Buying a Globe-Wernicke

The Wonderful World of Jim

Mrs Stebbings was now out of the picture for the time being, recovering from the shattering discovery that somebody thought that she was not a nice person; indeed, disliked her intensely enough to send her an extremely unpleasant present. She was so traumatised that she decided, unusually for her, to disappear to visit relations in Swanage, on the Dorset coast, for two whole weeks, to recover her shattered nerves. In the normal course of events she seldom took holidays, preferring the less-expensive and more-absorbing diversion of spying on her neighbours. Now, however, a complete change of scene seemed called for. “The Jurassic Coast!” snorted Jim when he learned about Mrs Stebbings' destination. “That's about right; she's an old prehistoric monster herself!”

Meanwhile Jim was determined to make the most of Samantha's prolonged absence in Frinton to draw Norman into new adventures. It was proving to be great fun to expand someone else's horizons, then sit back and watch them blossom. Whatever sexual fun to be had along the way was the icing on the cake. In this case there was a lot of icing, as Norman was rapidly shedding whatever inhibitions he had previously entertained; as he became more confident, his performance in bed was improving by leaps and bounds. 

He definitely has exceptional potential for giving and receiving masculine pleasure, Jim thought.  

“Fancy watching a fight?” Jim laconically invited Norman one day.

When Norman seemed surprised and asked 'what kind of fight?' Jim explained that both boxing and wrestling were on offer, but “it isn't normal Queensberry or Whatever Rules!” Given the choice, Norman opted to watch a wrestling match. This immediately became more interesting when Jim announced that he himself would be taking part, although not under his real name: he wrestled as 'Gentleman Jack'.  

The match took place under the auspices of NHB (No Holds Barred) Wrestling Promotions, an unofficial - and probably illegal – body who also organised bare-knuckle boxing matches. The matches took place amid great secrecy before carefully-screened male audiences in the back rooms of pubs or in warehouses hired for the occasion. The rules of the sport were not conspicuously respected. Many of the spectators, and most of the contestants, were gay men. On this occasion the bout would take place in a warehouse in Felixstowe. Jim drove them both there in his sports-car, which he left in the care of a nearby garage:

“It'd get nicked or vandalised if I parked it outside the warehouse.”

They drove to the warehouse in a taxi supplied by the garage. Jim hugged and kissed Norman and disappeared to change into his ring-gear. The warehouse's owners were caring employers and had installed showers, changing rooms (two separate sets, for male and female employees) and a recreation room, which was capable of hosting large parties, for their workforce. The wrestling match would take place in the spacious recreation room. There, the ring had been set up; two gangways led from the two different sets of showers and changing rooms to it. In the front of the audience were some armchairs, evidently for guests of honour; everyone else was expected to sit on hard metal chairs, which were stacked away at other times, or to stand. Norman elected to stand and placed himself near the gangway by which he knew that Jim would enter. The bar was open and doing a brisk trade, while bookies were calling the odds on the fighters. Out of loyalty Norman put a fiver on Jim at ten-to-one.

From the bookies and the gossip seething around him, it became clear that many of the audience expected Jim to be flattened by his opponent, Mick “Tarzan” O'Day, who was a very large Irishman with a thick Ulster accent. He was the first to appear in the ring, cheered to the rafters by his supporters. His hair was long and an improbable cowslip-yellow; presumably dyed to disguise the infiltration of grey. His bright, brassy tan, which did not obscure his numerous tattoos, looked equally artificial. He wore loud tiger-striped trunks, matching boots and announced his arrival with a deafening recital of Tarzan's elephant call and other animal noises. He strutted around the ring, flexing his biceps, rolling his eyes and making boastful remarks. Jim by contrast came running down the gangway, vaulted gracefully over the ropes and succeeded in avoiding O'Day's notice until he tapped him smartly between the shoulder-blades, provoking pop-eyed surprise and a roar of rage.

Jim's appearance was in contrast to O'Day's: his crew-cut was even shorter and neater than usual; offering minimal purchase for hair-pulling, while looking  grown-up and manly; his suntan was the real thing; his body was innocent of ink. He wore plain black mid-calf laced boots, black wrist-bands and black trunks. His trunks were more extensive than his bathing suits, which was not saying a great deal; they were still very brief. The trunks had been cut for him; they fitted snugly and subtly emphasized the bulge of his genitals. So far, so straight; the only touch of gayness to be seen was on Jim's left buttock: an oval white patch bearing a stencilled 'Tom of Finland' sailor's head. The sailor, his cap cocked rakishly over one eye, was wickedly winking at the spectators. Apart from that single bad-taste detail (Yes, boys, I really am one of you), Jim 'looked the business' and would have looked it even in a WWF ring.  

At the start it appeared that O'Day might indeed win, as the Irishman twice got Jim in a crushing bear-hug, from which he extricated himself with difficulty. Thereafter Jim avoided close contact; instead, concentrating on what he did best, which was drop-kicks and other acrobatic moves. Jim was over six feet tall and very muscular, but he had the speed, agility and energy of a smaller and lighter man. This allowed him to rise almost vertically into the air, to deliver high and sideways knock-out kicks to his opponent's torso, head, neck and other parts, then dodging out of reach. The end came quite suddenly; O'Day, goaded to fury, charged Jim, who had his back to the ropes. On came O'Day; at the last moment Jim neatly vaulted, leap-frogging over him. O'Day was moving far too fast to stop now; he hit the top rope with his midriff, which winded him; hung there with his ass in the air; Jim then threw him bodily out of the ring. Landing on his head on the hard-wood floor, O'Day lay there, crumpled and concussed. Jim hopped out of the ring, turned him over and checked that he was still alive. He looked at him for a long moment while O'Day was counted out; then, grinning evilly, he pulled off his tiger-print trunks and flung them on his face. (O'Day was fortunately wearing a leopard-print thong under his trunks.) Then, laughing happily, Jim was announced as the winner amid mixed cheers and boos, although the cheers predominated.

Almost everybody loves a winner, which Jim was now confirmed to be. His support seemed to have grown exponentially since the start of the match. As he jogged off along the gangway to get changed, admirers reached out to shake his hand or touch his sweat-polished arms, legs and torso, possibly in the hope that some of his charisma and luck would rub off on them. Jim was happy for this to happen and temporarily surrendered his body to them. One lad begged  Jim to send him his trunks, sweaty and unwashed, as a souvenir. Jim grinned non-committally and signalled to Norman to join him. They were joined in the changing-room by the promoters, who handed over a briefcase. Jim politely declined a victory drink of champagne with them, cheerfully admitting that “quite a few people” would now like to lynch him, including some of the bookies, and he wasn't going to give them that opportunity. He wanted to leave as soon as possible. In any case, he would be driving back to Norfolk and could not risk being caught with alcohol in his bloodstream. The promoters nodded, unsurprised. After a quick shower, now clad in jeans, T-shirt and a black leather bomber-jacket, Jim with Norman at his side, was driving out of town. 'Tokay', a rousing drinking song from the operetta Bittersweet, was blaring out of the car  stereo.

Once in the country they stopped, so that Jim could fit the soft-top onto the sports-car. As it was a fine day, Norman was slightly mystified; the explanation was soon forthcoming.

“Norman, could you do two things for me?”

“Anything!” Norman shouted above the din; his admiration for Jim now knew no bounds.      

“That remark's a hostage to fortune!” Jim joked. “Now listen. The combination of that briefcase is 33-99-11. Open it, count and check the contents for me.”

Norman did so. The briefcase was full of bundles of twenty-pound notes. “Blimey! There must be about 7,000 Pounds in notes here!”    

“That sounds about right. You now see why I did not want to drive on with no top; the notes could have been blown all over England! Just check the amount and make sure that there are no blank sheets of paper inside the bundles. You never know...”

Norman checked the notes. Everything seemed to be in order.  

“Is this your prize-money?”

“It is. Not bad for one afternoon's work! Of course, a legitimate or professional bout would have earned me a lot more. Still, I don't complain. And we can afford a slap-up dinner tonight. What d'you say to another trip to Gadsby's Drove End?”

“Seconded!” cried Norman.

“Now, the next thing: sing out when you see a branch of Lloyd's Bank! I think there's one in the next village. We'll pay it into their night safe. I've got the paperwork and envelopes here.”

And to Gadsby's Drove End they went, once more supping in the posh dining- room with piano accompaniment, and sleeping in the best bedroom. An unexpected wave of tiredness swept over Jim after dinner. He smiled at Norman:

“I think that you're going to have to make the running tonight. In other words, I'm all yours!”

Minutes later, smiling lazily, he stretched out on the bed, pulled his legs apart and waited for Norman to make the first move. He did not wait for long. What Norman lacked in experience and technique, he compensated by his enthusiasm: there are few more erotic experiences than fucking a bigger and stronger man; a man who, if he were so inclined, could kill you with his bare hands. The prelude of nearly-naked, sweating wrestlers grappling had already got Norman excited. A naked swim at sunrise, 'morning glory' in every sense, cleared their heads before they breakfasted and drove off the following day.  

During these days and weeks, Norman was on an almost-continuous high. It was like living in a film or musical, with a catchy score in the background and moments of drama scored for the tympanist and percussionist. One such was about to happen.  Jim's next exploit was even more exciting and threatened to have political consequences. Norman remembered it as 'The Great Ratpack Drama'.   

Jim's neighbour, Farmer Fattenham, was suffering an almost biblical plague of rats. This was so severe that it was rumoured that Mr Fattenham had offended a local witch or 'wise-woman', who had inflicted the rats on him as a curse. There were strong environmental objections to mass-poisoning the rats, so Jim organised a summer rat-hunt. The pack consisted of the terriers of two local hunts who, like their Masters, were becoming bored in the off-season, plus some others, whose owners had agreed to help. The two young Field Masters of Foxhounds and their Huntsmen attended in person. Appropriately, they wore 'ratcatcher uniform'; as did some of the others, including Jim: buff breeches, close-cut to emphasise their muscular legs, brown gaiters and boots. No coats, as the weather was hot and they would not be riding, but open-necked shirts, waistcoats – red in the case of the Hunt officers - worn gaping open, and 'Peaky Blinders' flat caps. If, like Jim, you had a great physique, this outfit showed it off to advantage.    

Most of the terriers were Jack Russells, Jack Russell crosses, or other breeds, like Dandie Dinmonts. They were united in their hatred of rats, if in little else. The racket that the dogs produced when they were assembled in the farmyard was deafening. They were hunted as a pack, through the barns and store-rooms; through the farmyard and its environs, darting here, there and everywhere, yapping shrilly. Dead and dying rats were constantly being thrown up into the air and “chopped”. Many others, however, were taken alive and stuffed into sacks; they were being kept for the next part of the entertainment.    

This took place behind the village pub, in a building that was still known as 'the Cockpit'; where cock-fighting had taken place until cock-fighting had been prohibited by Law in 1835 as a cruel and barbaric sport. (Rumour suggested that it still continued clandestinely.) Here, a large wooden enclosure with high, smooth sides, had formerly held the fighting-cocks. Now the rats were tipped into it out of their sacks and the most ferocious terriers dropped in with them. Soon bets were being laid; the terriers were being cheered on, and a good time was being had by all apart from the rats. The landlord did a roaring trade in beer and cider. Eventually every single rat had met violent death and the terriers were being petted and spoiled by their owners. Miss Meg, a Jack Russell, was generally agreed to have killed the most rats that day.  

That might have been that, except that one young farmer had taken photos with his Mobile and later posted them on his Facebook page. There they were seen by a hostile observer who promptly passed copies to The Guardian newspaper, which published one on its front page, entitled “Toffs Cock Snook at Masses with Animal Blood Bath”. Those who were identified by name included the two young Field MFHs: Sir Toby Bloodgood, Baronet and Mr Thomas d'Arcy, whose 'privileged' careers were briefly summarised. Much less was known about “Mr James Abell, the well-known Norfolk antiques dealer”, but The Guardian reporter used her imagination, depicting Jim, to his annoyance, as a latter-day Lovejoy. He was in the centre of the group, roaring encouragement to Miss Meg, one arm round the shoulders of the photogenic young Sir Toby and the other supporting a tankard of ale. Norman was also in the photo, but not identified by name and only seen in the background, fetching more drinks from the bar. With any luck Samantha and Priscilla, who were Telegraph readers, would not see the article. Nor, hopefully, would his employers.       

 The fat, however, was now in the fire and a female MP, Mrs Gwendolyn Twaddle (La, Birmingham Crosspatch), secured an urgent Westminster Hall debate to discuss the Great Rat Massacre and indulge her own taste for politically-correct and anti-country sports posturing. The debate promised, for more than one reason, to be a humdinger.    

Fuck, fuck, fuck!! thought Jim when he read about it.