I do not remember whose idea it was to start with. I have a nagging fear in the back of my mind that it was my putrid mind that came up with it to start with. However, arguing over who thought of it first is neither here nor there. All of us had to live through the consequences of the brainwave.
Now that the first paragraph has set the mood and got the reader all curious about what this tome is all about, it is probably a good time to get the elbow grease flowing (if flowing is what elbow grease does) and start at the beginning. Note: The author is well aware that his absolutely pointless digression here is likely to have chased away a large proportion of his reading public. However, he chooses to ignore this possibility as the possibility that he had no readers to start with is more imminent.
It all began when C decided to leave Europe and return to Mexico. That he missed Tex-Mex food, being called gringo, and wearing those wide-brimmed hats they are prone to wear in Mexico cut no ice with the rest of us who were to continue our stay in Europe.
'But', cried C,' go I must, cabron. It's been three long years since I last tried to scale the border wall into the States.'
'How about the Berlin wall, mate?', I rejoined, '... or Hadrian's wall. I'll give you that there are no trigger-happy rednecks with M16s to add to the thrill at either place – but you can make the adjustment, can't you?'
But no, C was obdurate. He refused to listen to reason, and had already found a bag large enough to stow away in. It was final.
Us Warriers have always been standard-bearers of the tradition of noblesse oblige, rather like the Woosters we copied it from. So I began to plot a farewell suitable for a king, or at least a C.
B (whose name bears not the slightest resemblance to a marked protuberance of the waist) suggested we drown our sorrows in drink. But given every one of his ideas seem to feature drowning something or the other (usually one's own liver) in drink, I ignored him.
After prolonged mental gymanstics, I arrived upon the perfect solution. Or what I thought was the perfect solution. So, I gave G a ring.
'Hi hon, I've come up with the perfect solution to our problem.', I screamed, literally bursting with excitement.
'That's brilliant. When's the funeral?', said she.
I was bemused. 'Whose funeral?'
To say that I was confused would be to put it rather mildly. 'But I don't plan on dying anytime soon, last I heard.'
'Ah right, so it's another problem you're talking about.'
'That's not the right line to take. I thought we conducted our relationship strictly on turtle dove lines.', said I, rather peeved.
'I'm usually not averse to turtle doves (or doves of any other sort). But the situation alters somewhat if you insist on blowing my ear off screaming.'
After having duly apologised for my slight, as I have been trained to, I went on, 'I meant that I think I know what we could do to bid adieu to C.'
Her ears pricked up at this (or at least, I think they did; it's difficult to tell over a voice-only phone line). 'What do you plan?'
'You know, we're going to Spain next week, yeah? And we've rented a flat, yeah? And you know that C and B are joining us there, don't you?', I said.
'I can't have forgotten, can I? Considering I bought you your tickets back, you freeloader!'
Though I cringed at the slight, I decided to let it pass. The idea was too good to hold on to any longer.
'How about we get a stripper to come over to the flat, rather like in American Pie 3? It would be a stag party, except he's not getting married to some unfortunate popsy.'
'The only unfortunate 'popsy' I can think of is myself', rejoined she. There was rather a harsh edge to her voice.
'Uh, should I take it that you don't like the idea...?'
'No, I bloody well don't. First off, how's it a stag party if I'm around..?'
'Oops is right. After all this time, don't tell me you've never realised I was a woman, and have been actively searching for places that permitted gay marriage now!'
My head swum at the bewildering complexity of the previous sentence. It was a minute before I managed to stutter, 'Er... sorry, darling.'
'So there's no question of bringing a stripper home, then?'
'Oh alright then.', said I, defeated.
'We could go to a club though, if you like...'
I ventured cautiously. Long experience had taught me to tread cautiously, especially in the wake of spectacular booboos of the sort I had just committed.
'Er... a club, as in...?'
'A strip club, of course. C can have his farewell lapdance there.'
A childhood full of nasty surprises of the 'Santa doesn't exist' sort had left me rather lacking in faith in my guardian angel. But it all came rushing back to me at this instant. Getting spousal (or soon-to-be spousal) sanction to enter the hallowed portals of a strip club is not something that one receives too often.
After resisting the (foolhardy) itch to ask if I were allowed a lapdance by a stripper as well, I hung up to continue the plotting.
To be continued...