The gay mafia hits back at its enemies

'Do we want to go on being a sinister organisation exerting influence behind the scenes or not?'

The loft-style apartment in Clerkenwell was a minimalist combination of plain white walls and exposed brick. Behind the desk was a black-and-white photograph of Manhattan; on it was a vase of ginger blossoms and willow. Don Nigel sat there, reading the headline on the newspaper. To look at him, you would not suspect that here was one of the most powerful and sinister men in the world. Few men knew his name, but those who did trembled when they heard it. He was the Boss. In a world of girl's blouses, he was the biggest. He was the cappuccino di tutti cappuccini. He shouted for his henchman.

"What is it now?" David said, coming in from the kitchen. "I'm up to my wrists in Jamie Oliver's buns, actually."

"Dave," Don Nigel said. "We've got a problem."

"Actually, I prefer to be called David, as you very well know," said David. "What's that you've got there? Attitude?"

Don Nigel sighed and tossed the paper across the desk. "That stupid tart of a newsagent delivered the wrong mag again. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times – there's no point in asking anyone but Harvey Nicks to deliver anything. Just look at this – they're on to us."

Together they read the monstrous headline. "Is Britain ruled by a gay mafia? We Investigate."

"Oh. My. God." David said. "You mean to say that they've worked it out? I honestly thought they'd go on being fooled by us passing ourselves off as hairdressers, shop assistants and models. Fancy a lot of breeders seeing past all that hanging around in Soho, comparing outfits, downing lagers and going: 'You're wasting your time, dear, I had that one years ago.' They've finally discovered that..."

"That there's a mafia. And it's gay. It looks bad. Once they start to look into it, they're going to discover the whole truth. They're going to discover about the Old Compton Street turf war we had with Don Julian and the boys from Earl's Court. They might even start writing about the dawn raids on the Gucci sale."

"That was fabuloso, letting down their car tyres before they could get there. I got a lovely top, half price."

"That must have made a nice change from your usual Zara, dear. But this is serious. Read it. They already know that the posse runs every single footman at Buckingham Palace; it says so, here. They must have a pretty good suspicion that this mobile phone can put me through to every interior decorator in London. And once they've found that out, they've virtually penetrated the innermost ring, if you know what I mean."

"Don Nigel," David gasped. "What are you saying?"

"I mean," Nigel said calmly. "It might not be long until they discover that there is not a Spanish waiter in London who isn't part of the gay mafia. There's only one thing to do. You see this journalist? I want you to take him out. Today."

"You must be joking," David said. "Look at him, he's dressed in beige from head to foot, I couldn't face the embarrassment."

"No, you stupid tart, I want him dead, he knows too much. By tonight, I want him swimming with Ivan Massow's koi carp."

"Well, I'd love to, honestly, but today's a complete mare – I mean, I was going to the gym, and then I said I'd have lunch with Simon at Freedom and after that, you remember those lovely Armani belts in Vogue last month, I was planning to pop in there, so I don't really see how I can fit in an assassination today, and tomorrow's not much better."

Don Nigel narrowed his eyes, and started playing menacingly with a Philippe Starck pencil-sharpener.

"Oh, all right," David said. "I suppose I could blow Simon out, though he'll never forgive me, you know what he's like."

"The point is," Don Nigel said, "do we want to go on being a sinister organisation of gays exerting influence behind the scenes and controlling society with a network of poofy operatives or not? Of course, if you don't want to be part of our plan to take over the world, I could arrange to send you somewhere quiet. Leeds, perhaps."

"They've got Harvey Nicks in Leeds now," David said, but his voice was trembling. "Oh, all right. After today, he'll never flounce again. Though I don't know why it's always got to be me doing all the murdering when you're just sitting on your arse all day long, actually."

"Thanks ever so much, David," Don Nigel said. "You are a sweety."

With David gone, Nigel turned his mind to bigger things. What was next for the gay mafia, their secret operations made secure? The Royal Family was under close observation. Infiltration of the Army was well under way. The fashion industry was in the limp grip of Don Nigel, and men like him. There was only one thing on his mind.

"Right," he said to himself. "Let's arrange some flowers."

p.hensher@independent.co.uk