01 April 2009
Wherein His Lordship Eats, Drinks and is Very Merry Indeed
AND SO the party finally got into full swing - indeed, it would not be an understatement to say that the party swung so much, it positively rotated.
The Duke and Duchess of Fircombe proved to be excellent hosts; the food was plentiful and delicious, the drink flowed freely and there were enough beautiful women in attendance to maintain my interest, and my increasingly noticeable erection.
With the booze so readily forthcoming, it did not take me at all long to become completely and utterly sloshed, which in turn led to me staggering around the ballroom, making slurred, sexual advances towards all of the female guests. Some of the ladies found my propositions entirely enticing, and laughed coquettishly, whilst furiously fanning their flushed faces. Others took great offence and slapped me heartily around my cheek, an act which, frankly, only made me more aroused, and more determined than ever to bed them.
More time passed, more drink was drunk, and after a quickie in the bathroom with the delightful Jennifer Eels (during which I unleashed my own mighty eel, which she gobbled at greedily), I found that I was so thoroughly pissed that I was able to withstand the dreary banter of the far less interesting (and much less vaginal) guests. For example, I spent thirty minutes happily listening to Major Thrashing waffling on about his time in the army, and his natural distrust of foreigners. When I asked him if he was a racist, he snorted and said, “No, sir! Not in the least! Why, I’ve shot men of every colour – black, red and yellow!”
Next I found myself in the company of the poet Winsome Pine, a terrible sap of a man who spent a lot of time sighing and whining on about the mysteries of love.
“Have you ever love and lost, your lordship?” he asked.
“No, no. I always win,” I beamed, while knocking back another whisky.
“You are very lucky sir,” Pine continued. “I lost my love very recently. It is a pain quite unlike any other, a pain that may dull over time, but never truly fades.”
“Much like trapping one’s scrotum in a door, then?” I suggested, but Pine seemed to not hear me, and carried on regardless.
“I have written a poem about this very subject. Perhaps you would care to hear it?”
“Perhaps not,” I replied.
“It is called, ‘Hole, Not Whole‘,” Pine said, ignoring me once more, and then he cleared his throat and ploughed on with his tiresome verse.
“In my universe, there is a hole shaped like you,
Which nothing can fill, whatever I do.
You made me feel wanted, loved and adored
Now words have no meaning, and I am abhorred.
My heart still beats but each thump brings fresh pain,
I know not if it will ever feel true love again.
I miss your good night, I miss your good morning,
You may not have passed, but yet I ‘m still mourning.
I reach for hands that are no longer there,
Seeking some comfort in naught but thin air.
I would give everything, without any qualms,
To spend but one night, held in your arms.
There is a hole in my universe, into which I do tumble – “
“Now how about you drop your knickers, and let’s have a fumble?” I grinned, finishing the poem as I saw fit.
“How dare you, sir!” Pine snapped, shaking with anger, clearly not taking the time to fully appreciate my mastery of the poetic voice. “Do not make light of my anguish and woe! Terrence was my everything, my all and you – ”
“Terrence?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I thought as much! I knew you were a plumber of the dirty sink.”
“And what of it?” Pine snapped. “Do you fear homosexuals, Lord Likely?”
“Oh, no, no,” I answered. “Unless they’re charging at me with an axe or something. Still, it is no wonder the poor bastard left you – you strike me as a terribly tedious and whiny little runt.”
“You…you BEAST, sir!” cried Pine, to which I responded by roaring with laughter, and then I trotted off to find something to mount.
That something turned out to be the gorgeous Dorothy Mount-Worthy, and the equally-ravishing Maud Dreadful, two of my closest companions. In fact, so close had we become that more often than not we were actually entwined.
As I approached the highly dickable duo, the orchestra Fircombe had hired for the evening suddenly struck up, and so, being the gentleman I am, I swept Maud off of her feet, and led her to the dance-floor.
As the orchestra played on, Maud and I spun and swirled around the room with incredible grace, our every move so very synchronised that to the onlookers it must have looked like we had been practising for an entire age. We danced like we had been born to dance, and as we danced Maud smiled a smile that seemed to illuminate the entire hall, her blonde hair trailing behind her head, like the tail of a particularly beautiful comet.
Truly, it was a wonderful and magical moment. Well, in my head, at least.
In reality, it was more like drunken groping set to music, which was still great fun, none the less.
After a while the music died down as the Duke of Fircombe took to the floor and beckoned us to all fall silent, as he had something to say. I sighed very loudly to express my dissatisfaction, but then Maud and I dutifully returned to our spot alongside Dorothy.
Fircombe started blathering on about how he had recently returned from a trip to Japan, where he had met Emperor Gojira or some such twaddle. I wasn’t really paying attention, as I was distracted by the sight of dear Dorothy playfully toying with an olive on a stick, which had been served in a glass of gin she had been drinking. I watched, positively agog, as she suggestively rolled the olive across her soft lips, and then slowly started sucking upon it, thereby making that olive the luckiest damned olive on the planet. It took an immense amount of willpower on my part not to ravage Dorothy right there and then, so I tried to refocus my attention on the Duke’s dull speech.
“…and so, after meeting with the Emperor, he bestowed upon me a great gift,” the Duke droned on. “A gift which I would now like to present to my darling lady wife, Esmerelda. Esme?”
With a delighted squeal, the Duchess of Fircombe waddled up to the Duke’s side, still clutching a a plate of canapés in her her hands. The Duke smiled at her, and then presented her with a thin, oblong box. For a moment the Duchess looked torn between her food and the box, but finally she put down her plate and tore open the box, revealing an admittedly spectacular peal necklace. It was a dazzling piece of jewellery and as such drew admiring gasps from the crowd – most notably from Pilferton Swypes, the reformed jewel thief, who not only gasped but went on to exclaim, “Fuckin’ hell!” at the top of his voice.
As the Duke put the necklace around his wife’s neck (which seemed to be rather a struggle), the Duchess went on and on about how overjoyed she was, and how she hoped to find an occasion special enough to allow her to wear the necklace.
“I think she should wait until a time when the ruddy thing will fit around her neck,” I whispered to Dorothy, which caused her to spit out the olive she was still slurping upon, sending it tumbling into her cleavage.
“Allow me!” I volunteered helpfully, and then I plunged my hand between those bountiful breasts, in search of the elusive fruit.
Meanwhile, with the necklace now around her neck, the Duchess had decided that she was so happy that she was going to sing, so that she might fully express the joy she was feeling. The Duke looked faintly embarrassed, but instructed the orchestra to start playing.
The first note was struck, and the Duchess opened her mouth…
…at which point I successfully retrieved the olive from betwixt Dorothy’s fun-bags, with a triumphant cry of, “Huzzah!”
But, dear readers, my hand had become rather sweaty in the pursuit of the olive, and I could only watch helplessly as the fruit flew out of my grip and sailed across the room…
…and straight into the Duchess’ open mouth. The Duchess seemed to freeze for a moment in shock, then her hands went up to her throat as she started coughing and spluttering, the olive clearly having come to a rest somewhere in her larynx.
“Well thank heavens for that,” I said, as the rest of the guests swarmed to the frantic Duchess’ aid. “At least she shan’t be able to ruddy well sing now.”
- Lord Likely.
Today’s chapter is dedicated to dear Sarah, who has just become an auntie. Congratulations, m’dear!
Also, many thanks to Mr. Scott Pack for singling out my astonishing adventures within the pages of his own web-log. Mr. Pack is a publisher, so clearly knows good words when he sees them! Hoorah!
The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle is a Which Ruddy Bastard Did It? mystery, meaning that YOU can also partake in the mystery! Read carefully, dear readers, for their shall be clues and hints aplenty, and when the time comes to reveal the bounder responsible for the crime, YOU will be able to thrust forward your own suggestions as to the identity of the culprit, and see if you have what it takes to be an astonishing adventurer!
Please, keep your eyes peeled and your genitals scrubbed…