CAVEAT LECTOR: If you are offended by mild to moderate rude lewdness and/or The Bishop of Bath, please abandon your reading of this post.
Wrigley Bland lived a short but interesting life that is worth chronicling becasue his was a cautionary tale, but one only to be told in whispered hushes around the fireside on windy nights. You have to whisper in case your mammy hears you and boxes your deserving ears, because, you see, Wrigley Bland was a Very Rude Man.
This was a man who was so rude he was born on the 6th of September, 1969, a date that made even God blush when an embarrassed Gabriel explained to Him. From the start, Wrigley Bland was a … a fiddler of things. As he grew, this only got worse, or better, depending on whether or not you were Wrigley. At 6 he was expelled from Primary School for doing a potato print in the shape of something very rude indeed.
At 13, pimpley and portly, he was expelled from Seconday school for a series of rather thoughtfully composed photos he had taken, over several months, of his thick-ankled headmistress and the Sean Beany school janitor as they conducted their regular nude Tuesday afternoon meetings about corridor maintenance.
School officials agreed that the photos were really technically very good, especially when one considered the
difficult conditions under which they were taken: standing on a dustbin, with a long angle lens trained through a frayed patch in the closed office blinds, leading to all sorts of problems with exposure and lighting. For this reason they recommended Wrigley Bland be sent, not to Borstal, but to a School For Gifted Young Perverts, for rehabilitation through the arts. Besides, quite apart from the photos, and the repeated incidents in the gym and the canteen and the physics lab and the sports field and the toilets and the library and underneath the stage, he was thought to be “really a very nice boy” whom everybody wanted to see do well in life.
Most of these schools for young perverts are located around Aberdeen, for obvious reasons, and so Wrigley found himself packed off on the train with a note from his mother pinned on to his duffel coat, the contents of which included the words “jubilee teaspoons”, “salmon en croute,” “The Complete Works of A.A. Milne”, “never, ever ever” and “if you’re smart.”
Wrigley found boarding school-life difficult. Regular counseling sessions taught him he was a bad and wicked boy, and, while he never really believed that, it did leave its mark on him. From thereon in, he would assume a far more furtive role in his mild-to-moderate rude activities, operating only at night, and using a system of rotating wellie-boots to confuse the police about the footprints they found in area flower-beds. Most of all, what the School for Gifted Young Perverts gave him was a very thorough schooling in Sneakiness and a child he would never know of, with Mrs. McCuish the 5th Form Pervert Counselor.
After school, there was university and a degree in Divinity, where it was much easier to pass off his obsession with sex as the mere exuberance of a youthful young priest. This was the happiest time in young Bland’s life, despite having to deal with all the God stuff which he just didn’t buy at all. Surrounded by the similarly giggly, he could drink all the Bristol Sherry he wanted, and enjoy long relaxing evenings of saying words like “thigh” and “autoerotic-asphyxiation” with his friends, after a tense day of bible study.
Wrigley Bland, met his death, one early grey morning in his 4th year of uni. It was one of these stupid accidents, these things that make you scratch your head and hold your loved ones close as you contemplate the randomness of Fate, as cold violent and unfathomable as the universe.
Wrigley was out on his bicycle getting some early morning perving in. He had stolen three substantial pairs of knickers, a bra with daisies on, and some sort of spiked rubber harness from the washing-line in the garden of a well-known upper-level Tory who has paid me handsomely to keep his name out of this. On his way back to his student digs, he decided to cut across the park, admire the statuary and take some brass rubbings of the angel’s boobs to enjoy later, between Holy Mary, Mother Of God Studies and lunch.
The park at that hour was deserted, apart from the rustle a few local councilmen and woman enjoying brief leafy flings in the undergrowth before getting back into their estate cars and off to assume the mantle of municiple concern for the day. And look! There was the bishop of Bath up early and giving…what looked like…alms – yes alms, to an urchin! God bless him!
Spotting a marble angel with a really good rack, Wrigley Bland dismounted his bike and approached her, clutching his brass rubbing supplies in excitment. Looking around him furtively, he climbed the statue’s plinth, giving that a quick rub on his way. (Because, if you’re a pervert, you can’t really not take a brass rubbing of something called a plinth, can you?) Then, clutching at a boob for balance, he hauled himself up til his eyes were level with the statue’s cleavage.
Overhead, Wrigley completely failed to notice the naked nun and that was too bad, because she was to be the naked nun of his doom. Her name was Sister Agatha Thaddeus, and she was fond of climbing trees in the nude. She liked the feel of the bark against her thighs as she straddled a thick limb, feeling the sap and life of it flowing right between her legs. Her friends, Sisters Constance and Effie, were off straddling poplar limbs in another part of the park, but this morning Sister Agatha had fancied a nice bit of oak.
Sister Agatha was a larger Sister, and and intrepid one too. Farther and farther out on the branch she ventured, huffing and puffing and enjoying nature. Suddenly, the branch beneath her round, pink flesh snapped! Down she fell! Down, down onto the statue below, where Wrigley had just started his brass-rubbing…
He never knew anything about it. 300lbs of falling Sister Agatha was no match for mere solid marble, and the statue, breaking off at the ankles, toppled slowly forward, as Wrigley Bland held onto her waist and prepared to meet his Maker.
The cause of death was listed as “trauma to the head with a blunt object”, but this was misleading because the statue had an unusually pronounced left nipple and it was this that had pierced Wrigley ‘s skull. The Divinity College did their best to distance themselves from the incident and so Wrigley Bland’s funeral was
Sister Agatha, suffering no more than a few bruises, declared her survival a miracle and went on the breakfast television circuit. There, her talent for contralto singing was noticed and she gave up nunhood for a life in Parisian burlesque.
If you’re looking for a moral to this story, then I’m afraid you shall have to find it yourself. Me? I merely presentthe facts; I just record life as it really, truly happens. And if any of you should doubt the veracity of my tale, I shan’t mind, no not at all. But I’ll know. I’ll know who the doubters are.