkillers he’s on, so he is stone cold sober for the
first time in years. Given my pension projections I will barely be
able to afford to eat as a pensioner, let alone drink. They are more like
pension dejections than projections. If I can’t afford to drink as a
pensioner I might as well do myself in.
I sometimes think about what method I would employ if I was to end it
all, not in a morbid or depressed way but in a practical sense and it helps to
while away a sit on the toilet. For a start I could not put my head in
the oven as I haven’t cleaned it since I moved into Codger Mansions so it is so
encrusted with charred remains that I would not be able to fit my head in
there. I found a charcoal of sausage in there the other day and it looked
less than palatable. A lethal injection is out of the question as
I’m not a massive fan of needles after a disturbing trip to the doctors where
he wanted to stick a little prick in me. I would not want to
employ the drowning method as I can barely swim and as a result it would not be
very safe.
If I jumped off a tall building I might not be very popular with the
council as my large conk (yes, I said conk) would most likely ruin the pavement
and the damage would result in the council tax going up, embittering all my
associates to my memory and my funeral would be sparsely populated as a
consequence. I could shoot myself, but to do that I would need to
acquire a gun and I wouldn’t be able to afford to buy one, my poverty being the
reason as to why I would want to top myself in the first
place. Chilli Willy, the Flagon’s chef, could be politely
asked to poison me but judging by his meals he has already tried to do that and
it hasn’t worked.
If I were to hang myself in Codger Mansions it might leave ghoulish
omens for the subsequent occupants and the only other place I could do it is in
the shed, but given the dilapidated state of the decrepit structure if would
collapse under the weight of a cat let alone me.
One person who will not have to contemplate doing himself in due
to glum impoverished circumstances is Willy Mantitt's affluent boss,
who once wrote a chapter in a book entitled How I Made my First
Million. If I was to write a chapter in a book on financial matters I
think it would be called How I Made my First Wage Packet Disappear in Five
Minutes Flat.
I am sure that Willy’s gaffer will expediently relieve him of his duties
if Mantitt offers him some of the disgusting sounding coconut water that he has
been procuring for the heavily pregnant Mrs Mantitt. Coconut water sounds like something Robinson
Crusoe would have mixed into his rum to take the edge off before thrashing Man
Friday at cricket. I would rather have
some of the light and delightful Portuguese sherry that the Pirate poured me on
Monday in the Flagon, which he served in was the most attractive, delicate
little vessel I have ever imbibed out of.
Attractive and delicate are not words usually associated with the Pirate
but if he is hung over he might be delicate but not attractive.
The Pirate’s sherry was a cut above the rank, cheap stuff I used to
guzzle with my jovial accomplice El Pistolero at my old residence at Fairfield Drive
After furtively hot-footing back to Fairfield Drive
Postscript
Recently I attended a very enjoyable school re-union (to mark 25 years
since we left the wretched establishment) organised by my good friend the Jolly
Keen Giant and held in Brandhall Conservative Club (in Langley) that is run my
long time crony Jonty Von Rossi and his wife, the lovely Lareina Von Rossi. If you can ignore the political allegiance
the Brandhall Conservative Club is certainly worth a visit.
Anyway, prior to the re-union I met up with two other long time cohorts,
Ted Stone and Si Clerr, for a swift one in the Flagon and to my great joy and
surprise Ted produced the fabled “I did it Peapod” photographs that I referred
to in Lowlife 17 (entitled I did it Peapod). The photographs are shown above (in the paper
and email edition but not the online edition – please shout up if you want a
copies online readers.) Note the Farah trousers and the Adidas Samba trainers
that I am wearing, which were schoolboy chic at the time.
Ted Stone is
now a big cheese (or at least a medium sized cheese) insurance broker with a
motor home bigger than my house whereas I am reduced to writing weekly
witticisms about past fiascos and the inner life of the Flagon & Gorses,
for nil monetary reward. But Ted is to
thank for the photographs as I tipped him off about the planned Peapod caper and
with him being slightly more affluent than us Shell Corner kids, which was not
hard, he had a camera and duly did the business, capturing the escapade forever
for posterity.
© Dominic Horton, 7th June, 2013.
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