The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #8
Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI
1 May 2020
My bosom buddy Dorothy Parker said don’t put all your eggs in one bastard. Now I know why.
Following my shock revelations about the coronavirus (see Sozzled Scribbler 16 April 2020), the rich turned on me with a viciousness that hasn’t been seen since the east-coast feminist establishment turned on Monica Lewinsky.
And now I’m homeless, a persona non grata. In short, an unperson.
The long and the short of it is that I was driven out of Trumpistan minutes after the last column was published. Ignoring social distancing regulations, and thus proving the correctness of my assertions about the fraudulence of COVID-19, the rich thronged cheek-by-nip-tucked jowl outside the Hotel Cortez, crystal champagne flutes and Faberge Enamel Lighters raised, demanding their pound of flesh.
Thankfully the Hotel snuck me out the back to make a quick getaway in a discreet Cadillac One limousine sent by my dear friend Grace Jones. Speaking of which, given we are in the month of May, we might as well bow to the most insouciant Bond girl ever, May Day, as portrayed by the ineffable Miss Grace Beverley Jones OJ.
By the way, the acronym OJ does not stand for O. J. Simpson. Though Grace did enjoy sexual congress with him once. OJ in this instance stands for Order of Jamaica. Yes, Grace is in line to become Queen of Jamaica, and I am sure she will rule with an iron fist in a velvet glove. Rihanna will be her chambermaid.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t stay with Grace because she was busy howling at the moon. I needn’t have worried. In the next minute the limousine’s onboard phone rang with an offer I could not refuse.
‘What ho!’ chimed the all-too-familiar-voice. ‘Make your way to Balmoral, you silly sausage.’
It was none other than Elizabeth Alexandra Mary, who, like Alulim, first king of Sumeria, is also a mononymous personage. You know her as Queen Elizabeth II.
To me she will always be plain old Mary. I’ve known her since she was knee high to a corgi and it’s likely I even sired her but that’s another story for another day.
Where was I?
Oh, yes, so I’m staying with the Queen of England. Turns out she wasn’t put down after catching coronavirus (as reported by this column). She faked her death to run a soup kitchen in Blackpool, one of England’s most depraved, I mean deprived, cities.
What’s more, unlike most of the rich, Mary’s a decent old sock under the gargoyle grimness. She even wears Philip Treacy, Grace Jones’s milliner.
So here I am at Balmoral, which is all very nice, but I mean to say, it can get a bit boring in the Scottish Highlands.
First of all, I can’t understand a word of the gobbledygook that passes for the Scottish tongue. Why they can’t speak with a nice BBC accent I don’t know. Second, I grew tired of hunting down peasants in the forest.
‘What was that dear old cock pouch? Oh, PHEASANTS. We were hunting PHEASANTS in the forest. Not PEASANTS.’
No wonder I was bored. Might it not be in the economy’s best interests to employ actual peasants? It would alleviate the unemployment situation.
‘What was that, my dear old glove puppet? I should read a good novel you say? I talk too much? I’m distracting you from making radish soup for the needy?’
What’s the point of reading novels nowadays? When what’s real supersedes what’s made up, how can the fiction writer hold the jaded reader’s attention?
I’d rather watch the news or reality TV, like TigerKing—now there’s as big a collection of bobble-headed weirdos as you’re likely to encounter this side of an insane asylum. The best thing about the show is that we now know about the existence of a species of toothless homosexual stud muffin hillbilly.
But seriously, why bother with fiction when in the space of a week the real-world offered three choice selections for our entertainment and edification?
First, a woman demonstrating against coronavirus restrictions in Pennsylvania yelled, ‘I don’t trust your science. I trust my god.’
What makes this utterance frightening is that it came from an American citizen who thinks she lives in the Middle Ages.
Second, the President of the United States gives a press conference at which he advises adherents to inject disinfectant to get rid of the coronavirus.
What makes this utterance eye-popping is that Trump knows what an injection is.
Last but hardly least is the following spectacle from Melbourne, Australia.
A millionaire mortgage broker and property owner is stopped on the side of a freeway by police for speeding in his Porsche 911 (how apt!) under the influence of drugs. Three police officers are in two separate cars behind the luxury car. While one officer checks up on said individual, a drug-addled truck driver veers across three lanes and ploughs into the back of one police car, hurtling it into the back of the other and killing all on board.
In a sign of the times, the millionaire films a police woman while she is pinned to the truck and delivers a speech worthy of Patrick Bateman: ‘All I wanted was to go home and have some sushi and now you fucked my fucking car.’
I ask you, would you believe any of this if John King put it his new novel? You wouldn’t. You’d say it’s far fetched. Beyond belief. But it’s undeniably real and it outstrips the authorial imagination.
No wonder my dear Mary hides behind Balmoral’s walls and samples reality in dribs and drabs.
‘What’s that, mon petit choux, you want to take the corgis for a walk and you want me to accompany you on yon peregrinations? Coming, my little hat stand.’
Until next we meet. Cheerio!
The Sozzled Scribbler was born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker (his father) and a Greek bear wrestler (his mother). He has lived in Istanbul, Rome, London, New Orleans and is currently stateless. He partakes of four bottles of Bombay gin and nine packets of Gauloises cigarettes a day.
Dmetri Kakmi, is a writer and editor. His first book Mother Land was shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia, and his new book The Door will be released in September 2020.