Monthly Archives: December 2015

No compliments

” I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such attention.”

That’s and almighty fuck off right there, little lady. I’d like to talk like that. Be all la-de-da. Be all I’m so fine I can say fuck the fuck off in 999 ways without using up even a tithe of my vocabulary.

I’d use it at the cafe. ‘Here’s your espresso-doubleshot-soy. I send no compliments to you and your Pomeranian-Husky  cross AND your snotting Labradoodle. Have a vexed day.’

I certainly send no compliments to Uncle Eoin and his accountant friend Walter, secretly married these past five years but who never invited me to their wedding, despite them saying I’d be loveliest bridesmaid in the land… or some shit like that.

Damn. See? Hopeless. Can’t go more than two minutes without my hometown vocab squeezing on in there like that priest at St Beastials, or Beatrices, or Beatniks… whatever. Now there’s one slimy fuck. I send him no compliments. Not to him, not to his bishop, his cardinal, his pope. However far up you can go in his feckless religion, I send no compliments. I mean, did you see him on the news, all that ‘That never happened,’ and ‘I can’t remember,’ and ‘no one ever complained when Father Fucky McFucksticks touched those boys up so bad one of them jumped off that bridge, so it’s their fault.’

That’s just not right.

Did that stuff ever happen in those days of fine muslin and pump rooms, and manners wound so tight even polite words could be hurled across the dance floor like stabby little knives? ‘I send no compliments to your mother. I send no compliments to you, Motherfucker.’

Now I think on it, that story is pretty much less about pride and more about a predator; cause that’s what Wickham is, right, a man who preys on underaged girls? But then it gets all kinds of fucked up because one of them marries him. What kind of life would that have been, shackled to a serial predator? Poor Lydia. How fucking vexing. Everyone worried about themselves and no one giving a shitting shit about Lydia being manipulated by a predator.

You know what? Fuck that book. Fuck it to hell and back, then back again right into the lap of that little critter Lucifer. And I’d leave it there too, before clambering back into my infernally charred-black carriage drawn by four fine hell-beasts.  Then I’d lean forward ever so elegantly, and look that ol’ daemon right in the eye and say ‘I send no compliments to your imps, daemons and fiends. They deserve no such attention.’

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