Henry Vespa

Henry Vespa

The world’s laziest radical was born in the heart of darkness, known otherwise as the West Midlands in the UK.  The family was poor, mainly because all the money was spent on sending Henry to a very nice private school, thank you very much, which utterly failed to result in anything like an Oxbridge degree, membership of the old boys’ network or even a Cabinet post. The sibling resentment thrives to this day

A short, 19-year career in the Civil Service involved the standard Satanic contract: each month another fraction of Henry’s soul was drained away in exchange for just enough salary to maintain life (but not necessarily as we know it, Jim). On the day the escape tunnel was completed and used, Henry stood blinking uncertainly in the light of a fresh dawn with just 37% of his immortal essence remaining. It’s enough as long as he’s frugal.

Over the years, spells living in Coventry, London, and the Northeast had annihilated the Birmingham accent (except when the word “toothbrush” must be spoken) and provided an unexpected depth of anthropological insight into Britannia that led directly to Henry fleeing to Spain in 2010.

Now living in Barcelona, surrounded by culture and pa amb tomaquet, Henry ignores the world as much as possible, conserves his energy and thanks to his years of training and study with the ancient masters of irony and sarcasm, has a jaded or acerbic comment for every occasion.

Henry earns a meagre living as a cheap scribbling whore, reluctantly typing out written hand jobs for anyone willing to spend a few euros in exchange for feeling seedy afterwards. On a less mundane level, Henry is hard at work on his first novel – a veritable mille-feuille of alternate realities and quasi-autobiography – however, no matter how much he thinks about it, words have yet to appear on paper: if the power of thought continues to fail, he may have to invest in a pencil or crayon.

As for other hobbies, interests, eccentric foibles and other doomed endeavours… he is fond of obscure Scandinavian jazz, artesan beers (the darker, the better) and pretending to have read Proust. Henry no longer consults the I Ching. His other obsessions must remain obscured by a veil of mystery in order to avoid retribution, reprisals and general abhorrence and/or lynch mobs on the part of the general public.

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