A tale of the downfall of another powerful predatory male and its aftershocks.
So once more I visited the eye-wateringly expensive restaurant, Nobed. It is a haunt of celebrities as I discovered from my reality TV-obsessed husband, Thomas, after my last visit. That venture into the world of grotesque inequality was to take lunch with Crispin McDonal, my former star pupil and finance wizard. But this most recent visit was not the lunch we had planned in the heady early days of the Truss/Kwarteng revolution.
You see, Crispin’s star had fallen with the Truss/Kwarteng humiliation on top of which he was facing more accusations of impropriety with women.
Instead of being ushered to a prominent table by the windows, I was led through the restaurant to a private room where Crispin’s grim-faced minder manned the door. Crispin squinted nervously at me as I entered the room. When he reached to shake my hand, he squealed with pain and swore. It emerged later that his directors had insisted that he have a shocking electrical device fitted to stop his “octopus arms” from wandering which he kept forgetting about.
Five more women had “come out of the woodwork” claiming that he had “acted inappropriately” and their stories had appeared in a podcast entitled The Octopus.
Once I had sat down he began his rant. “The grey suits are back in charge and we are heading for death by boredom. What was the point of Brexit if we end up still under control of the bureaucrats and woke brigade? We wanted freedom from these petty people to return to Britain’s glory days, to once more stride across the globe.” And on and on he went in a similar vein while I was struggling to get the waiter’s attention to order a double scotch, which I was clearly going to need.
It took some time for the real issue to emerge. Five more women had “come out of the woodwork” claiming that he had “acted inappropriately” and their stories had appeared in a podcast entitled The Octopus. He had got through the last court case with his “honour intact” but now his cronies, who he had made “fucking rich”, were turning on him. Hence the shocking device to control his movements. He had only accepted this to avoid being thrown to the wolves “like Weinstein.” Some of the cronies happened to be related to the women in question which didn’t help – his predilection for posh totty did him no favours.
Slowly he calmed down with the help of a number of large oysters washed down with champagne. He had a plan. It was time for him to escape to Bezos’ luxury island in the Pacific – volcanic so it wasn’t going to sink below the waves – where each man could be sovereign without any petty rules and with lots of gorgeous, available young ladies. He had been advised that we were soon going to hit some pretty bumpy tipping points in climate change and he didn’t want to hang around to see what happened next. The island had a fair-sized rocket designed for this situation. All he had to do was “pay the price”, which meant a serious liquidation of his assets.
At last the traditional exploding chocolate balls arrived, which I now knew how to eat safely since my previous misadventure at this restaurant, and I was able to escape. It was sad though to see such a titan brought so low and I will miss my top-tier lunches with him.
On returning to Ash Court – our retirement complex – I soon learned from Thomas what the liquidation of Crispin’s assets meant: Ash Court was part of Crispin’s sprawling financial empire and it was up for sale.
She spent most of the time wandering the passages of the residence chanting and smoking pot, leading to some visitors dubbing it “Hash Court”. She had to go.
Moreover a number of our “more colourful residents” had received notices of compulsory purchase – this possibility was in the very small print of the apartment leases – as the agent was not going to let them affect the sales price. These included Robena Fitzwell, our resident psychic who had not foreseen the sale. and was now well down the path to dementia. She spent most of the time wandering the passages of the residence chanting and smoking pot, leading to some visitors dubbing it “Hash Court”. She had to go.
I struggled to pour myself a whisky. Thomas though was back to his activist roots and already getting the residents together to buy out the freehold of the complex and take back control.
As he launched into a declaration of his intent to take revenge against the capitalist system with the slogan “no resident left behind” and how Robena’s nephew and local MP will be his his “Patriot missile…” I grew exhausted. Two male egos to deal with in one day; time for another dram. Merry Christmas.