A fictional tale - The Private Life of Benjamin Duncan



Chapter 1

Ben draped languidly on an overstuffed chaise lounge in the morning room of his Edwardian Mansion flat in Marylebone. He was tired; never one to cope without a good 8 hours sleep, Ben had had little undisturbed rest ever since he won the final series of Big Brother.

He rang a small silver bell to summon Molio, his Manservant. Molio was dressed in a PVC gimp suit which immediately irritated Ben. Having offered the unemployed actor slash male model employment, after his lacklustre performance on BB resulted in no media work and no interest from wealthy older men wishing to be his Sugar Daddy, it was a constant annoyance that Molio insisted on wearing his own clothes. Ben detested PVC; it was common.

Ben had kindly offered to share his own wardrobe of cashmere sweaters and coloured corduroy jeans – there was a vintage morning suit that would be very befitting of the Moles status as Butler/Valet/Chest Shaver. Unfortunately Molio liked the tight fit of the gimp suit as he believed it showed off his abnormally large left testicle to its best advantage. He was strangely proud of his unusual balls, and showed them off at any given opportunity.

“What’s on today’s itinerary” Ben asked, averting his eyes from Molio’s oversized groin region in case once again, a wiener mysteriously tried to escape and find its way towards Ben’s bottom. “Today is the premier of the Musical, starring the Baron & the Pop Idol Reject, Cutie McFoghorn. It’s loosely based on Grease, but set in Northern Ireland. It tells the story of a talented young soldier, trapped in the Army but dreaming of stardom, and a trolley dolly, with a small but not extraordinary talent, who keeps getting rejected from RTV shows for simply not really cutting the mustard and having a gob the size of the Mersey Tunnel. It was panned at the previews by The Daily Star Theatre critic but it would be nice for us to go and offer support to our former housemates.”

“Oh far too dull” Ben wailed – “I have arranged to have lunch with the Ladettes that I met when I was last on that far superior show. Such fun girls, I intended to introduce them to Lady Corin. She could teach them a thing or two about graceful behaviour, elegance and genteel conversation. Nobody carries off a pearl necklace better than Corin. What she doesn’t know about Coronation Street can be written on the back of Dame Shirley Bassey’s passport photograph”. Corin was Ben’s dearest and most loyal friend.

Ben yearned for the days when, prior to BB11, he was a much valued Bachelor at all the best Central London parties, with his friend Raeffromtheapprentice, the amusing Caribbean postman with the jaunty scarf, his Saudi Arabian friend that he met in the off licence, and The Princess of Bahrain. All his chums are very stylish, but none more so than the Lady Corin.

“You must attend the premier” whinged Molio “the big stiffy has been sat atop your marble mantelpiece for weeks and I RSVP’d for us both weeks ago”. Ben sighed, but his good manners prevailed over all, and decided with a heavy heart, that they would attend as agreed.

“Molio, please run me an asses milk bath and lay out my smoking jacket, the one made from gossamer spun by almost extinct spiders” asked Ben politely “and then polish my best calf skin spats”.

Ben closed his eyes, rubbed a little hemorrhoid cream under his puffy bags (a beauty tip he had picked up from the handsome & well kempt Baron) placing cucumber slices gently upon them to sooth.

His reverie is interrupted by the ring of his traditional Bakelite telephone. “I wonder who that can be” Ben thinks to himself , “ I went ex directory immediately after appearing in Sex in Court due to the ghastly trouble with Juror number 4.”

He gingerly picks up the telephone receiver. Ben was a marvellous mimic, and assuming an amusing accent and uncouth manners that he learnt from an Australian chap had once encountered, he said “G’Day mate, who the f***’s that? ”.

Silence on the other end of the phone, punctuated by heavy breathing. “Not again !” he cried, reverting to his nicely rounded RP accent, “I have asked you very nicely not to make these disturbing telephone calls. It’s you isn’t it Gloria Hunniford? Just because I spoke to you once at a party in Central London, it is no reason to keep hounding me. We only became friends because I was terribly hurt that Joan Collins gave me the death stare. I know I like the older ladies but I do not want to be your screen husband on the 5 O’Clock Show. I have my American Career to think of, and if they assume that I am some kind of walker for OAP’s I’ll never get my break with CNN as their Middle Eastern political correspondent with the plummy British accent”.

“Gloria Hunniford again” Mario enquired, walking back into Ben’s flower filled drawing room, scented with peonies and roses. He was carrying an Egyptian cotton robe with a golden monogram, the letters BDofT, beneath a tiny crown “She ought to know better at her age. Her HRT dosage needs to be adjusted”.

He slipped the robe over Ben’s neat shoulders, but couldn’t resist a momentary massage. His eyes rolled back in his head and for a brief moment he began to tremble, but pulled himself together. Molio knew that if he persisted with his wiener obsession, Ben would have no hesitation in firing him immediately. Being close to Ben, in any way shape or form, helped Molio get through his sad, lonely day.