I had made a resolution to be positive of thought in September, but this was tested on a regular basis by old Purple Velvet Trousers, who was now starting to behave as though he was my own personal stalker. I need to back-track slightly here and mention that Mrs Jackson had informed me that there had been numerous complaints from people staying at his guest-house. Most of these complaints seemed to be to do with poor service (particularly considering the prices he charged), and a deplorable level of cleanliness. One customer even claimed to have caught fleas from the bedding!
Now none of this would have had anything to do with me, particularly as I was hardly likely to go and stay there, but PVT had started sending me demands that I should advertise his establishment on the local website. I had been in this position once before with the railway pub, and I hate being pushed into this kind of a corner. I was already thoroughly pissed off with him as it was, for keep sending me copies (via e-mail) of his bloody paintings and his sodding poetry (which was if possible even worse than his artwork).
I told him in no uncertain terms that I had a responsibility towards people who read the website, and that his guest-house simply didn’t make the grade. I might have known it wouldn’t end there. I was beginning to dread opening my e-mails, much as I had back in the bad old days when Tara Mitchell had been a ruddy menace.
He told me I was being unfair (diddums), and that many guests had left glowing reports of his establishment on other (unspecified) websites. A couple of days later he sent me one such glowing report, which had so clearly been written by himself that it was laughable.
The house was described as “A KIND OF WONDROUS ALTAR TO ART. A STUNNINGLY BEAUTIFUL INTERIOR FURNISHED WITH GORGEOUS PAINTINGS“.
This mythical guest went on to describe the sheer joy and privilege of meeting PVT in person: “HE IS QUITE EXTRAORDINARY. A WONDERFUL PAINTER, HE IS COMMITTED [he certainly should be] TO ALL ART FORMS, INCLUDING SINGING, GUITAR-PLAYING, PHOTOGRAPHY AND POETRY”.
He climaxed this hyperbolic tosh with the words “AWE-INSPIRING” to describe the guest-house. Well I guess he was right on that point. Visiting that house was certainly an “awe-inspiring” experience!
I went onto Google to check some more reviews, just in case Mrs Jackson had heard wrongly. I was greeted by a raft of disgruntled customer reviews with titles like “WORST HOTEL I HAVE EVER STAYED IN”, “A TOTAL RIP-OFF” and “DON’T BOTHER!” One described PVT as being “INTO SELF-GLORIFICATION”, and another (far more disturbingly) said the staff “ACTED LIKE SCARED RABBITS”, which backed up almost word-for-word something the ladies at Fobbington Tourist Office had told me recently.
I had to stick by my refusal to advertise the place. PVT told me that he was “very disappointed” that I had taken this line, and that he had had no idea I could be so “inflexible”. I sincerely hoped that this would be the last I ever heard of him. (God I’m a fool sometimes!).
Fortunately I was kept preoccupied for a little while after this with doing the preparations for Princess Petal’s portrait. To my surprise I found I was looking forward to it. My mini-success with Andrea’s picture had boosted my confidence, and I hoped I could find some hidden depths to Petal, underneath that smug, arrogant exterior.
I propped her against a bank of pillows on her bed, and asked her to look towards the curtains in a “thoughtful, mellow way, as if you had just had a meaningful visit from your lover”. (As if you’d just had a good shag in other words). She stared at me as if I’d suddenly started talking Chinese, and so I gave up trying to be clever, and just asked her to look at the curtains instead.
We were regularly interrupted by “Mummy”, who would come in stinking like an over-filled ash-tray and spewing fag-smoke everywhere, like a low-rent version of Princess Margaret. It made me feel sick, but I could hardly ask her to stop smoking in her own home. When I tentatively suggested opening the window, Petal barked at me “do you want me to catch my death?”
At one point in the proceedings Mummy announced that she knew I was gay, and went on to inform me that “I don’t have any problem with gay men [blimey that IS a relief!!!]. Lesbians are alright, long as they don’t come onto me”.
Like you’re so bloody sexually irresistible, I thought. She was a horrible old bag, and I could quite see where Petal got all her - ahem - “charm” from.
“She’s going to Mauritius for her honeymoon”, said Mummy, pointing at her naked daughter on the bed “Have you ever been to Mauritius?”
“Can’t say I have, no”, I said.
“You ever been to Las Vegas?” she said.
I couldn’t see the connection between Mauritius and Las Vegas at all, and I had to confess that I hadn’t been there either.
“That surprises me”, said Mummy “I thought being queer you’d love Las Vegas. All sort of over-the-top and camp like”.
“I’ve been to Blackpool if that’s any help”, I said “When the Illuminations were on as well!”
She narrowed her eyes at me, and then announced that she had to go and let the cockatoo out of his cage “for a little run, he enjoys his little runs”.
To celebrate finishing the preliminary sketches (and escaping from Mummy’s house), when I got home I took Misty out for a drink at ’The Ship’. Holding court at the bar was what I sincerely hoped would be the last of this Summer’s “oh darling” brigade. This one was bragging that she had stuffed the car with the entire contents of her freezer before driving down here, so that she wouldn’t have to do too much shopping whilst she was here. I felt like tipping her glass of cider over her head.
Perhaps because I was so annoyed with her I had trouble sleeping when we got home. When I did finally drift off I had an alarming dream about Jeannette Temple trying to seduce me. You would think it would be a relief to wake up from this, but I was shot into consciousness by the sound of somebody running across our bedroom floor. At first I thought it was Misty going to the bathroom, but when I glanced over I saw him tightly rolled up in the duvet on the other side of the bed.
Now I was angry. And anger tends to make you fearless.
“Come back here!” I yelled into the darkness “Show yourself!”
I got out of bed, and then remembered to put the bedside lamp on. The room looked thoroughly normal. Misty woke up instantly.
“There’s someone here”, I said.
“Another ghost?” he queried “Like the one that spoke to you before?”
“Whatever it is I’m going after it”, I said, in the very best John Wayne tradition.
I took the monkey-wrench with me though. I switched on the living-room light, and saw somebody trying to clumsily climb out through the side window. I was surprised they had managed to get in at all, because these days I religiously shut and lock all the windows and outside doors at night.
Perhaps you might laugh (and I wouldn’t blame you if you did) when I tell you it was Purple Velvet Trousers. This was a bloody cheek undoubtedly, and he is a complete weirdo, but I find it nigh-on impossible to be afraid of him. He’s such a complete prat!
“I saw you, shit-head!” I yelled.
He scampered across our back garden, and then out through Kristy’s garden and onto the main road.
“What was he doing in here?” said Misty, with understandable disgust.
“I don’t know”, I said “But if he thinks I can’t return the compliment he’s mistaken. I think it’s time we put the fear of God into him”.