10 January 2008
In Which His Lordship Makes An Exhibition of Himself.
January the Tenth, 1857.
To be quite honest, the year eighteen fifty-seven has so far been rather disappointing. I’m aware that the year is still very much in its infancy, but infant or not, this year must try damned harder or it shall feel my boot in its backside.
Why, I have only gotten drunk once so far (although, admittedly, it did last for four whole days), and I’ve only had intercourse twice; once whilst deeply intoxicated, with a women so reprehensible and offensively unattractive that I prefer to just pretend the wretched union never took place at all. And to top it all, there has not even been the merest hint of a possibility of an adventure thus far. Awful.
I am so bored out of my exquisitely-sculpted skull that even thrashing my man-servant Botter only served to allay my tedium for a few, fleeting moments, before I became overcome with a terrible sense of ennui and gave up on the beating, despite Botter clearly deserving it.
However, later on in the day, whilst searching for some pornography to listlessly masturbate over, I chanced upon a collection of photographic plates taken on one of my earlier adventures, an adventure I had quite forgotten until that moment. It is not an adventure I believe I have documented in these fine journals either, so in the absence of any present action, I shall now take this opportunity to recall this previous romp.
Allow me to set the scene. It was the first of May, eighteen fifty-one, and the Great Exhibition had just been opened by Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.
Ah! What an exhibition it was, thousands upon thousands of exhibits housed in the beautiful and opulent surroundings of the Crystal Palace, an incredible construct of glass and steel which amply reflected the glory of Great Britain and her Empire. It was an awe-inspiring sight, of that there was no doubt. My awe had never been so inspired.
I had been celebrating the arrival of the exhibition since early that morning, by drinking glass after glass and bottle after bottle of champagne. I believe I wound up making a toast to the grandiose display on no less than three-hundred separate occasions.
By the middle of the afternoon, I was more than a little tipsy, and had decided that it would be a jolly old wheeze to go and press my buttocks against one of the many glass panes of the Crystal Palace. Despite Botter’s avid protestations, I dropped my trousers and pressed my naked arse to the glass, whilst loudly proclaiming that my behind was the greatest exhibition of them all.
Instead of my antics attracting gales of laughter and applause, as I had imagined in my drunken mind, a deathly silence descended upon those in the vicinity, as if they had all been stricken mute simultaneously.
“What’s the ruddy matter?” I asked. “Have you not seen a bottom before?”
“Many a time,” came a reply. “But not pressed up against a palace, I must say.” I looked up to get a look at the speaker, and found myself gazing up into the eyes of the Queen herself.
“Her Majesty is not amused,” added one of the Queen’s personal assistants, a tall, thin man with an unkind face, and an even less kind tone of voice.
“I don’t suppose she is at all aroused instead?” I ventured.
She was not, and I was marched off to a nearby police-station by the stern-faced buffoon, and a couple of equally unamused and unaroused police officers.
I do not know what it is about finding oneself in a gaol cell, but it has the most unusual effect of sobering one up in a trice. I do not know if it is the foul stench of stale urine, or the fear of having one’s anus roughly penetrated by a violent criminal, but whatever the cause I found myself alarmingly clear-headed and determined to be freed from my captivity.
“EXCUSE ME!” I bellowed. “You cannot keep me caged up like this! I am far too attractive to be kept alongside other men! My sphincter will be shredded to pieces before dinner-time, you mark my words!”
“Yeah?” Sneered a guard outside the cell. “Well, jus’ make sure you keep your ‘ollering down to a minimum whilst yer bein’ buggered. Some of these folk will be tryin’ to sleep, y’know.”
“You incredulous little toss-bag!” I screeched. “Do you not know who I am? I am Lord Likely, and as a member of the British aristocracy I demand your utmost respect, and all the preferential treatment I deserve!”
“Well,” mused the awful little blighter. “I suppose I could get you some oil to make your buggerin’ a little less painful. I’d ‘ate fer anythin’ terrible to befall your exalted arse-hole!”
I tried to throttle the insolent shit through the bars of the cell, but the swine dodged my flailing limbs, and strolled off, cackling loudly to himself.
“Well well well,” came a voice from the shadows of my cell. “Look at this rum old cove, all high-and-mighty and full of himself! You should watch yourself, my lord, or else you’ll be passed around this place like a cheap cigarette!”
“Who the devil said that?” I cried out. “Stop skulking in the shadows, man, and show yourself!”
The speaker gave a heavy sigh, and then slowly rose up and stepped forward out of the darkness.
He was certainly a very handsome fellow, standing some six-foot tall, with dark brown eyes, black hair and a rather impressive black handlebar moustache adorning his face. He was dressed in smart clothes, although they were rather hap-hazard and skew-whiff, as if he had dressed in a frantic hurry or something. I dare say I was warming to the chap, until he smirked at me and began to speak.
“Harry Flashman,” he said, giving a wry smile and raising an eyebrow. “An’ don’t worry, you old blowhard, I ain’t going anywhere near your backside.”
- Lord Likely.
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‘.
His lordship’s glorious group, The Upper Crust
