31 January 2008
In Which Botter Has A Simply Smashing Time
May the First, Eighteen Fifty-One.
“Aye,” said Harry Flashman, leaning in to get a closer look at the Koh-i-Noor Diamond, now believed to be a fake. “I’ll say we have a mystery on our hands. This one is definitely not the real thing.”
“Now, Mr. Flashman, are you absolutely certain? I need you to be totally and utterly, one hundred per-cent sure of this, before we commence our investigations. I do so hate going into anything half-cocked.”
“Listen, your lordship,” Flashman replied, swivelling around to face me. “I’ll never forget the Koh-i-Noor diamond. You can’t easily forget such a gem when you’ve seen it passed around an orgy as a highly-expensive sex-toy1.”
“That’s good enough for me, ” I mused, stroking my beautiful moustache in deep contemplation. “Sex-toy, you say? That rather piques my interest, I must say.”
“Oh, you should have seen it, your lordship! That diamond has been up more mimsies than our two todgers combined, I’d warrant.”
“Blimey!” I exclaimed. “So it is true what they say – diamonds really are a girl’s best friend.”
Flashman laughed. “Aye, milord! You could say that!”
“Right, enough of that! Let us focus on the mystery at hand!” I snapped. “Where should we begin our investigation, hmm? I wonder who…” I paused. “Did anyone place that diamond up their anus, perchance?”
“Every orifice, your lordship!”
“Jesus Christ, that makes me as randy as hell, I can tell you. Do you think I might be permitted to go and have a quick one off the wrist before we continue, to clear my head, as it were?”
Flashman looked at me like I was a crazy person, but nodded his acquiescence. I tipped my hat, and darted off around behind some nearby curtains to begin pounding my Palmerston.
“So, Mr. Flashman,” I shouted out from my secluded spanking spot. “Who do you think would crave the diamond so badly that they would steal it from under everyone’s nose at such a very public event as the Great Exhibition? And, more to the point, how in the name of Jupiter’s jizz-bags did they achieve such a feat?”
“Well, as I recall, the Indians weren’t too keen on giving the diamond up,” Flashman offered. “And the Afghans have always maintained that they have a legitimate claim on the damned stone, too. I wouldn’t be too surprised to find one of them lot behind this theft.”
“Yes!” I agreed. “Oh, yes. Ohhhhh, yes, that’s the trick. Ohhhh, yes!”
Flashman cleared his throat noisily. “I could go around and talk to some of the Afghan and Indian delegates at the exhibition,” he volunteered.
“Marvelous!” I shouted back. “Absolutely fucking-well marvelous! Oh yes!”
“Is that an agreement to my plan, your lordship, or are you just in the throes of sexual ecstasy?”
“Pardon?” I asked, as I exited my makeshift tossing-chamber, adjusting my trousers. “You shall have to repeat that, Mr. Flashman, as I am afraid I was not really paying attention.” I turned to my man-servant. “Here, Botter, dispose of this, will you?” I said, handing him a large wad of slightly-sopping, screwed-up tissues.
“Thank you, milord,” Botter grimaced, gingerly taking the crumpled-up bundle into his own hands.
“You are quite welcome,” I said. “Now, Mr. Flashman, as you were saying?…”
Before Flashman could repeat his articulations, we were once again interrupted by the arrival of the two police-officers who had been chasing us earlier, along with the wretched, bothersome old coot, the latter of whom pointed a boney finger in our direction, and shrieked at the top of his ghastly lungs.
“There they are! Apprehend them at once, officers!”
“Shit the bed,” I cried. “Will that twat-stick not let us be?”
“Halt, in the name of the law!” shouted one of the Bobbies, somewhat unnecessarily. I sighed wearily, and then snatched the pile of recently-used tissues from my man-servant’s hands, and threw them with not inconsiderable force at the approaching police-men. The spaff-filled sheets found their targets with ease, and landed with a satisfying squelching sound upon the police-men’s faces.
“Huzzah!” I cheered, as the officers ground to a halt whilst attempting to disentangle themselves from the recently-soiled rags. “Come, chaps, let us run like cockery!”
We took to our collective heels once more, and ran on through the crowded corridors of the Crystal Palace. “Get out of my cocking way, you slack-jawed bastards!” I roared, as we pushed through the teeming halls filled with doe-eyed proles, bustling about the place like cretinous cattle. “Vacate the area, lest I twat thee with my mighty cane!”
We continued to dash away at full pelt, until we were forced to a stop when we found ourselves at rather a dead end. There were no exits, no entrances, just walls of glass.
“Oh, excellent work, your lordship,” Flashman said, his words positively dripping with sarcasm. “Now we are cornered like foxes on the hunt! Bravo! Bravo indeed!“
“We’re trapped!” Botter added, unhelpfully. “There’s no way out!”
“Nonsense. There is always a way out!” I grinned, and then I hoisted my man-servant up by his collar and belt, and flung him at the great, glass windows. The panes shattered upon impact, and fell away.
“The thing about foxes, Mr. Flashman, is that they are incredibly cunning. Shall we?” I said, patting the dumb-struck fellow on the shoulder, then I made my way through the freshly-made exit.
“Good show,” Flashman said, and followed after me.
“Come on, Botter,” I said curtly as we stepped out into the gardens of the palace, upon which lay my simpering servant, in among some shards of glass. “There is no time to lie down. And do try and keep that sniveling down to a minimum, there’s a good chap.”
- Lord Likely.
Lord Likely’s Thought for the Day: In a bid to encourage greater discourse amongst his loyal readers, his lordship has decided to pose a question to one and all, which may be discussed in the comments section of his journals. Today’s poser is as follows:
As you have all witnessed, Lord Likely pounded his Palmerston in a booth inside the glorious Crystal Palace, during a massive public exhibition. But where is the strangest location wherein you have indulged in a spot of onanism? Ever cracked one out while enjoying the cricket? Touched yourself up at a tea-party? Fondled your fleshy friend at a fun-fair? Feel free to unburden yourself here, it shall be our little secret.
In Memoriam: This adventure is written in tribute to George MacDonald Fraser, the author of the Flashman books who died last week, aged 82. It is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights, but simply to pay homage to Fraser’s excellent work as a writer.
For more about Fraser and Flashman, read Mr. Andy Fanton’s article ‘Flash Men and Likely Lords‘.
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Other places of interest:
His lordship’s glorious group, The Upper Crust