This is a riotous account of a Black dandy trying to cut it in Paris today. Buttocks Man is down on his uppers. His girlfriend, Original Colour, has cleared out of their Paris studio & run off to the Congo with a vertically challenged drummer known as The Mongrel. She`s taken their daughter with her. Meanwhile, a racist neighbour spies on him something wicked, accusing him of `digging a hole in the Dole`. & his drinking buddies at Jips, the Afro-Cuban bar in Les Halles, pour scorn on Black Bazaar, the journal he keeps to log his sorrows. There are days when only the Arab in the corner shop has a kind word; while at night his dreams are stalked by the cannibal pygmies of Gabon. Then again, Buttocks Man wears no ordinary uppers. He has style, bags of it (suitcases of crocodile & anaconda Westons, to be precise). He`s a dandy from the Bacongo district of Brazzaville
- AKA a sapeur or member of the Society of Ambience-makers & People of Elegance. But is flaunting sartorial chic against tough times enough for Buttocks Man to cut it in the City of Light?