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this letter is pretty well timed.
    And so our bulbous friend takes himself off to the will reading, poised taut in some oak-panelled annexe of the Bactrian estate with a mercenary expression creeping over those already alarming features of his. The room’s packed with dozens of bastard progeny, evidence of His Lordship’s little extramarital sojourns and the sex games he liked to play with a turkey baster. But, by all accounts, it seems Dromedary was the first little bastard to shoot wombward from The Right Honourable’s testicles, so the cash gets carved up between him and the legitimate Humboldt – which is far more than any bastard has the right to expect. He walks away with enough money to buy Birmingham. Not only that, but his windfall gains him the friendship and sincere affection of his new half-brother. Well, you win some, you lose some.
    Now, as I’ve said, Dromedary is an unpleasant, antisocial man with a bulk that can best be described as… well, terrifying. He’s a beast of the field in a suit. But, like the leech, he has his uses. He’s got brains. He’s also got a head for figures – both numerical and feminine – his days spent on stocks and shares and his evenings on stockings and shaven ravers, intimate evenings making papier-mâché with page twenty-two. These twin lusts have always driven him. Now he can consummate fiscal and physical conjugation in his own business. But what should this company do? And, more importantly, how can he get a lay out of it? Because big brains don’t always mean big ideas and Dromedary hasn’t had an idea in his life. Fortunately, his new brother is just packed with ideas – and they’re all Grade A filth.
    So he’s at the Old Soaks’ Gentlemen’s Club , in Westminster, an austere establishment full of desiccated and depraved old geezers. Contrary to what you might think, women are allowed entrance but the house takes a percentage of their earnings. And to facilitate transactions of this type, the foundations conceal a little know extension of the London Underground subway system that goes direct to Soho and Dirtygirl Street .
    So there’s many options available to members: you can sit back in a booth and eat rich food until you get gout; you can lie back in a leather armchair and drink brandy until you die; or you can participate in any number of orgies with the aforementioned ladies of the Soho district until you get gonorrhoea. The beauty of this last option is that sharing one’s paid companion with the other members of the club means infection for one is infection for all, which fosters a marvellous sense of community.
    As a guest, Dromedary’s barred from the inner sanctums of the club, especially the notorious ‘Bodily’ Function Room. So he sits with Bactrian in an oak construction carved by Freemasons to look like a onion. The politician claps him on the back, calls him ‘Brother dear’, ruffles his hair, even. Then he’s pressing a glass the size of child’s head into his mitt and it’s gratefully accepted. And I can’t think why, in Hell’s name, Bactrian would want to talk to Dromedary, given as he’s taken half his inheritance. Or, perhaps, that’s exactly the reason? Or maybe he’s just a lonely, isolated drunk with no close family and no one to mourn him when he dies? And, after many, many refills, at least four bottles of God-knows-what and with the bodyguard on a toilet break, he leans in and beckons Dromedary close.
     
    “You know what, Dromedary, old chap? It’s good to be here. To be here with you . To have you, my long lost brother , here, reclaiming your birthright, your heritage.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Okay, you’re a bastard…”
    “Eh?”
    “I mean, in the illegitimate sense, that is. But now you’re here where you belong, with the type of people you belong with! (How much did you get from the Old Man again?)”
    “ Er?”
    “To be with one’s family! (Two or three? Not that it matters one bit to