26 September 2007
If You Are Going To Party, Then Party Hard
27th September, 1856.
By the Duke of Wellington’s iron balls, I feel awful today. My brain feels like it has erupted into civil war, with the left cerebellum pounding the right with cannon-fire, and the right cerebellum returning fire with bloody great catapults, pelting boulders freely about my grey matter.
In short, I feel like utter shit.
However, I am British, so must suck it up and carry on. I would not want my journals to descend into nothing more than incessant whinings and moanings. Did Admiral Nelson sit down and write pages of self-pitying sludge when he lost his right arm in the Battle of Santa Cruz? No, of course he did not. Primarily beause his arm had been blown off, but I digress.
So, back to business. My birthday party, originally scheduled to last for the evening of the twenty-third, spilled on over onto the twenty-fourth, before finally climaxing on the twenty-sixth. It was a three-day bender of the highest order, and a fine time was had by all. The ‘all’ in this case include many fellow aristocrats, wealthy businessmen, members of the clergy, heads of office and hot and cold running prostitutes.
There were drinks galore, including some particualrly devilish coktails of my own devising, including ‘The Spunking Cobra‘ (whisky, lemon and lime), ‘Sex On A Tiger‘ (whisky, cream, more whisky), ‘Matron’s Clitoris‘ (whisky, vermouth and orange juice), ‘Humping the Bellboy’ (whisky, whisky and more whisky’) and finally, ‘The Bloody Botter’. The last one was not strictly a cocktail, more a description of my useless man-servant when he informed me that we had run out of whisky.
Still, such a thing did not prevent us from continuing to drink well into the night, then the morning and into the following afternoon, by which time we had drunk so much we had begun to sober up. Luckily, by then Botter had returned from London Town (where I had sent him the night before) to get more whisky, so we were able to continue onwards without a hitch.
By that evening, the weaker among our number began to fall by the wayside; with people winding up asleep in their own vomit, whilst others fell out of windows and some even toppled into the fireplace. Those of us with stronger constitutions forged on, necking shot after shot and pint after pint, until, filled with alcohol-fuelled lust, I staggered upstairs to attend to Helena, the Dutch prostitute I had been given as a present by Botter.
Upon entering my bed-chamber, I was shocked and stunned to see that Helena was not alone. Far from it, in fact, as this image will attest:
My blood boiled to see some of my guests helping themselves to MY prostitute, as if she were an ‘all you can eat’ buffet, and my first instinct was to scream bloody murder, and attack each and everyone of the blighters with my trusty fencing sword, but then what sort of a host would I have been? So I simply dropped my trousers and got to work, joining in the intercourse while indulging in some light conversation with my fellow guests. Among the topics we discussed were politics, the world of finance, the weather and art and literature, the latter of which Helena expressed a keen interest in, and spoke beautifully about the writings of Charlotte Brontë, when her mouth was not full.
We issued our collective loads onto Helena’s chest, for which she thanked us, and then we all cleaned up and adjourned downstairs to rejoin the party. Alcohol was still flowing freely, and I must have drunk my weight in liquor before the night was out. Indeed, when the next morning came around, I found myself alone and completely naked (save for my top hat, naturally), in a small village called Shitterton:
I was buggered if I could remember how the arse I got to Shitterton, and why I was naked, but I decided not to dwell on these issues and instead set about getting back home. Despite my deeply hungover state, I managed to hitch a ride back to the Likely Estate with some travelling gypsies, all of whom were female. I can only guess that it was the sight of my Lord Palmerston, swinging proudly between my bare legs, which caused them to stop and gleefully offer me transport to my home. My mighty organ is a much more efficient hitch-hiking tool than a mere thumb, is all I can say.
Finally I arrived back home, and after giving the lady gypsies ample payment for their troubles, I ventured into my stately home, to find Botter struggling to put out a fire that had somehow broken out in my bath-tub. I stepped forward to aid my man-servant, then hoisted him up and threw him into the bath, which succeeded in extinguishing the flames admirably. My job done, I went upstairs and collapsed gratefully into my bed, where I remained for most of the day.
It is pleasing to know that, despite my advancing years, I can still party like a bastard when the occassion demands it.
Needless to say, I shall resume transcribing my Astonishing American Adventure as soon as I have fully recovered.
Chin chin!
- Lord Likely.
