The Perfect 10 by Louise Kean Page A

but himself. And that used to be allowed.
    He read in the paper that you shouldn’t skip breakfast, and loath as he is to ignore the sound advice of a ‘celebrity doctor’, he now takes a shot of whiskey each morning, sharp and decent, harsh but so honest it borders on the poetic. What great advice it had been.
    Of course, he’d absolutely love a muesli bar instead, or a carrot juice, or a live yoghurt, or a vitamin garlic essential fucking fatty acid pill, or better still a month in a glorifiedcountry prison with nothing but rice cakes and fizzy water on the menu, or another lecture from another expert who knows better.
    He just hasn’t found the time.
    As much as he really wants to pay some overpriced, long-haired, four-eyed Freudian Jungian Cantian freak to tell him he really wanted to screw his mother and kill his father at the age of two but if he looked away they wouldn’t actually exist, his income just won’t stretch to that and the whiskey, and what a goddamn tragedy it is. Everybody’s life had become everybody’s business, and what a loss to society that Cagney refuses to play along.
    Want Nothing – that is the title of Cagney’s Pamphlet on Life. Subtitle: Live with your lot.
    There are so many headlines, every day so many new headlines that litter what used to be ‘news’ papers, saying exactly what they said yesterday: some new way of preaching ‘open up’. Somebody has redefined ‘emotionally healthy’ for the nation, but Cagney’s in-built dictionary doesn’t agree.
    A man, a MAN, should have basic needs that can be paid for with a twenty. Only then will they always be met. A MAN should never let his weaknesses wear him, or expose himself to the ridiculous banality of ‘self-improvement’. A MAN is a MAN at birth, and that should be good enough. Most importantly, a MAN should know when to shut up.
    Cagney’s only weakness is monkey nuts. He likes the routine, the crack between his fingers, the bits that fall away. Everywhere he goes he leaves a trail of shells. It drives people crazy, and although he thinks about giving them up, that’s as good a reason not to as any.
    He searches the internet occasionally for the nutritional value of the monkey nut, hasn’t found it yet thank God, but is afraid he might stop ageing at forty, live to one hundred, and become the Monkey Nut Miracle Marvel Man.
    The sound of footsteps on the solitary flight of stairs that lead to his office signal the arrival of somebody with size twelve feet. Hopefully his secretary will stop them coming into his office. He’ll have to hire a secretary first, of course.
    ‘For fuck’s sake …’ he swears, under his breath this time. He just can’t find a man to take on the job, and a woman would end up crying if he didn’t bring her muffins on a Friday, or throw a party every time she had her roots done.
    The door swings open and a human Labrador bursts in.
    ‘Boss!’
    Cagney stares blankly at the smile that greets him, and says nothing. The new arrival continues to smile. He is wearing communist khakis and a polo shirt, a jumper is tied around his shoulders in a Fabulous Five idiotic let’s-grab-a-dog-and-a-picnic-and-find-ourselves-a-dead-body way, and he stands, arms outstretched in greeting, as if years have passed since last they met. His name is Howard. They spend far too much time together for Cagney’s liking.
    ‘You call, I come running!’
    ‘You’d think I’d learn not to call.’
    ‘I got your nuts!’ Howard winks, and slings a bag on the desk.
    ‘Does that explain your erection?’ Cagney brushes the bag straight into his desk drawer, as Howard looks down at his crotch to double-check Cagney is joking. Satisfied that he is not actually sporting wood, he grins and props himself, full of beans and life and marrow, on the edge of Cagney’s desk.
    ‘Did I ask for a lap dance?’
    ‘Invading your space, boss, duly noted.’ But Howard doesn’t move.
    ‘I won’t pay you for it, even if you