“I say, what a marvelous cock!”
I was so pleased the Vicar had noticed on this splendid spring day. Last year he had seemed to be obsessed by Lady Watson’s tits, and if we’re being perfectly honest, we would have to admit to agreeing they were a most magnificent pair, and most worthy of the prestigious Best Birds award in the Kensington and Chelsea Annual Ornithology Show 1911. But this was 1912. A whole year had passed. A year in which I had spent a great deal of time preparing and nurturing my Spangling Green Cock.
Ah, my good man! Is the guest room ready for my chum Hans’ arrival tomorrow?
Oh superb! Knowing Hans I’ll bet he’ll be wanting to have a good old wrestle when he arrives. Might be an idea to make some space in here.
Nightcap? What an excellent idea. What’s that rather dusty bottle at the back? Well I’ll be, a bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey. That must be, what, nearly thirteen years old. You know, I got it during that year I spent traveling around the Northern Americas shortly after finishing reading Latin at Oxford. In fact, I can be more precise than that. It was in March 1888. Have I ever told you about the most blasted blizzard?
I wonder what your reaction would be if I told you about the chap opposite me who was given hydrochloric acid instead of water this morning. Or of the person in the bed next to me, who I watched peel back all of his fingernails, one by one, the other day. I wonder if I [...]
It was Tom Brule who led the party of twelve up to the cabin. Like everyone else in the town, this summer had been sheer hell and misery. His share of the woe was being forced to put down six of the eight cows he owned; their meat not even being good enough for the [...]
How wonderful to see you at the races, Duchess Bloemfontein, Ladies.
Oh I had a bit of trouble at the gate, seems my invitation to the enclosure must have got lost in the post this year.
No, one of the three things I promised my mammy I would never do:
1) Never trust a man from Tramore
2) Never fight for the English
3) Never bet on the Horses
Some more Gentlemen’s Spice
Asquith: You know Georgie?
Browne: Do I ? Rather! Went for a spin in that ferocious motorcar of his the other week.
Asquith: We were out around Piccadilly last Friday.
Browne: Bet it was a right hoot! Last time I was out with him, practically emptied the bar at the Strand. Next morning, woke up – [...]
Newton! That is all they go on about. Can they not see how narrow-minded they are ? They take that man’s work as gospel. I am surprised they haven’t yet built a building to worship him in and arranged a weekly service.
My dear lords and gentlemen. How wonderful it is to be in this room, right next door to the great hall where so many great speakers have spoken.
Should I feel bad?
It will be irrelevant in a few hours, the sand will engulf both our wretched bodies. Christ!
Thompson bought it last night, though the sun had claimed his mind a lot earlier. He had spent most of his final hours on his stomach, just laying there resting his cheek against the sand, a miserable specimen of a man. He didn’t move or make a sound, and the only sign that marked his passing was when his eyes no longer blinked.