The portrait of ukmonty

Long-term friends of Alastair Montgomery will know thatukmonty is a man who never seems to alter. Perennially boyish, with a light, jaunty spring in his step, and a fresh, youthful glow to his complexion, he is one of those fortunate individuals who seem by and large to have sidestepped the ravages of the years. A few weeks ago angusabranson posted up some photos of the old days of him and his chums, some of which were pictures of Monty from 1991. Much to my bemusement, Monty does not appear to have aged a single day in the last decade and a half, the lucky devil. Naturally I asked him what his secret of eternal youth was.
"Clean living", he nodded at me. "Temperansche, plenty of exshershise, cold showersh, and -hic!- reading a page of the Bible every night before going to bed at 9pm sharp. Apart from the occasionashional, strictly medishinal little dram of alcohol on doctors orders, it's the shtraight and narrow for me."

Well, naturally I took him at his word and implemented my own clean-living regime at the first opportunity. I ran, lifted weights, swore off the demon drink, went to bed early and so forth, but, sadly, the ravages of time still inexorably leave their mark. However, a few days ago I descended upon Monty Towers for dinner and the scales fell from my eyes. As the evening drew on we retired to the smoking room for a medicinal glass of port and a cigar, when Monty raised his bottle to show only the dregs remaining and he exclaimed (as he so often does)
"Blasht! The port'sh run out! I say, old fellow, be a shport and nip up to the attic for another bottle, would you?"
I agreed.
"On second thoughtsh", he went on, "better make that two. Three, if you want one."

Monty had once explained to me that to function properly, his body required regular infusions of Dow '63, on his doctor's advice. Apparently the poor fellow suffers from some rare but debilitating medical condition - "sobriety," I think he called it, if memory serves. I hadn't heard of it, but it sounded nasty.
Dutifully I set up the stepladder and ascended through the trapdoor into musty blackness.
I'd never been up into Monty's attic before and my first impression as I shone my Maglite about from side to side, sending the black shadows leaping and flaring up the wall, was of towering mounds of empty bottles on all sides, presumably the relics of some previous occupant. At the far end of the floor, however, I thought I could make out what looked like a wine case, and I was picking my way gingerly through the empties towards it when I became aware of a large, dark object looming to my right beneath the eaves.

I swung round my torch. The object appeared to be an enormous canvas, easily the size of a man, mounted in an ornate gilt frame, but with the subject of the painting obscured by a heavy drape, Curious as to why Monty should choose to keep such a thing out of sight up in his attic, I twitched the canvas away. It felt in heavy folds to the floor, and I found myself staring in inexpressible horror at the thing that lay beneath.
The subject appeared to be a man - or what had once been a man; for every aspect of the loathsome object that met my fascinated yet revolted gaze spoke of countless years of unutterable depravity, from the twisted leer that disfigured the bloodshot eyes, the engorged, rubicund nose, the lubricious and jaundiced features, to the bloated frame, the sunken hands curled like claws and yellowed with nicotine, the monstrous foot, swollen to the size of a prize marrow with gout, that lay bandaged and propped on a pillow.
I cannot say how long I stared upon this monstrosity before a sound from the trapdoor brought me turning round with a start.
"Oh, blasht," said Monty, "you've found it."
"Monty," I cried, "why on earth have you got a picture of John Prescott in your attic?"
Monty gave me a shifty look, like a guilty schoolboy. All at once, a horrid suspicion began to stir in my mind. I looked at him, then at the picture. "It's not Prescott, is it, Monty, it's you. Admit it, you don't owe your boyish good looks to clean living at all. You've made a pact with Beelzebub."
"I never!" he exclaimed. "It was Mephishtopheles! A fellow hash to have shome shtandardsh, you know."
"And to think all that time I ...I admired you, Monty! I always thought what a fine example you were to us all! I feel betrayed. Why, you know once I actually tried to emulate all that 'clean living' stuff myself! Cah!"
"Dash it all, Wade," said Monty uncomfortably, "I dareshay everyone'sh got a few shkeleton'sh in hish closhet."
"We-ell, I suppose that's true. But," I added, bridling with indignation, "all the same...I certainly don't think I have anything as bad as a deal with infernal forces to blot my copybook"
He fixed me with a stern but mocking glare. I quailed, knowing full well what he was thinking of. "Well, except for that, of course", I admitted.
"Jolly good, well, that'sh that shettled then, Now buck up and fetch that port, there'sh a good fellow."

I hesitated, then shrugged. After all, who am I to cast judgment on the alternative lifestyles my friends choose to adopt? Live and let live, I told myself, that's my motto. What a very dull world it would be, if everybody was just the same as everybody else.
Stooping over the case, I retrieved the last three bottles of Dow and made to follow Monty back down the trapdoor. As I climbed down the ladder, I wondered if Monty could put me in touch with his benefactor.