Lunch is Off – Chapter One

Lunch is Off  

An Entirely Solicited, Occasionally Illustrated and Completely Unreliable Memoir.

With this memoir, Foster Unction has asked me to act on his behalf. He has furnished me with a set of journal’s he’s kept and added to over the years. The collection, with its dog-ears, its torn and pasted scraps of drawings, its coffee-stained notes slipped willy-nilly amongst the pages, makes for a horrendous task of collation. He said I can correct any lapses in grammar and punctuation, although why he thinks I am qualified to do so, escapes me. Many will attest that I’ve had the barest of association with commas and my apostrophes can often be found in embarrassing locations.

FU, an acronym for which he is known widely and affords him some amusement, has provided me with the luxury of amending any incongruities of time and space, to be prudent in regard to legal matters and to say one or two pleasant things about him. I may fill this latter request reluctantly because, as I told him, I’m not particularly fond of him. Our association, which started via email, has continued as such. He replied by saying he doesn’t care for me either or any emotions I might bring to bear, a fondness for ones fellow man being the least of it.

In my opinion you’re given to a sentimentality I find regrettable.

He went on to quote Oscar Wilde on the matter.

“The sentimentalist is one who desires to have the luxury of an emotion without paying for it.”

 As such, you are thus unreliable on any level a person might care to mention, and precisely the right fellow to be editing my journals.

Unfortunately he is aware of several matters concerning me, which if brought to light, might make an early decampment to Bogota essential. As I quite like it here, I am presently obliging the dreadful man.

No doubt I will be further obliged to address the reader entirely in the singular because those of gentler dispositions would have escaped ‘Lunch is Off’ before the first scene change. Personally, I’d recommend filling your flask with whisky and taking a long walk off a short plank, rather than read this dire nonsense. In any case, this exercise would inevitably result in one reader, perhaps two. Rest assured, the full account of Foster’s misdeeds will shortly be found in the remainder bins of a bookshop near you.

Bon appetite.

N.B. Occasionally FU’s own drawings have been supplied to illustrate some of the text. Depending on what format the memoir is in, some readers may not be able to see them. Don’t worry, they’re rubbish.

Chapter One

I was born into a great deal of comfort in 1958. My Australian father, Redding Unction was a property developer and my mother Giselda Fasnacht, a Diva of some renown. I say was because both are long dead at the time of writing.

Yes, that’s right, she is my mother. Anybody who saw her Violetta in La Traviata of 1975 at the Venice Opera, will attest to her skill and her heft. It was written in Opera Today, that she could fill the house with both her voice and her abundant physical assets. Not long after, the reviewer who made this remark, met with a fatal accident involving a cement hopper.

I never met my father. My mother always told me he was busy when I asked her about him. I found a photo once and asked Giselda if the man standing next to her in it was Redding and she confirmed it was and that the picture was taken before I was born, in Australia. He disported a wry sort of smile, quite handsome in light-coloured trousers and open-necked white shirt. He leaned against a wall with his hands in his pocket while Giselda seemed to be laughing at someone nearby but not in shot.


Giselda, a notorious snob, insisted on my attendance at the Schloss Private Boarding College in Switzerland, the country of her birth. The fact that this school was a forty-five minute drive from the family seat seemed to be one requiring no consideration at all. I entered this establishment at the age of five. To say my time there was unpleasant, would be a gross understatement of the facts. If it had not been for an English master, going by the name of Pickles, I would have been maimed, if not murdered. Below is a drawing I made of the dear fellow.

Pickles sported a mass of wiry hair and bushy sideburns, providing his narrow shoulders with ever-descending drifts of dandruff. He had an accidental opportunity to view my drawing before I could hide it and this was one of the few occasions he remained silent. Nevertheless, Master Pickles found other opportunities to declare his point of view.

Once, he handed me a private missive as I insolently ambled out of one of his lessons:

Unction, you are destined for a hard life my boy, notwithstanding that yours is the brightest young mind I have encountered in my career.  I am compelled to say you are a very unlikeable person. You are in possession of an oppositional nature verging on the psychotic, and as such, you bring out the worst in everyone you cross paths with.

You’re continuous and perverse undermining of conventional wisdom is so thoroughly reprehensible one can only but fail to view your personality with any degree of indulgence. Having said this, I see it as my mission to protect you. My only reasonable conclusion in regard to my conflicted concerns on this matter is that your case is so extreme; the science of psychiatry will have lost an opportunity to study a truly unique pathology.

I will not be passing this information along to your parents, for I fear your behaviour at school can only be a pale reflection of what they must surely be experiencing in the tortured chambers of your home.

Pickles had the gift of the gab, I’ll give the old fart that much.

Little did he know that any solicitations made in the direction of my mater and eternally absent pater would have fallen unheeded at their feet in much the same way as the passing of autumn leaves from the branches of the maple trees on our family estate.

Our garden in southern Switzerland was approximately the size of Liechtenstein and the maple was the favoured vegetation of our ancient gardener, still tending to our lands well past his hundredth birthday, albeit via a wheelbarrow pushed by his also aged son. Before you complain I admit, even by my standards, that was a very long sentence. No doubt my proposed amanuensis, Dreyfus, will deal with it.

The land mostly consisted of a vast forest still in its natural state. The garden  surrounding the house, a mere five hectares in area.  Eric Falstaff and his son Seven, were, apart from Sirius, my best friends. I will reveal all about dear Sirius later. The beloved gardeners lived in the gatehouse, a kilometre from the house. They brought me pies to eat, still hot from Seven’s wife’s oven.

‘You are too thin Foster, eat boy, eat,’ was the familiar refrain as the aged Falstaff’s passed pies to me behind the barn, having transported them on his lap in the wheelbarrow. For some reason they thought it prudent to engage in this activity in a clandestine way. They, as was all the staff at my home, believed my mother could become fearsome for any reason at all. Her disapproval was both comprehensive and long-lasting, as I myself had learnt from an early age.

The Falstaff’s, often spoke in unison, including Mrs. Falstaff. When they did this they looked at each other and burst into laughter. I also giggled to the point of exhaustion, every time it happened. I loved the Falstaff family to bits and wished for nothing so ambitious as to roam in the woods with them, cut the flowers for the diva’s vases, rake the maple leaves and sit at their hearth in the evenings, listening to their stories. Understandably, gardening was a topic close to their hearts and many an afternoon was spent listening to remarkable anecdotes regarding the vegetable kingdom.

Master Pickles, an ambiguously comforting presence in my life at Schloss, was wrong about one thing; I was not destined for a hard life. I invariably landed on my feet, granted at the expense of others; one must get ahead. With the above assessment of my early school career and the agreement of my parents, I entered into what became a lifetime of psychotherapy, interrupted briefly by a litigious stint as a psychotherapist myself. That, of course, is another story for which I would need many hours and the presence of my lawyer to explain.

 It became clear at an early age I had some talent for art and as such, I could often be found quietly drawing. My childhood was lonely, but when drawing, I was happy.

There are many sketches from this time still in existence. I made a drawing of my mother while we were on holiday in Bali, I was about thirteen and it remains one of the few realistic renderings I have produced. She is standing on the beach at Legian in a wide sunhat, peering down at a diminutive fruit seller carrying a large bowl of fruit on her head.

My mother has an expression of superiority only she could muster. I called the drawing ‘Hate’ changing it to ‘Hat’, before showing it to Giselda. She predictably found it abhorrent, saying it was not realistic to make a human, namely herself, the same colour as a boiled lobster. I decided not to press the fact that she was, in fact, severely sunburned. By this time she had lost a fair proportion of her weight, although she remained a formidable woman for the rest of her life. The holiday was brief and consisted mainly of her providing me with a Balinese playmate for every day we were ensconced at the resort, while she consorted with a variety of young Balinese men.

As a matter of interest, Giselda’s most consistent and famed singing part was that of the principal Valkyrie in the the Ring Series. She famously claimed the role as her own. So terrifying is she it seems as if Wagner created the part in anticipation that the stupendous Giselda Fasnacht would be born from the fires of hell for the express purpose of riding the chariot to Valhalla with the fallen heroes. That would have been quite a ride; one can only imagine what they got up to in transit.

Whilst holidaying in Bali my father was building a two hundred room luxury resort at Ubud in central Bali, on the slopes of the beautiful but now spoiled Campuan Valley. It was a ghastly Ziggurat of showy opulence; a testament to the heady days of excess exerted by the scions of Indonesia’s ruling classes and ably assisted by chancer’s like my father. Although father promised to be there to meet me he never showed up. I had never met the man and from what I had heard, I would be better off not doing so. In regard to matters family, I should mention here I have a half-brother, Shane who I met much later; fear not I will come to him eventually. Actually, on reflection, it might be wise to be a little fearful.


By the time I was sixteen, I had graduated secondary school and entered Cambridge to read Romantic Poetry under the Laureate, Sir Clement Knight-Clules, an extremely austere fellow who resisted human contact if it could be so arranged. Circumstances arose occasionally, where he could not evade the presence of a member of his own species. The interlocutor would be offered a chair near the door of his vast and poorly lit room in a dreary corner of the campus.

His murky countenance could be viewed fidgeting nervously with his toupee seven metres away, his desk, piled high with ancient tracts and scribbled notes, some of which collected dust on the floor surrounding the desk. The arrangement of distance was counter-intuitive, as it was known he had a hearing problem, evidenced by the total lack of acknowledgement of anything anyone said to him.

By all accounts, Sir Clement was a great man and despite his physical remoteness I excelled academically. I received only one of his notes in regard to my progress—There is, Mr. Unction, a great deal to be desired in regard to your understanding of the iambic pentameter.

Near the end of my time at Cambridge I was summoned by the great man. I took up my position adjacent to the door and Sir Clement swivelled in his chair so that only the back of his thinning hair could be seen above the piles of dusty and unmarked essays.

‘If you indicate any commitment at all, a doctorate will be yours for the taking.’

He yelled this single remark with great indignation at the filthy window he was now facing instead of me. At first I wondered if he knew who I was or whether he believed there was another person in the room.  Perhaps he was weighing the pleasant prospect of being rid of me against the peer regard I may afford him by my continued presence.

As it turned out I only just achieved a degree in English literature and at twenty-years-old I decided to discontinue my academic studies for the time being. I had more than my fill of poets, romantic or otherwise. John Donne, for instance, was clearly a rampant pants man with an idle talent for verse – although one has to wonder how he managed to get so many lines down between all the wench-bedding. He was only marginally eclipsed by William Blake’s penchant for suicidal pessimism. I suspect, when all was said and done, both Sir Clement, Cambridge and the art of poetry were better served by my decision to leave without further ado.

My reputation preceded me in the form of a note buried in the Cambridge archives. I purloined it later as result of a request via the Freedom of Information Act. The missive suggested, and I quote part thereof–

…one should have at all times immediate access to psychological services for Master Unction. His behaviour is considered aberrant by all known acceptable standards and should be watched for lapses into unpleasant social interactions and worse. Several students disappeared without a trace during his tenure here and we are sorry to say uncorroborated suspicion fell within his ambit.  (Names omitted.)

On another matter, we believe he is still in receipt of his chastity but once this has been rendered, members of the opposite sex may require supervision and counselling. To conclude and having attempted to relate the above without exaggeration, his academic achievements, though of a high level, were won with little grace. Contempt might be a more appropriate characterisation of his stay with us.

It goes without saying the accusations in regard to missing persons and in particular a certain Abdul Persimmon, are specious, to say the least. I always referred to Abdul with an attempt at comradery, as Persimmon the Persian, I even thought we could be friends at one point.

‘I’m not Persian, FU. If you knew anything about the history of my country, you would not be calling me this.’

He started moving off, doubtless looking for his prayer mat or something.

‘Oh, Percy,’ I laughed, winningly I thought, ‘you chaps are really not up for jolly japes are you?’

‘Nor am I liking Percy!’

He seemed to be on the point of tears, a condition I found repellent as a result of my own close and regrettable association with eye-water.

‘Would you, dear chap, have any inkling in regard to the meaning of gay abandon by any chance. If not, I suggest you avail yourself of some.’ I thought of giving him something more substantial than words to accompany the waterworks. Shortly after this exchange, the poor fellow went missing. His father issued a detailed and formal account of his suspicions regarding Persimmon disappearance and my alleged involvement. My parent’s solicitor later exacted a redaction of this matter in the document. But they would not stretch to an apology and the solicitor unsure of a court outcome, let it ride.

I refuse to take any responsibility for Persimmon’s vanishing, although it might be argued that the verbal exchanges and one or two unpleasant physical altercations, may have aided his absconding. I may have jokingly uttered threats but I have no memory of them. His father, a Sultan of some sort, residing in The Emirates, sent a minion proficient in the art of the garrotte, to shorten my life.

To say I escaped by the skin of my neck, might underplay the seriousness of the Sultan’s intention. The assassin was found in the Thames one Sunday afternoon. Needless to say he wasn’t practising his breaststroke at the time. I mean, who would, have you seen the state of the Thames? As it happened Abdul was eventually discovered employed as a towel boy in a Parisian brothel. Except for the absence of an eye and walking with a slight limp, he was found to be reasonably intact, although he was said to be in receipt of certain psychological disorders, including a profound dislike of feathers.

So pleased were the Sultan and the Sultana to receive their beloved Abdul back in the bosom of the family, several archers were employed for the purpose of shooting all birds venturing within a kilometre of the palace gates.

As for me; to this day I refuse to countenance any sartorial adornment in the vicinity of my neck, regardless of the unsightly scar.


The Spade Art School of London was more my cup of hemlock. I was by now turning my attentions to the fairer sex and was of the opinion that Art School might, despite the college’s unfortunate appellation, be the venue for my initiation into l’intimité sexuelle. To continue with my woeful French, reading John Donne for years had turned me into a drivelling ‘sexuelle frustré’. Madame Hand and her five lovely daughters had become tedious, if not positively arthritic and I longed for a liaison of the penetrative variety. As all young men know, it is a terrible thing to be in possession of the wherewithal without the opportunity for ingress. It was high time I addressed this literally pressing issue.

As it turned out and in refutation of the universities opinion, I was the one requiring counselling. This was because of my relationship with Penelope Flowers. She was an utterly gorgeous creature of the Gothic persuasion, with fiery red locks and a passionate nature to match. Penelope managed to socialise me where others had failed. She took my rather suspect peccadilloes and turned them into virtues. No mean feat considering the state of my moral compass. She taught me to hobnob, to mingle, make advances and tell a joke that was actually funny.

In her company, I clubbed and danced like the love-sick fool that I was. I changed my appearance from one of studied dishevelment to arrant disregard. I grew my hair to look like Ted Frenzy from the punk band Hate which I suspect, given my unpromising mien, made me look like a frightened breadfruit and doubtless I smelled like one after a night on the tiles in the vomitus, rat infested pubs we frequented in Islington.

We drew the line at sticking pointy objects into our earlobes and we sneered at the suggestion of a nose ring. We avoided the mosh pit for fear of being urinated on or worse. Neither of us had any inclination to be temporary toilets. This was frowned upon by the true believers of the scene, and we were relegated to ranks of the ersatz punks, ending up to the rear of the mad, seething throng. I have to say there were a lot more in our group than there were in the hardliners, who invariably ended up heavily dosed up with methadone in psych wards or simply dead.

I rejoiced in Penelope’s amply furnished charms. My pent-up frustrations were liberated via all manner of callisthenics of a carnal nature. To say she was gifted in the many arts of love is to evade the genius of this wondrous woman. I should make mention of the fact that she was as fabulous an artist as she was a lover. Today she is much feted; a recent show at the Tate Modern featured one of her late works. My paltry attempts at art-making were as nothing in comparison. But it must be admitted that everything I know about the libidinous arts I owe to her. Having said all this, I’m not one to create a masquerade and call it a plot, so let me tell you that deep sadness and the most appalling mayhem will follow on from here. Aside from this, if you can find any kind of plot amongst this rubbish—you’re a better person(sic) than I am Gunga Din—apologies to Rudyard.


The atonement above may be the only time you will see Foster offer regret. Savour it. Like the 1994 Château Lafite Cabernat Sauvignon, once tasted, it is a dear but fleeting memory.  If you do note other occasions or lapses as Foster himself might call them, please let me know and I will attempt to have him make corrections accordingly. He’s quite old now and impatient in regard to the use of his time. He may not take kindly to any interference in his current activities and I’m not at liberty to describe them due to one of a variety of documents I’ve been persuaded to sign.   

I happened upon him asleep in his study recently and was somewhat frightened by an aged pamphlet, On instruction for the making of The Iron Maiden, left beside the above mentioned bottle of Chateau Lafite in his chair. The aforementioned taste I write of above, my only possible association with such a wine, was sipped from the old man’s glass as he snored—this, as much for fortification, as pleasure.

I invite the reader’s progress to Chapter Two for more enchantment. Fear not, the life of Penelope and Foster together will be further explored (I was rendered speechless, unmanned even, when I first read it). You may be advised to approach a priest for reassurance before venturing further. If this proves to be inadequate, you could simply call the police.

One thought on “Lunch is Off – Chapter One”

  1. Dear Mr Unction
    Your openess about your upbringing goes a long way to explain your gradually revealed
    character. I find myself empathising with the poor little mite who as a 5 year old was given over to the likes or Mr Pickles. The quality of education you received was probably more a testament to your own resourcefulness than your tutor’s mastery. Allow me to continue with your Literacy education as a favour to compensate for the inadequacies of your formative education.
    Yours in “pUNCtuaTION”, Miss Spell.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

A satirical look at what the famous and infamous are up to with your moderator Foster Redding Unction