Tattoos, weddings and chaplains: a normal week in the life of The Tattler.
I got my father’s chauffeur to pick me up from college gates and take me to London. I was chafing and tired. I often feel Cambridge isn’t big enough to hold me. There’s too much eccentricity and charm in me, and I feel the fens barely allows me to chip into the colossal cornerstone that is my insatiable libido and penchant for expensive clothes/toys/shoes/men/girls.
My father unexpectedly arrived just as the masseuse was leaving. She had left me a little tired but so priapic that even a cold dose of fatherly hostility couldn’t dampen my fervour. Rushing into the room Papa noticed my new tattoo and shrieked – you might’ve wondered how I was ever conceived if you had heard the pitch.
Before Vicki abandoned me somewhere off Parkers Piece, and after she had given me a rash around my front bottom, she had me tattooed by a friend of hers. It’s a glorious multi-coloured thing – my rash. The tattoo is grotesque. It’s some kind of toothed vagina, almost medieval. I suppose Vicki picked it. I was far too gone at that point to do anything but let out an inaudible whimper. Vicki’s insight is to be applauded, I wonder how she understood so much about me. I do recall being rather talkative at Le Meurice between the 7th and 8th cocktails. Maybe I mentioned my recurring dream in which I have tooth marks on my cock. As I come to think of it, I really didn’t stop talking all evening (if for no other reason than to drown out her estuary accent). Even as her head was burying into my pubes I was quietly recounting stories about the Chaplain at school, and the times I was forced to stay late after choir practice.
My father is approaching his fourth marriage, and relations are fraught in the maison. Using my tattoo, and the possibility of a week’s deducted pocket money (which would have put a huge dent in my Ladbroke’s spread betting), my father blackmailed me into singing at his wedding. And who was to oversee the whole operation but that very same Chaplain from father’s and my alma mater. The Chaplain, I learnt, was now oft be found resplendently astride a female chorister – an upgrade certainly from my time at our boy’s school at which he made do with what was at hand.
I thought my father’s wedding might be the opportunity for a double revenge… It went off with a bang, and quite a few thrusts. The projector worked miracles: I was told that even those at the very last stalls could see. I played the projector that I had hitched up beforehand during my solo of Laudate Dominum, and there for all to see, as my father’s soon to be ex-wife came up the aisle, were the pale buttocks of my old Chaplain dipping up and down. Candid cameras come in handy.. I think that certainly calls for a celebration. I might pop into Ozwald Boateng for a fitting.