THE NOBS

A soap opera starring totalitarian globalists and some of their slaves

CHAPTER ONE

“Wipe my arse!” growled Mr Farquhar Nob from the bowels of the privy. Mr Grey dragged his old bones over to the wet wipes and, trying hard not to touch Mr Nob’s shrivelled rear, he performed his duty for the last time. With a slight sigh of relief he expired right there with his veiny nose pressed into the cushioned velvet.

“Damn it!” grumbled Mr Nob “Where will I find a new Groom of the Stool on a Sunday morning?” as he figured out how to pull up his pants for the first time in his life.

Stepping over the prostrate Mr Grey with an expression of revulsion, Mr Nob went to the door of his wife’s suite and entered without announcement.
”Can I borrow one of your girls? Old Grey has carked it!” he spoke into the empty space. “Oh for the love of Satan!” he cursed. “Where is everyone?” and turned towards the sweeping stairwell spiralling past portraits of his incredibly ugly ancestors.

“Can I be of service Your Excellency, Sir?” offered a subservient, trembling, acne faced lad whose head poked out from a cupboard that Mr Nob had never noticed before.
”Who the fuck are you?” he barked. “Where’s my fucking wife?”

“Madam Excellency is servicing the stallions Sir!” came the candid reply as the lad scampered down the stairs to avoid further awkward questions.
”Fucking nympho!” snarled Mr Nob.

Mrs Caressa Nob, twice as tall as Mr Nob and far too classy for him, was wearing her customary horned helmet and thigh high leather boots. Otherwise completely naked, she appeared through the French windows and cracked her horse whip. “Breakfast!” she demanded, sinking with dramatic exhaustion into her dining room chair.

“Quails eggs and oysters for me!” added Farquhar Nob towards the backs of his fleeing staff. Caressa Nob sneered in the general direction of her husband without actually looking at him and faked a shudder. She picked up the Sunday Telegraph and hid behind it pretending to be engrossed in the news as usual.

“I need a new Groom of the Stool and get the gardener to bury old Grey, would you dear?” slimed Farquhar. “The old bugger will start to stink if we leave him decaying on the privy floor.”
”You wore him out very quickly!” complained Caressa. “We’ve only had him 50-odd years, Fuky! Was he insured? We could do with a fresh claim….. I want some accessories for the…. erm…. stables.”
”I bet you do, Caressa darling! Must be so tedious servicing stallions by hand.” Farquhar Nob’s eyebrows feigned concern for a fraction of a second before settling back into their usual bushy groove of contempt.

A slight kerfuffle from beyond the open window attracted their attention. “Mater, Pater!” drawled their beloved adult daughter as she barely brushed her parents with a kiss on her way to breakfast.

Dressed for tennis, Getona Nob had remarkably large teeth and a thick coarse ponytail. She tended to snort when she laughed which reminded her father of his finest stud stallion, Buckfast. The resemblance was quite uncanny.

“I am off to Monaco with Toadie Tarquin this evening, Mummy!” she announced. “Not sure for how long….. we may take the yacht down to Malta. Visit Toadie’s grandmama or something.” Caressa Nob beamed with delight at her daughter. She had frequently hinted that Tarquin Ramsbottom would make a splendid husband and she fantasised about her daughter’s future as Getona Ramsbottom, living the dream in Europe’s most aristocratic havens.

“I suppose we should prepare for a wedding Fuky!” Caressa Nob suggested, folding the Telegraph neatly. Farquhar Nob visualised his crypto wallet suddenly deflating to oblivion and made a mental note to check in with his BlackRock investment adviser, Fud McHodl. He grunted almost inaudibly but was rescued from making any confirmatory remarks by the arrival of his quails eggs and oysters.