The Western Gate

Quite why the area of Mayfair in London gives birth to the extrovert and colourful characters has little to do with it being the most expensive plot in Monopoly and more to do with the pretentious boutiques, artisan ‘what-have-you’s’ and overpriced galleries selling art presumably by the same artists who convinced the king of his invisible cloak that only the wise (and of course,gullible) could see. Ironically, these factors also add weight to the reason behind Mayfair indeed being the most expensive plot in Monopoly.

Look at him there, strutting his stuff, looking into the distance as if on stage, chin up and back straight, he walks with an ornate cane, solid silver mount in the fashion of a skull, there is nothing wrong with his legs, or back, the cane but a prop to wield, to add to his airs and graces . The other hand in his pocket and though he walks with purpose, there is in fact no point to his afternoon stroll nor urgency, it is just a stroll down the avenues of Mayfair to be seen, and smelled, he wore the latest scent from a small family run affair, who’s name I will omit as I find the scent overpowering and clinical and wish them no sales on my part by inclusion.

He is, one of those influencer types, high end. He reviews expensive books, pens, watches and has a moderate following. He accumulates the likes and thumbs up from his social media account and regards them as notches on his ego bedpost.
His account will be filled with purchases of rare and obscure items which he posts under his pseudonym and writes articulate and boastful announcements of this and that, each new entry in his mind fanning the eager crowd he cannot see, offering them morsels of how extravagant he is, how he simply had to buy that new limited edition Mont Blanc pen, that new retro compact camera, the expensive one, how he has crafted for him discreet jewellery pieces of bone grafted from the villain of a hangman’s noose, and in a secret compartment a lock of hair from a poor wretched victim of some supposed witch trial. The only crumbs from his table to those following his brags were simply the pictures and the descriptions of all the opulent and rare curios that he has amassed. Look at what I have.
Such a person never views the self second best, a cut above the rest, the charm and cutting wit, tops whatever you could bring to the table of ‘my dads bigger than your dad’. If you bought the first edition book of some esoteric fancy, his would be signed. If you bought a small art print of a limited run, he would have number 1, or indeed the original.

His latest acquisition was a letter written to a certain Comte -DeLausanne from an even uncertain Commander Gilles De Rais. It was he, De Rais, the chief in the army that was raised by Jean D’Arc to storm wherever held those she didn’t agree with, and it was the very same DeRais who had a pretence for indulging in unnatural vices, the splitting open of young boys stomachs and masturbating himself whilst sitting upon the pile of bleeding guts. You would have thought that Jean being gifted with the voice of God would have chosen a better candidate for her sycophantic pope army, certainly a more pious man than Gilles.
The letter, from DeRais, now in possession of our show off, itself said little of his fetishes nor indicated that his constitution was thataway inclined. It were simply a late but thankful letter for the Comte’s hospitality and that the meal still ‘lui a cédé l’envie de s’asseoir à nouveau à la table de vos éminences pour déguster le plus délicieux des faisans et des cognacs’ (surrendered unto him the desire to once again sit at your eminences table to sample the most delicious of pheasant and cognac) that the Comte offered him. There was no talk of the siege, or of the maid of Orleans, let alone whispers of sadistic endeavours.
Our pretentious ponce, with his compact retro (and expensive camera) takes a photo of the letter and posts it online to await the fawning, the swooning, the jealous and envious crowd who feed his alliance to the academy of worthy pedigree.

Now, unbeknown to our Mayfair Dandy, there was a considerable circle of friends who had created an online discussion group, this, by invite and subsequent degrees of questioning to admittance of the said circle, and the one common factor that these selected but eminent few had was that they were subscribers and ‘followers’ of our subject of discussion.
It could be that this inner circle, or perhaps outer circle, were akin to a ‘fan club’, except they were far from fans. In secret and in quiet regard they were in fact the mockers of the Dandy. Of course our peacock from Mayfair had no clue of their existence nor of their discreet sarcastic pleasure at his expense. Each of them would roleplay as grovelling sycophants, and each would read with delight every members incessant praise of whatever post the pretentious bore uploaded.
“This is quite possibly the finest thing I have seen.”
“What I would give to have a collection such as yours.”
“Astounding !”
The pompous prat of course would merely waft his imaginary empirical hand over the ‘plebs’ applause, such was his demeanour, likening the baying crowd to dogs beneath his feet.
Little did he know, they were in fact creating the monster, the conceited smug and vain snob. They were feeding his ego, crafting the ugly collector of expensive nuances to further nudge him and outdo those extravagant purchases to evermore ridiculous acquisitions.
”How will you top this find?” Came the prompts.
In the circle the messages were trending , “and he bought the caviar posts out today, what a panderer”, “I knew we’d get the champagne posts today it’s been a while, he’s just the worst !”

The ‘master’ of the circle was a certain son of Lord, let us say, Montague. Now the dandy, as I have not yet explained is of American birth and indeed has only been residing in the U.K. for the last ten years or so.
As Montague famously ranted somewhat as a rallying cry , “There is nothing more obscene or crass than an American trying to be classy, a fucking American acting as if they’re upper middle to high class.”
It was a sentiment echoed by all in the circle, such a thing was an object of obvious ridicule. No amount of caviar,champagne, watches,pens,or museum piece curios would ever change that.
The American Dandy of Mayfair would never know that some 30 or so of his ardent followers were merely playing a game at his expense. They would hold parties where they would parody his words, in gestures worthy of Oscar Wilde repeat his primed up self adulation and mock his latest acquisitions. All of them bound by the oath and code of the circle, ne’er to repeat the true nature of their Machiavellian comedy except to those brothers and sisters who were admitted into the sanctum of the Mayfair Dandy Insulters.

Our Dandy is in bed, his head is swimming a little from the fine cocktail party he had been to where he had swanned over how marvellous he was and offered nibbles of ‘fascinating artefact’ stories, two of those present were members of the Insulters, they couldn’t wait to tell the others in the circle of the cocktail evening experience.
“I told him how divine he was, and he just looked to the ceiling as if to say, I know”
Indeed as vultures eyeing their prey, the Insulters first… across the grapevine speaking in hushed corridors were now physically fluffing up the garments upon which our Dandy wore. Soon, all his acquaintances would be the Insulters, praising him, loving him, openly admitting how they envied him, all the while, laughing and behind his back mocking the ludicrous and pomposity of the twit.

For many years the charade was played, a theatre of secrecy and masquerade.
No matter how much wealth the dandy had, or the sizeable worth of his assets and gain, it were his inner body that dealt the Brutus dagger. The big C. Perhaps the years of smoking the finest cigars, the most exotic of cigarettes, the unhealthy foie gras, the rich and strength of the liquors and spirits that pickled his organs, who knows, but far from wasting time to see the consultants when the first strains of pain, dizziness and nausea occurred, he rejected them, he had an audience to play to, drinks to drink, fine food to sample…….

We now consider his death bed, as he lay there thinking back upon his life, at all the wonderful things he ate, and drank, and purchased. And how all that! Made him the figure, so loved, by all that met him. Loved for all that he had drunk, ate and owned. Content then, he could die, albeit a few decades earlier than perhaps he would have liked but had lived a life that most, if they lived those extra decades would have felt full and complete. It was the thought of those who adored and worshipped his posts that slipped into the cavity of his mind when the door and spark of life shut firm.
In a meeting house just outside of Mayfair, the Temple of the Mayfair Dandy Insulters held their swan song ceremony, to the grave he went without ever knowing, the figure of fun, the grotesque jester, the king for a day, the plaything of the chattering and cruel classes.