The Duke

The Duke was in town today. I refer to him affectionately as "The Puke", because I'm hella funny like that. Mads, my Norwegian companion, refers to him by a much more sinister moniker.

"Shit fuck's in town? Ah, Christ, now I gotta find someplace to walk for a while."

"Why don't you take a trip on the Red Line? That always works."

"Whatever, dude."

The Duke is officially named Richard Stratfordshire, the 32nd Duke of Deepcheekston, which is somewhere on the coast or near it. If he's just met you, he loves telling you about himself. This was what happened when he met Matty on his recent stay:

"I do say, have you ever been near England before?"

"Well, I was in it, so I'd say that's pretty close."

"Um, of course, but not as close as some others who have been near it, but not in it, if you know what I mean?"

"I think I can conceive your meaning."

"Um, yes, make sure you do."

I had a chance to play bridge with The Puke before he left. He fell ill after some bad potato salad, and murdered my bathroom.

"God damn it man," he said. "Why is there so little water in your toilet. You're like one of those God awful Germans who like to analyze their shite."

"I think they also dislike what they call 'The Splashback Effect', which I'm sure you can understand on some level."

"I can indeed old boy. Those Germans are almost as bad as the Dutch. And you know who's worse than them?"

"Let me guess..."

"The Norwegians. Tell me you're not still carousing with that deviant character Mads. Nothing good would ever come from taking a slice of the old apple with a dirty Nordic."

"You're saying I'd be all at sixes and sevens?"

"If your bloody lucky."