19 November 2007
In which his lordship hits the town – right in the balls.
November 20th, 1856.
It was a freezing cold, damp and drizzly November evening, and rather than being snugly ensconced in the warmth of my luxurious mansion, I was outside, standing in the rain, getting wetter and more irate with each passing second.
“What in the name of blue-arsed buggery am I doing here?” I snapped angrily.
“Um…it was your idea, milord,” replied my equally sodden man-servant, Botter.
“My idea?!” I snorted. “It was my idea to come and stand in the pouring rain, freezing my balls off, with only you for company? I find that very hard to believe.”
“Well, milord, you did say that…”
“Botter, please, do not tell me my own mind. That will only enrage me, and then you shall be beaten about the head. Do you understand?”
“But I – “
And so, rather inevitably, I clouted Botter around the head with my cane. He yelped in pain.
“Now let that be a lesson to you, Botter, I do not want to…what-ho!” I said, suddenly espying a poster upon the wall nearby. “Look, Botter, there’s that show I wanted to see!”
“November the twentieth, eh?” I continued as I read the advert. “Why, ye Gods! That is today’s date, Botter! We should jolly well get going! We do not want to miss this performance, let me tell you! It sounds simply staggering!“
“Milord, that is what I was trying to tell you – we ARE going to see that show! You read an advertisement in the news-paper for this production, and then you got so excited that you demanded we head to London immediately. Along the way, you drank an enormous amount of whisky, and when you ran out of whisky you started on the brandy. After that, you went on to the gas from the carriage’s gas-lamps, and then fell asleep. And now, we’re here – standin’ out in the rain, waitin’ to get into this here theatre!”
“Well, what a pleasant surprise!” I beamed. “I really should get blind, steaming drunk more often, you know. Every day is a fresh barrage of unexpected delights when one is in a semi-permanent state of alcohol-induced amnesia, I must say.”
“Still…an apology would be nice,” muttered Botter, rubbing the back of his head rather over-theatrically.
“Botter, Botter, Botter. Being a member of the upper class means I never need apologise, you know that!” I said, as I inspected the theatrical poster more closely. “Good heavens! I went to school with this fellow!”
“You went to school with Silas Surprise?” asked Botter, somewhat awe-struck.
“Hmmm? Oh, no, not him. This chap, here,” I said, indicating to the far smaller print at the bottom of the page. “‘Archibald the Entirely-Adequate‘. That’s the one! Funnily enough, he had exactly the same nickname at school. Ha! Poor old Archibald.” I paused a moment. “Hold on! Do you suppose that this is the reason why I wanted to come here? To catch up with my old chum Archie?”
“No, you just said you wanted to see a woman getting viciously penetrated by a wild lion.”
“Well, quite,” I mused. “It is not every day you get to see such a spectacle. Still, maybe I shall drop in on Archie whilst I am here. It should be nice to see the old boy again, and besides which it is always infinitely entertaining to meet up with past classmates, if only to rub my enormous success and considerable wealth in their wretchedly unfulfilled faces!”
“Very good, milord.”
“Egads! This queue is moving damnably slow, is it not?” I griped, as the line shuffled slowly forwards towards the theatre. “Damn it all to Hades! I should not have to suffer the inconvenience of queuing with the rest of the proletariat now, should I? I am a ruddy aristocrat, after all! I shall go and have a word with the doorman, and see if I cannot use my high-standing and VIP status to get us in quicker.”
Botter sighed as I broke free from the queue, and strode purposefully down to the front of the line. Without breaking my pace, I walked up the steps and toward the open doors.
“Excuse me, sir, where do you think you are going?” the doorman enquired, blocking my path with a thick, tree-trunk like arm. “You will have to join the queue, I’m afraid.”
“A pox on you and your ruddy queue!” I shouted. “Do you not know who I am?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, sir,” replied the doorman, shrugging his hefty shoulders.
“Well, I am very important indeed, let me tell you. I think you shall find my name upon that list of guests you are holding, there,” I said, noticing the sheet of paper clutched in the Neanderthal man’s fat mitt.
“Oh! I’m sorry, sir,” replied the ape. “And you are?…”
“I’m just here,” I interjected, jabbing my finger blindly on the page.
“You’re Mrs. Gobblerod?”
“Well, no, clearly not. I’m just down a bit…” I said, running my finger down the list. “I should be just…HERE!” And with that, I whipped my fist off from the bottom of the sheet, and straight into the doorman’s groin. The man exhaled deeply, then crumpled to the floor, clutching his badly-bruised ball-sack.
“Hm.” I casually rested my cane upon my shoulder as I regarded my handiwork. “Crude, but undeniably effective. Come, Botter!” I cried out, turning to the theatre’s doors. “It is show-time!”
- Lord Likely.
Now Open: We are very pleased to announce the unveiling of The Upper Crust, a very special web-based community for all those loyal to his lordship to engage in friendly discussion, befriend one another, share items of interest and to get blind, roaring drunk. It is absolutely free to join, and his lordship hopes to see you there. Please bring a bottle.
