Welcome to Lunch With Worthies
Having found the very idea of celebrity endlessly hilarious I have come to the conclusion there is room and indeed a necessity to illuminate the wonders of our betters whilst dining. This rancid trope has been trotted out before but I intend to make more than a meal out of it.
We have all stood in the thrall of many a worthy. Who among us has not secretly thought or openly expounded a desire to spend a liquid afternoon listening to somebody interesting.
My goodness, I would give my left testicle to pick the brains of Oscar Wilde if he was still with us and not only that but sit at table with him, sans testicle, imbibe a fine wine and munch on a freshly slain beast. I fear, however, in dear old Oscar’s case the affair would have deteriorated in direct proportion to the amount of Absinthe consumed. I use Oscar as my guide with most things. It was, after all Algernon Moncreif in ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ who made the following remark.
When I am in trouble, eating is the only thing that consoles me. Indeed, when I am in really great trouble, as any one who knows me intimately will tell you, I refuse everything except food and drink.
Oscar also said.
It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information.
Oscar, I can now assure you that this is no longer the case. We have it in spades and we all seem to want more of it.
Thus I, Foster Redding Unction (commonly shortened to FU) can be your proxy. Allow me to navigate the shoals of worthiness. Bring to light, in the Newtonian sense, clarity of thought, combining a frank discussion and food with a fascinating person of note and have your gastric juices tickled over braised something or other and an absurd amount of wine. Little by little Team Unction will endeavour to elucidate the truth, decry obfuscation and generally make a nuisance of ourselves.
To facilitate these pleasurable experiences I have decided to use my own somewhat excessively grand home in Bellevue Hill as the venue for these Soirees. As according to the Gospel of St.John this fellow Jesus supposedly said “there are many rooms to my fathers house” and I can assure you I am never far from my dining room nor my wine cellar for that matter. I have been known, in fact, to spend entire evenings in the cellar, albeit a little worse for wear.
I have also engaged the services of the ridiculously famous and equally unpleasant thrice hatted Chef Racine Furtiva, a short man of immense talent and girth. Every week he will provide an unsurpassed culinary delight. These delicious recipes will be published alongside the transcript of my interviews.
I had hoped to provide videos of these marvelous conversations and culinary activities but unfortunately the film-maker, Jackson Speilbotrus Galia, hired for the purpose, has rather inconveniently died. Poor fellow tripped on a cable and was impaled on something or other protruding from his editing desk. It is to be hoped that a suitable replacement may be found.
My intern, Trudy Festival (coming highly recommended by my plumber) will be of some assistance making appointments, answering the door and phones and fiddling about with the cutlery. She is both quiet and discrete. Barely a word passes her lips but when it does it is a much considered one. I only recently discovered that the dear girl has been acquainting herself with the martial arts. She has become indispensable in regard to protecting my person from injury – an issue, I might add, seeming to crop up rather too often.
I must make mention of my frightfully beautiful wife, Dympha. She can be often spied lounging about with a flute of Krug and an expression of decorous boredom. She insists on smoking her ghastly cheroots inside and she is often proceeded by an acrid plume of smoke wherever she may roam and roam she does, mostly nude, interfering in one thing or another.
To say that Dympha and Racine do not hit it off is to make a gross understatement of their relationship. There has been occasion where a physician must be present after some of their ‘conversations’. Dympha has pots and pots of money and I have barely a pot to piss in, so it is in my interests to keep her sweet. Fortunately, the occasional and discreet dose of Ritalin seems to placate her.
I am obliged to remark upon a dreadful man, Christian Roughside, who is in charge of IT. The fellow is a clumsy oaf given to dipsomania. He is rumoured to be married to one of my siblings…Shana or somebody, so please forgive any technical issues that may arise. Christian can often be found drunk in some tavern going on about the parlous state of affairs in the world. He is an unrepentant womaniser, a hideous bore and a dolt. If anybody sees him lying under a table somewhere, give him a good kicking and tell him he has work to do.
I will not decline to intimate at this late hour that all the babbling’s in this blog are subject to copyright. It would be a gross invasion of my meagre talents if some person or persons with a scarcity of moral fibre were to purloin words, phrases and images without speaking to my barrister first. Certain deeply unpleasant consequences (garroting has been known to occur) can and will be delivered to any perpetrators of this misdeed.
I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the thugs I have at my disposal are dimwitted fools to a man. If you find you have been mistaken for a copyright thief, garroting can be avoided thus…
I never venture abroad without this canny device.