Lord Laurence does the usual
Sincerest apologies for not keeping in touch of late, but one decided to summer in the Alps. Ah yes, a truly rejuvenating experience, feeling someone else’s blood blown through one’s veins, and some of those private Swiss clinics can be so accommodating, wat! Should bally well think so, at that price.
But all good things come to an end, so it was back to Blighty with barely enough loose change to start a decent rumpus at Stamford Bridge. And what with ones old chum ‘Fisto’, the notorious graffiti artist (as they like to call themselves) doing 3 to 5 for over expressing himself, one was at something of a loose end. God only knows what the beak would have thought if he’d caught us invoking Satan with that goat last month. But a full bar for representing the only relevant art form of the late twentieth century is a touch bally strong, or so I’m told. Anyway, spraycan capers seem off, so that only leaves one option for a new boy in town. Get twisted and spend the next 12 hours in a badly lit basement. Once more unto the breach dear friends. Wat!
One had heard the Rubber Dungeons in Soho were ‘bouncing’ till dawn, so it was off in a stolen minicab to catch Junior Plumber and the mastic massive. Wa-hey, wat!
Straight through the queue, down the stairs and into some wiggin’ acid moves, courtesy of some vomit on the pavement and a spilled lager on the dancefloor. After straightening one’s tie, one attained the desire for a small disco tonic. It was quite apparent the
Japanese students one had procured with said minicab, were drier than a camel’s tongue in July. So it was off to the deepest, darkest corner, marked dodgy.
Mid stumble through the dance floor, one was met by the frankly astonished face of my old chum and ‘law’ partner, Earl Grey, of Margate.
"Laurrrance, fabulous, fabulous, old man. Don’t have a spare pair of piynts, do you?"
"No, old man. Not even seen the bar," was one’s somewhat confused reply.
"No, no, no. Piynts."
"Sorry, don’t follow you."
"Underpiynts, old chap. Burst ½ a bally kilo of ketamine in mine on the way in. Ten quid a suck?" he asked feverishly, before jittering across the floor.
Unsure whether to praise one’s luck or damn my misfortune, one returned to the search for Brians, when who should come wobbling through the smoke, but Roger "Beat me, whip me and call me Mary" Cook!! No wonder the bally club was half empty! One peek at that gaping maw, and it was curtains for any blighter, wat. Good friend of mine, once got hit by a night bus, trying to cross Trafalgar Square when he spotted the bugger. One turned, but was hemmed in by bally Japanese students. Too late… Thoughts of the lemon fiasco and that bally fool, getting tugged at Harwich with 5 tonnes of Dutch Ivan’s ready rubbed gold bud, flared through one’s mind. But there was no escape. I couldn’t see a bally thing!
"Wh-what the flaming sambuka are you doing here?" one stuttered.
"Ah, Laurence, I was told I’d find you here." Christ on a skateboard, here we go.
"Yes, I’m with Benji, he said he’d spotted you earlier."
"Yes, you know. Benjamin Bitchamin. Married that young Jalayda filly."
"Er, er, Jalayda?"
"Oh no old boy. Packed that lark in years ago. I’m into livestock and cosmetics these days."
"Yes, quite. Oh, there’s Tilly. Coo ee."
One stumbled on the edge of the dancefloor and hit the deck. This was my only way out, the jig was most definitely up. Slipping on one’s own sweat, one raced for the door expecting a camera thrust in one’s face at any second. And not even a sniff of the bally ‘arvey’s. Scrambling to the exit, one spotted Earl Grey, surrounded by a gaggle of wild eyed teenage girls. Grinning maniacally he flicked one’s ear with what appeared to be a well chewed piece of y-front elastic. "Share a cab old man?"
"Bally right. On the double old boy!" Well, you’re either a team player or you’re out as they say in all the more prosperous European brothels, wat.
Dash and blast one’s luck! As our merry entourage slipped from the club, who should we quite literally fall over, with the hijacked road pirate and a full camera crew, but the bloody Cookie monster! "Lord Laurence, Earl Grey, I’d like to ask you…."
"…about your considerable involvement in an international trade in placebo or ‘non’ drugs."
"Whaaat??" squealed a score of teenage falsettos.
"Yes, baking soda capsules, to be precise."
Oh this unpleasantness would never do. Leaping (or did one fall) a-top the next moving car, one was dashed to safety, leaving Earl Grey to convince the boppers his pants were the real deals. He could manage that. He’d found the Spice Girls, after all. I’d seen the tapes in hospital.
Yes it was most certainly time to re-aquaint one’s self with one’s more modest ancestral heritage. This high life malarkey was never for me. It was back to working the land and after a great deal of thought after being heavily dosed at the clinic, one had decided to take gainful employment, working the peasants on Dutch Ivan’s Moroccan hash farm. Indeed it was most definitely time to break for the border, head for the hills and scarper to the bar.
As they say in Tangiers, "Don’t give me the hump, old boy!" Haw, haw, haw, wat. Cheers.
On the 28th February, Lord Laurence Waterford Frog, thirteenth Earl of Strappedshire, was reportedly found dead in a Tunisian harem after being sat on by two juggling camels. One girl said his last words were "Anyone’s welcome on my boat, wat. But they might have been something else." The distillery world mourns.