Dear reader the latest installment from our man in the Nooo Orleans, G.T. Hoping this gives you a sense of what makes the Paris end of the deep south Tick or Tock as the case may be. Read on…

Looking for G.T

‘Beauregard has gone missing. I spoke with him shortly after the tragic demise of Will Smith recently, and he looked most unwell and was largely incoherent about the whole thing. Since then, I can find neither hide nor hair of him, despite earnest searches in the usual drawing rooms and brothels. It may be, of course, that his syphilitic brain has finally betrayed him entirely.

Will Smith is not the well-known African-American actor. Rather he was a footballer, or what passes for a footballer here. Much feted because he was a member of the team that won the all-American world championship of everything in 2009 or whenever it was, on behalf of all the people of New Orleans and not just the octogenarian team owner. So he was a good guy, as all winning sportsmen are.

Looking for G.T

There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth, then, when on a recent Saturday evening the 4WD Mercedes driven by him and his wife was pursued by the American- or perhaps Mexican-made vehicle of a 6 foot 5 thug. The ensuing gunplay left Mr. Smith dead and his wife wounded. Thus far it was almost straightforward. Except that apparently the thug had called the police to the scene before any firearm was brandished. And the survivor had the temerity to suggest that he was the victim of a hit and run and later threatened by the deceased. It hardly seems credible that a former athlete of comparable size to the assassin who has been told throughout his adult life that he is without spot or stain could display any but the most reasonable and placatory demeanour in a frank exchange of views with an irate stranger in the middle of the street, but that is what the shooter says. And then there is the sticky business that both the deceased and the putative murder are persons of tinted complexion.

So, you can see that Beauregard’s earnest desire to swiftly conclude that the good Mr. Smith was the victim of bad negro behaviour has been thrown into confusion. Last I saw he was disconsolately muttering, “Good nigger, bad nigger, both niggers, bad good nigger …” into his absinthe, and, frankly, though I feel guilty for having left him in this parlous mental state, I couldn’t stand it any longer.

I visited his rooms some days later, only to find the place in total disarray. Umbrellas left open, odd socks and teacups on every horizontal surface, his Hokusai prints strewn about as if caught in a great wind. And he had been placing odd images on the walls – something about 36 views of Lee Circle. I dug these ones out of the rubbish. If they make sense to you, you’re a better man than I’.