Mitzi is dressed in what looks like one of Rod Stewart’s old cast off leopard print leotard’s and is jumping up and down and gesticulating in a strange fashion in front of her laptop. I assume at first she is at work on her sex site, but it turns out I am wrong. The fellow on the other end of the screen is not in fact a punter but a gym instructor called Joe Wickes. She is following his movements in a haphazard fashion and he has her flinging her bodily parts in all directions. I can’t decide whether to be amazed or appalled. Mitzi is not what might be called in some quarters ‘statuesque’ but I do fear for the integrity of the floorboards – especially as they became weakened after mother took up all-in-wrestling.
What’s worse is that my G&T is slopping about in it’s glass like the sea at Margate on a brisk day as Mitzi’s gyrations become ever more frenetic. I retreat hastily downstairs and batten down the hatches. Dust is flowing down from the ceiling in ever increasing clouds and I fear Mitzi may follow as the strain on the superstructure grows louder with every passing minute….
But just as suddenly as it started, it stops. Mitzi appears after sometime flushed, breathing heavily and sweating like mother did after she went the distance that time with the Phantom Grappler.
‘That Joe Wickes,’ she breathes huskily, ‘He sure knows how to show a girl a good time.’
Well quite….
I turn on the idiot box to discover that the Head Prefect’s new regulations to clear the great unwashed off the streets have gone straight to PC Plod’s head. With gay abandon the boys in blue are fencing off our green and pleasant land from the hordes and even in some cases turning it a distinctly unpleasant shade of black to dissuade any alfresco loafing.
How is it that when some local vagabond recently broke in to the Maison Bulk, during my night-time slumbers, and made off with my collection of mint condition World Cup petrol tokens, the flat-foots were too busy and too scarce to even come and dust the door-frame for clues? But when the prefect’s office issues the call to round up innocent by-standers and bundle granny back into her car and send her packing, there are regiments of the blighters deploying high-tech riot gear and poisoning the wells with black ink?
I know we all have to stay indoors and stop spitting on each other, but giving the rozzers the green light to interfere whenever they feel like it is asking for trouble in my book… It’s only a short step from this to sanctimonious bible-thumpers telling us all to straighten up and fly right if we want to lift the curse. Just the thought of it is enough to drive me straight to drink, thank God I don’t have far to go!
Bulk and The Devil 