Waiting for the Man...

Uncle Mac has been leading me astray again.

Some years past he managed, through a combination of patience, ruthlessness and guile, to establish certain "channels of communication" with the finest shoemakers in Northampton. And by means of these channels, he is able to lay his hands on extremely high quality shoes for very significantly reduced prices. These shoes are ostensibly seconds, but declared as such on the basis of standards so insanely rigorous that I have never been able to detect what the supposed "flaw" is. Perhaps the molecular structure of their impeccable leather is slightly irregular: I cannot say. The key point is he is a man with a connection. You will understand that I dare say no more. This is a ruthless game - part of that seamy underside of London life that includes illicit whist parlours, unlicensed afternoon tea-dances, seedy vendors of folding umbrellas and backstreet chiropodists.

But as ever, I digress. Mac, like all dealers, knows his victims' every foible. He does not judge. Oh no...he never judges. It's all just supply and demand to the Man. He knows that he need only say the word and we'll all be there waiting for him, money in hand (he never asks how we get it). And he will deliver, for a price, according to our tastes and habits...a black calf oxford for one, loafers for another, brogues for a third. And for the more exotic user, perhaps a pair of patent leather pumps or even co-respondents. It's a sordid business...what Burroughs referred to (in the trivial context of morphine addiction) as "the algebra of need". But Uncle Mac is a heavy user himself. He has an oil-burning habit of his own.

And Uncle Mac knows that I have... certain weaknesses. Predilections which some might consider unhealthy. Tastes which unenlightened individuals may consider...deviant. Oh, I am not ashamed. I am what I am, and I will not be cowed by conventional, bourgeois thinking. I am prepared to state, here and now, my pale (yet strangely beautiful) face momentarily flushed with excitement, my eyes wild, my alabaster hands trembling as I sacrifice everything on the altar of truth...Yes, yes, Damn it to Hell, let's have an end to lying, let us, for one beautiful moment, look the world in the eye and be what I truly am. Damn convention, Curse Society, an end to this hypocrisy!

I have a desire for a pair of white brogues.

Think what you like! I am beyond your petty judgements now!

And today...today Uncle Mac let it be known that for a piffling matter of £250 I could have the shoes of my dreams!

Did Springheel succumb to temptation? Did he sacrifice honour, dignity, and decorum for a "moment of madness" Did he risk all that he holds dear and sacred for one glorious moment of insane gratification? Or did he maintain a stiff upper lip, hold firm, and uphold the principle of deferred gratification that is the fundamental creed of all right-thinking Englishmen?

To be continued....