Comrades, let me tell you about an enchanted evening in Whites last weekend. Well, inspired as I am (during fathers enforced absence) by a softening maternal muse, I guess it's more of an extrajudicial confession really; one's high-status testimony if you will. Accordingly, on my disillusioned mother's lonely life (confined to her fireside with the Good Book), I solemnly affirm that the evidence hereby given shall be true, wholly true, & nothing but true. And so I'll proceed honestly, without flinching from indulging in liberal pinches of vulgar, ideological one-upmanship; by ever so casually recounting how back-in-the-day one luxuriated in snug splendour, across hot seats of influence: showing no quarter as a hardboiled committee member of the Comintern. Nor, lest we forget, shall I shy away from adding that one cavorted impishly, con tutti attributi, whilst gigging as a militant junior editor at Lotta Continua; I did, but all that's a whole other scandal, starring a cast of thousands etcetera: memoirs of a colossus with feet of clay (to be ghost-written anon). Of course, I was just a boy; nobody else to blame, save a talented youth. Nowadays, a little longer in the wisdom teeth, yours truly remains a gentleman, albeit one of diminished means; an eligible bachelor blast it, with precious few foolish accoutrements to declare, bar my congenital masculine genii: & lamentably these on occasion, continue to entrance this most devoted of loving sons into temporarily overlooking, that discretion is indeed more often than not, the better part of valour. Alas, once again, an irrepressible fear of losing face bewitched me recently; gulling this anecdotes balatronic minstrel into raising merry hell- de novo.

So, you know those awkward, delicate times? Admit it, we've all had them: in your local high-concept bar, enjoying copious post eventum drinks, most probably after having excitedly watched Chelsea play at Stamford Bridge, & quaffing a quart of champers at the Connaught; quietly & unobtrusively examining sedulous thoughts with a handful of select spars, prior to sensing some roister doister parked-up at an adjacent table, prattling inanely to a mess of silly pals, spouting immature observations, based solely on their own two-bob, myopic, ignorantly blinkered opinions. As evening yields unto night, you've maybe had marginally more pints than you'd originally planned, or accounted for: slowly, yet ever so surely, becoming increasingly Brahms & Liszt. And still, you can't help but hear that obstreperous background persona non grata, sounding off reckless-imbecilic comments; repeatedly getting louder, noisier, darker: lazily & carelessly playing to a crass gallery of unkempt dummies. Forebodingly, you gradually feel a soupçon over bothered. However, convincing yourself that you're more mature than him, you let it pass: no dramas. Urbane anger management clicks in, but tellingly, your old china quietly revisits a bartender- when you thought he'd disappeared, hors de combat, for a well-earned leak. Thus, quite unexpectedly, Silenus jovially offers up yet another potent pint of Punk IPA (one of over the eight!), & hence indebted, you honourably, yet reluctantly, accept his generosity (loosely thinking 'I really must be meandering home, to attend to Mother'), whilst also imagining this prophetic pint might figuratively tip one over a rocky precipice. Howbeit, those stellar Whites 'homies' easily assure & flatter you otherwise, as they always seem to; thence obediently, one stays put- temporally muzzled. Nevertheless, eating away at ones customary happy, chemically charged mood swing is a frigging stale banana, poncing about at an enormous, adjoining walnut dining table: a proper charlie. You're now certain he's looking for trouble. Within limits, one is a refined, cultured European: a fully-grown, savvy, renaissance adult- in stark contrast to this giant wank*r, amid a tableau vivant of associated gimps. One likes to think that one's way above gratuitous, childish friction, but no, one simply can't handle his taunting behaviour any longer. Full of drunk-wired-bravado, one suddenly turns around, snarling. Volcanic sang noble erupts; adrenalin pumping- a visceral grievance evident, in both one's expression & body language. Each tense moment seems to flow in slow motion; friends' cautionary voices fade: faintly distant- inaudible, as if one has wet cotton wool stuffed into both cauliflower ears. Clenching fists, one alters states, as if some mental health chap's randomly flicked an emergency switch: one flips! Not only ready, but determined to have a right royal tear up, & ones primary quarry is that hyperventilated Berkshire being mollycoddled, by Whites' legendary BOGOF topless waitresses service (in its swish VIP reservation). In milliseconds, one abruptly stands erect, spiritedly up-&-out from a deep leather Chesterfield; approaching ones ugly boorish adversary (replete with multiple frit knob-jockeys dotted around, cradling espresso martinis). Our target belatedly senses ones legitimate anger, & unadvisedly jerks up in quasi self-defence. Ultra-violence explodes: thunderous excoriating voices, screams, tears- but noticeably, no tiaras. Diamond cut, crystal glasses get smashed, antique teak tables kicked over. You deal with it manfully; delivering a proper straightener: a real one-sided row. That annoying, unprepared twat's quickly on the wrong end of numerous hard knuckled blows. Aristocratic blood is spilled, staining ones newly tailored clothes; it's all across his freshly decorated boat race too, & his pink, possibly Hollister, or similarly inappropriate branded t-shirt, is splattered claret-red. His fair-weather entourage, visibly flustered, expeditiously departs, melting away from ones indefatigable testosterone; meekly mincing, simultaneously with style, into Boodle's. Ones vanquished foe alone remains, cowering upon a rich Axminstered floor- his effete spindly legs instructed by his brain to no longer support him, due to the barrage of vicious heavy punches, rained down onto his battered canister. He winces, peeking up submissively, pathetically seeking mercy. You glare back admiringly, down onto your handiwork, declaring yourself victor as nothing's coming back. And then finally, post-carnage, you make a swift exit; heading home, striding down St. James's, with senses heightened, still shaking slightly with rage cum fear, & feeling as if one's head needs a fucking enema. Piece by piece, one truly considers what's just happened, & whom one's just totally mullered: only the bleeding Duke of Westminster. MOTHER!