Multiple Arklow Crimes person of the year, and resident lickspittle to the white-collars of Bodily Fluids Glen golf club, Narcissus Boil, this week descended from his ivory tower to launch a Gofundme campaign for his son’s terminal condition, Humility Syndrome.
Insufferable braggart, Boil, informs me that he is undoubtedly the greatest thing to emerge from Arklow since that “pottery brick-a-brack the commoners used to buy”.
“Well, It’s always a painful experience suffering the native’s company, but desperate times mean desperate measures, besides, big fuck off watches and pointy, leather shoes transmit their dazzling prestige far more when a local savage can see their hideous visages in such polished reflections.”
“I feel my mere presence serves as an invaluable public service, acting as a much-needed kick up the behind to the indigenous Arklow tribes who could, one day- maybe- be inspired to amount to something like myself. Decades worth of these pitiful peasants engaging with Intreo couldn’t inspire them as much as spending five minutes in my exalted company.”
I question Boil as to why he has endured holding his nose long enough to avoid the putrid stench of self-pity from such “peasants”.
“Well, it’s a very sad story. This year, I was devastated to discover that my son, Rupert, had somehow inherited a genuine personality, disgustingly, possessing humility and empathy for anybody, regardless of class, wealth or social status. Needless to say, I was suicidal for months, inconsolable even by my fellow golf club chums.”
“It wasn’t until I was knocking back the brandies in the clubhouse one day that, sage of the toffs, Lord George Perrywinkle the Third, suggested I send him to the most exclusive and expensive private school money can buy, preferably his old stomping ground, Blackrock College.”
“The Rockmen will rugby tackle that sissiness out him, it would send a cleeeeeaaaaar statement of intent to the little brat,” George proclaimed, through a haze of cigar smoke to me.
“Lord George has seen it all, even attending an Irish soccer match once, so I followed his advice immediately. After all, looking down one’s protruding nose at others is what makes life worth living.”
“I only want my little Rupert to, one day, enjoy the same smug self-satisfaction of lording it over the lower castes of this town. I won’t be satisified until his personality is vacuous and shallow enough to fit into the golf holes of Bodily Fluids Glen.”
Boil, unfortunately for theis interviewer, continues in his droll monotone voice, containing more sincerity than a rapist children’s tv host. I make the bold suggestion that, with all his self-professed riches, he should be able to pay for the treatment of his child himself.
“Don’t be stupid, there are enough fools online to fall for any old sob story, and, more importantly, I won’t have to touch any of my considerable property protfolio, or little Rupert’s Blackrock College fund. One thing us Boil’s have perfected is an beal bocht, muhahahahahahahaha.”
Unfortunately for Boil, he was headbutted by the first person he decided to beg off, knocking the intrepid philnathropist into the path of an unsuspecting Korean tourist at the bar. As blood festooned her Aran weater, she declared whole heardetdly: “This is much better than a trip to Tayto Park!”
A bruised and battered Boil scurried off, vowing “never to mix with non-golf club member plebs again!”
