[a digested version of the novel]
(1) 'Terry speaking,' I said. 'I'm afraid Gregory isn't here, Miranda.'
Gregory was in fact sitting next door. 'Success?' he called. 'It's so tiring when everyone demands you fuck their amber jewel.'
No one wants to fuck me any more. Not even the dwarf with big ears. What a bitch.
Greg is my foster brother. He's six foot one, elegantly handsome with brilliant white teeth and a bit queer; I'm an ugly five-foot-nothing ginger. You could say we're both caricatures, but who really cares when our sole purpose is to shock? Did I mention I was so desperate I'd even fuck a granny?
(2) So you've met Terence, my plebeian foster brother? My father took pity on him after his father murdered his mother and sister. It's a ridiculous idea, I know, but it's all I could come up with at three in the morning after a tough night out, and if Mart doesn't get Terence and me sharing my London bachelor pad then the whole conceit is fucked, Loosen up. It's the late 70S. Suck on the panache of the unpleasant.
'Do wash the effluvia from the palatinate dome of my immense cock: I said after yet another bout of sexual gymnastics.
(1) Guess what? I fucked a beautiful woman. April Fool! I bet you weren't expecting that. Oh, you were. So what can I tell you? Well, I work in some kind of sales job but I'm not sure quite what as Mart doesn't know anything about proley jobs himself other than sales is a proley job which is why I have it. And I'm worried about going broke. There's a rumour going round that some of us will be sacked and Mr Veale the union clerk wants me to get everyone to join. Not sure I can be bothered, though, as I'd rather spend the book worrying if my cock is going to fall off.
'Hello, yobbo: That was Ursula, my foster sister. She's even more tonto than me. And even less of a rounded character, if that's possible. I think Greg may have fucked her once. I'm hoping to get a look at her tits.
Things may be looking up. There's a girl at work called Jan who doesn't seem to be put off when we go out for a drink and I end the evening voiding huge quantities of vomit over her enormous breasts. I'm hoping to take her home and fuck her this evening.
(2) Oh dear. I seem to have rather blotted my copybook. Terence had arrived back with a common-looking girl, June I think she was, when the police rang to say Ursula had slit her wrists. There was obviously no point in both of us going to the hospital, so I stayed behind with Jean and buggered her till she bled - not just a Shock Jock but a Shock Cock tool - and booted her out. And, well, Terence wasn't best pleased.
Still, the good news is that Ursula has been staying with me since she got out of hospital, and I'm idly wondering if we will resume fucking again or whether her downy orifices will no longer hold their attraction for me. Come, come, don't get all petit bourgeois with me about incest. Let me tell you, it's a great deal worse being forced to service the ghastly couple, Odette and Jason, whose art gallery I deign to work in. The required tumescence is such an effort.
(1) You're getting the hang of this now, aren't you? I mean, come on, you'd need to be a dummy not to see where this is heading. OK, I know I said things were looking up last time, but this time they really are. Sure it was a blow that Greg fucked Jan and I'll admit I moped about the flat for a couple of weeks afterwards, but she left work and I didn't have to see her again and, so, onwards and upwards. Just like my cock.
The good thing about Ursula trying to kill herself is that it's meant she's come to live with us. You may have realised by now that Greg is a liar-No shit! A tricksy unreliable narrator!-and he might say he's out a lot but he spends most of his time alone, and as I've now, thanks to Veale, got loads of money Ursula is all mine. Maybe sex is easy after all. You just insist. I point her to my cock and she sucks it.
(2) I haven't been altogether truthful. I only had sex with Jason and Odette in the hope they wouldn't fire me. But they did anyway, and I'm broke, getting panic attacks and shitting in my pants. Is that extreme enough? I need Ursula. I go to Terence's room to find her passively fucking him.
'You're mine,' I cry. 'I want you to fuck me.'
'I hate you,' she says.
'You can't do that. What will become of us?'
Why is it always the psychological cliches that make you weep?
(1) I suppose I ought to feel guilty that Ursula killed herself after that, but I don't.
Then my attempts at pathos when I described my father killing my sister didn't work either. So here I am. I've got loads of money. I've got a hydraulic erection and I'm fucking a lot of women. I even met Jan who told me Greg never fucked her because he couldn't get a hard-on. I'm doing all right.
(2) Ursula's dead. My father's dead. Everything's a mess and the proles are taking over. I should have been a writer. Like Mart.