21 September 2007
Interval: Lord Likely’s Schooldays
September, 1856
I thought I would take a brief respite from chronicling my Astonishing American Adventure, to give us all a chance to regain our composure and catch our collective breaths. Latecomers may wish to use this break to catch up on my incredible journey so far, by starting at the start, as I believe is traditional on these occasions.
All the recent talk of homosexuality has very much reminded me of my old school days. I attended St. Bumthrusty’s Public School, an all-boy establishment where such homosexual practices were rife. I can recall the many times I strode into the Common Room, only to find two boys locked firmly in a passionate, fevered embrace. It really was a very Common Room indeed.
I myself had no such desires toward my fellow man, as I was pumping the school nurse at the time, a source of much pride for my young, sixteen year-old self. At least, until the Head Master caught wind of our affair. I believe he may have been tipped off by a weasely little rat called Harold Loathsome, a horrid boy who seemed to have it in for me from day one, probably due to the fact that I was far better-looking, far richer and just generally far better than he could ever hope to have been.
Anyway, once the Head Master, Professor Huntingdon, found out that I was humping the nurse, he fired her without hesitation, and set about giving me the blasted cane. However, to make matters worse, he decided to cane my beloved Lord Palmerston, in a bid to make the “punishment fit the crime,” as he put it. My poor todger was beaten black and blue that day, depriving me of having a good, hard wank that night.
Professor Huntingdon and I clashed frequently throughout my school days, and the frequency with which he used to thrash my buttocks with his awful cane made me wonder if he did not, in fact, fancy me, and was using his deprived punishment as a form of relieving his sickening, sexual urges. Then again, maybe I received the regular thrashings for calling him ‘Professor Cunt-ingdon’, or for turning up to classes late and drunk, or for setting fire to his office, or for any of the other numerous mischiefs I used to commit while at school.
I know that some of the canings I received were quiet unjust, and were usually the result of that wretched Loathsome trying to get me in trouble. He would often claim that I was smoking in the library, or that I was selling pornographic playing cards to the younger boys, or that I was masturbating in the chapel. Of course, I usually WAS doing these things, but I felt it was jolly bad form for Loathsome to keep telling the teachers. Not only was it jolly bad form, but it was incredibly cuntish, to boot.
Still, I managed to get my revenge one day, on both Loathsome and Huntingdon. It was on a day when the school was due to receive the school’s governor, a white-bristled ex-Colonel named Wrenchstaff, who coincidentally was also Loathsome’s uncle. Needless to say, the impending visit put Huntingdon in a far fouler mood than usual, and by lunchtime he had administered eleven beatings upon my proud buttocks, for no discernible reason.
Filled with anger, and with a numb anus, I vowed to get even with the bastard Head Master, and found the perfect opportunity after lunch, when I chanced upon the slumbering form of Loathsome, who was sleeping off his meal in our shared dormitory. Seeing my chance, I took a tin of itching powder and sprinkled the contents on Loathsome’s crotch.
Later that afternoon, Huntingdon had my class line up outside on the playing field, ready to welcome the governor, as we were the oldest boys in the school, and he felt we would set the best impression for our visitor. The stupid old twat-stick was going to be proven quite wrong on this front.
As soon as we lined up, Loathsome began scratching at his groin, gently at first, but his scrapings quickly grew more frantic and frenzied, until Huntingdon demanded to know what was wrong with the boy.
“It’s me old chap, sir!” Loathsome wailed, scratching away at his love-trumpet. “It’s itching like crazy!”
“Bah!” snorted Huntingdon. “Just stop it, boy, and leave it be!”
“I can’t, sir!” cried Loathsome. “It really hurts!”
“I’d wager that Loathsome has got the ‘Cock Beetles‘,” I offered, making out that I was as concerned as everyone else. “They can be fatal if not treated right away!”
“Cock Beetles?” Huntingdon snapped. “What in the blue blazes are ‘Cock Beetles‘?”
“They are tiny beetles, sir – so tiny you cannot see them with the naked eye. They get on a boy’s penis, sir, and will start gnawing away at it – thousands of ‘em, all chewing away at the cock-shaft – until the whole thing just drops off, and the poor lad bleeds to death.”
“Egads!” Exclaimed Huntingdon. “Well, Loathsome, don’t just stand there scratching like a ruddy dog! Get to the nurse right away!”
“But sir,” I interrupted, “You fired the nurse, remember?”
“Blast it! So I did! Well what in the name of arsery are we going to do now?”
“Well, sir,” I said calmly. “The only cure for the Cock Beetles is to submerge the stricken organ in warm water – but the water must be at a temperature of exactly thirty-seven degrees Celsius, no more, no less.”
“Dang and blast it, I haven’t got time to fanny around gently heating water! The governor shall be here in twenty minutes – and he shall go spare if his flaming nephew is not in attendance!”
“Well, sir, thirty-seven degrees Celsius also happens to be the body’s temperature as well. I would have thought that…well, no. It is too much to ask! We shall have to just discharge Loathsome, and explain to the governor that his nephew has the Cock Beetles. The other option is too awful to contemplate.”
“What? What other option?” screamed Huntingdon, fearing his job could be on the line.
“Well, sir, since you asked…you put Loathsome’s penis in your mouth, sir. The temperature in your mouth should be just about right, and will destroy these awful beetles.”
Huntingdon barely gave this idea time to pass my lips, before he had dragged Loathsome to his office to administer my suggested first aid, further convincing me that the Master was a filthy old poof. Poofs, I have nothing against – as you will have seen – filthy old poofs, however, are a different kettle of poofs altogether.
As my two enemies departed, the governor arrived in his carriage, eager to press on with his inspection.
“Where is Professor Huntingdon?” he barked, upon noticing our Head Master’s abscence. Ever the helpful young scout, I stepped forward to assist our guest.
“I believe he is in his office, sir…he said he had to attend to some business with your nephew, sir.”
“Business? What bloody business does he have with Harold that allows him to leave me waiting? It had better be bloody urgent, is all I can say.”
“Well, if you would like, sir, I can escort you to the Head Master’s office right away!” I offered, doing my best to look like a good Samaritan, never an easy task it must be said.
Wrenchstaff nodded, and so we headed off to Huntingdon’s office, where – to cut an increasingly long story short – we found Huntingdon, with Loathsome’s love-truncheon in his mouth, slurping away noisily like a toothless old hag with a lollipop.
Suffice to say, Huntingdon was dismissed on the spot, but not before Wrenchstaff had beaten the living shitballs out of the horrified Head Master. Then, the enraged governor turned on his nephew, hurling abuse at the terrified boy and dragging him away, out of St. Bumthrusty’s and back to his family.
The last I had heard, Huntingdon was last seen living life as a male escort on the streets of Berlin, while Loathsome was deported to Africa to live life as a Missionary, in the hope he might, “reconnect with God,” as his God-faring family put it.
They say school days are the happiest days of your life, and I can quite honestly say that for me, that single day back in 1831 was certainly a ruddy excellent day indeed.
- Lord Likely.
