Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

[21] CAPITULUM PRIMUM I came from a Bottomless Pit, began the Archbishop, and I have spent my life trying to get back. No sooner had I left my mother’s breast than she put me on to her clitoris, and I was hardly laid in my father’s arms before his doodle was between my baby legs and jerking its creamy essence into the sunny air of Rome, where, as you may be aware, I first drew breath. I was a healthy and well-formed child ; my bauble nothing remarkable, but my bollocks peculiar for their enormous size and — as it subsequently proved — the amount and quality of the fluid they were able to secrete, while my anus, fostered as you may have noticed by the wise ambition of my maternal grandmother, attained such proportions, or rather elasticity, that I believe I could accommodate the cowcatcher of a Pacific Express, or crush the life out of the diminu- tive and tapering jockam of a centipede. There was a crocodile once — (he sighed, and broke off. I sympathetically kept silent). My prick, as I have hinted, was the despair of a fond but pathic uncle. In vain did he resort to rubbings of asses’ milk, to decoctions herbal, mys- tical, medical ; it was found necessary to abandon the unequal contest and to relegate my contempti- ble garden-engine to the category of quick firers, instead of the heavy piece of field artillery which we had hoped to produce. Its speed was indeed suffi- cient. At the great Gold Medal competition of the Spunk Society in 1904, I was able to satisfy no less than twenty-seven ladies, besides an exhibition frig