Free Grantchester Grind by Tom Sharpe

the

    office.
    In the event he was pleasantly surprised by Purefoy who was relatively well dressed

    for an academic and was actually wearing a tie for the occasion and wasn’t unduly

    impressed by being taken to the Savoy Grill. Having passed that test with flying

    colours–Purefoy had accepted a glass of dry sherry rather than the extra dry martini

    Goodenough had offered him and had then quietly had two glasses of wine with the meal

    Goodenough insisted on taking him to an extremely low strip joint. Purefoy expressed

    the opinion that he had never been into anywhere like it before and didn’t think he

    wanted to ever again. And anyway the girls were absolutely nothing to write home about

    though, come to think of it, some of them were so dreadful trying to describe them in a

    letter might help to exorcize the memory of them. As a result of that remark–Goodenough

    had found one or two of the strippers rather attractive–their next stop, after Purefoy had

    practically been forced to have two double Scotches, was at a gay bar filled with

    transvestites and men in leather where Purefoy was touched up by someone who might have been

    a lesbian but probably wasn’t. By that time Goodenough was almost convinced, and there was

    no ‘almost’ about Purefoy’s opinion of Goodenough.
    Goodenough’s next question, put as he leant negligently against the bar, clinched it.

    Are you by any chance interested in anal-erotic fantasies?’ he asked.
    Purefoy backed hurriedly away from him and bumped into a man wearing a leather thong

    who seemed to enjoy the encounter. ‘Sorry,’ Purefoy muttered, still keeping a very wary

    eye on Goodenough.
    ‘Don’t be,’ said the man in the thong. ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’
    Which was, for once, true. Purefoy Osbert wasn’t enjoying himself at all. In fact the

    whole evening had been excruciating. He had been taken to an extremely expensive

    restaurant by a lawyer in rather too light a suit and grey suede shoes who had tried to get

    him drunk on a huge export-strength gin martini which he had had the good sense to refuse,

    had then eyed him most oddly throughout the meal, and had seemed particularly

    interested in his hands and his mouth. After that, presumably to soften him up, the

    bloody man had made him sit in a filthy strip joint and look at repulsive women taking off

    their clothes and squirming. Then there had been the insistence on two double whiskies and

    a bar filled with homosexuals where he wanted to know if Purefoy was interested in

    anal-erotic fantasies. No wonder the bastard had been looking at him so peculiarly all

    evening. Purefoy wasn’t waiting around to find out what was going to happen next. Not that

    he needed to be told. And he had a pretty good idea why he had been offered the Fellowship

    at Porterhouse when he hadn’t even applied for it.
    Purefoy Osbert headed for the door and had several more distasteful encounters on

    the way. Behind him Goodenough followed but Purefoy had had enough. ‘Now you just hold it,’

    he said menacingly, backing into the road. ‘You just stay away from me.’
    ‘But my dear chap,’ Goodenough said by way of apology, ‘I only wanted’
    ‘Well, you’re not getting it and that’s for sure. I don’t know how you got the notion…oh

    yes I do. It’s that bloody cousin of mine–Vera’s idea of a practical joke. My God, I’ll make

    her pay for it. Dragging me all the way to London.’
    ‘No one is dragging you, I can assure you of that,’ said Goodenough. ‘It’s obvious

    you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’
    ‘I haven’t,’ said Purefoy with a slight slur. Those two double Scotches were having an

    effect ‘The stick I’ve got hold of…’ He looked around for a weapon and was nearly run over by

    a taxi. As he lurched forward Goodenough took his arm.
    Purefoy shook him off. ‘Let’s get this absolutely straight,’ he said and clenched his

    fist. ‘You