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Sarll on Routine
Feb. 7th, 2003 09:57 am'In order to be called upon by the muses, one must first attain a state of tranquillity,' opined Barry. 'The best way to achieve such a state is through a disciplined adherence to regularity in all things.'
'But Barry, you of all people can hardly lay claim to a disciplined lifestyle!' swooned the Duchess of Roddersea. 'You cavort, you loaf, you speculate: you have made the life of leisure and frivolity a discipline in itself!'
'Precisely my point, O Lady,' Barry deferred, dimming his lampshade: which was made entirely from the skins of former pageboys from Pembroke Chapel. 'It may appear to the untrained eye that my habits lack fibre or vigour, but in fact one sets for oneself more rigorous codes of behaviour than every gentleman in the Houses of Parliament combined. I never slip, I never compromise my standards; I am the sternest of Moralists.
'My daily routine is followed without an inch of leeway. Each morning, I am awakened by Stephens at 11.30 a.m. Over my eggs benedict I peruse the salient cultural commentary to be found in the Daily Telegraph and the Spectator. Within two hours, I am dressed and ready for my constitutional in St. James' Park, where I may flog the almswomen and shoot some pelicans if my mood happens to be of a philanthropic bent. 'When o'clock strikes three, my carriage will be crossing Vauxhall Bridge, allowing me to cast an eye over my business venture, Barry Press. My Shavian whims demand that I must occasionally pass as one of the lackeys who toil over the risible listings for Theatrical, Cinematic and Musical fetes that this capital provides for its feeble-minded miscreants. These lackeys know nothing of Truth, Enlightenment or Beauty; forsooth, they know nothing of Barry Sarll.'
'By 4.15 I am prêt á manger and repair to my palatial dwellings in East Hampstead. Having dined and powdered my nose, I am ready to re-emerge, butterfly-like, for the evening to begin. Typically, my nights out begin in the local gentleman's club of which I am a member, The Tea Bird. In the company of fellow patrons I may discuss politics, wrestle, imbibe absinthe, or put my shooting pistols to use by duelling a hapless young bounder. Such victims may include the Libertines, an effete dance troupe who have risen to celebrity on the mere basis that they once served in my kitchens. "Libertines, oh Libertines!" crow the sycophantic Jayne Michaelmas and Sarah Cock. "Please tell us, what is it like to peel the King Edwards of the great Barry Sarll?"
'After some hours have been passed in this way, I invariably move on to one of the city's more exclusive gin palaces, followed by my disciples wherever I go. I am the centre of attention and the lords and ladies of Romo society hang upon my every word. Whereas the social lubricant of intoxicating liquor dulls the wit and co-ordination of others, it only enhances my powers and magnetism. When I decide it is time to take to the floor, the sight is wondrous. The entire clientele gasp in wonder as I cut a series of dashing moves to the sound of pulsing synths and the rhythm of rhyming guitars. But those young ladies come to realise the folly of such attraction. For what is this life, but the art of eschewing the unattainable? And it is within that very category that, for nine hundred and ninety-nine thousands of the female populace, Barry Sarll must resign himself to being found.'
'But Barry, you of all people can hardly lay claim to a disciplined lifestyle!' swooned the Duchess of Roddersea. 'You cavort, you loaf, you speculate: you have made the life of leisure and frivolity a discipline in itself!'
'Precisely my point, O Lady,' Barry deferred, dimming his lampshade: which was made entirely from the skins of former pageboys from Pembroke Chapel. 'It may appear to the untrained eye that my habits lack fibre or vigour, but in fact one sets for oneself more rigorous codes of behaviour than every gentleman in the Houses of Parliament combined. I never slip, I never compromise my standards; I am the sternest of Moralists.
'My daily routine is followed without an inch of leeway. Each morning, I am awakened by Stephens at 11.30 a.m. Over my eggs benedict I peruse the salient cultural commentary to be found in the Daily Telegraph and the Spectator. Within two hours, I am dressed and ready for my constitutional in St. James' Park, where I may flog the almswomen and shoot some pelicans if my mood happens to be of a philanthropic bent. 'When o'clock strikes three, my carriage will be crossing Vauxhall Bridge, allowing me to cast an eye over my business venture, Barry Press. My Shavian whims demand that I must occasionally pass as one of the lackeys who toil over the risible listings for Theatrical, Cinematic and Musical fetes that this capital provides for its feeble-minded miscreants. These lackeys know nothing of Truth, Enlightenment or Beauty; forsooth, they know nothing of Barry Sarll.'
'By 4.15 I am prêt á manger and repair to my palatial dwellings in East Hampstead. Having dined and powdered my nose, I am ready to re-emerge, butterfly-like, for the evening to begin. Typically, my nights out begin in the local gentleman's club of which I am a member, The Tea Bird. In the company of fellow patrons I may discuss politics, wrestle, imbibe absinthe, or put my shooting pistols to use by duelling a hapless young bounder. Such victims may include the Libertines, an effete dance troupe who have risen to celebrity on the mere basis that they once served in my kitchens. "Libertines, oh Libertines!" crow the sycophantic Jayne Michaelmas and Sarah Cock. "Please tell us, what is it like to peel the King Edwards of the great Barry Sarll?"
'After some hours have been passed in this way, I invariably move on to one of the city's more exclusive gin palaces, followed by my disciples wherever I go. I am the centre of attention and the lords and ladies of Romo society hang upon my every word. Whereas the social lubricant of intoxicating liquor dulls the wit and co-ordination of others, it only enhances my powers and magnetism. When I decide it is time to take to the floor, the sight is wondrous. The entire clientele gasp in wonder as I cut a series of dashing moves to the sound of pulsing synths and the rhythm of rhyming guitars. But those young ladies come to realise the folly of such attraction. For what is this life, but the art of eschewing the unattainable? And it is within that very category that, for nine hundred and ninety-nine thousands of the female populace, Barry Sarll must resign himself to being found.'
