Snowdrops from a Curate’s Garden

[35] CAPITULUM IV Shortly after the conclusion of the events which I so lusciously described in the last chapter, con- tinued the Archbishop, I was the means, under heaven, of saving the life of a valued member of society. The whisky-distiller had many connec- tions in the Highlands of Scotland, and no doubt the story of my exploit enlivened many a dull wet night in that dreariest of countries. Anyhow, one day my father came down from his office in a state of appalling excitement, waving a telegram. He masturbated four times in his anxiety to control his feelings, and let us have the news, which when read seemed as bald and colourless as the pee-hole of an albino baby. But there was a hidden mean- ing. The telegram read simply : Self incapacitated by overwork B.lm.r.l commandeered can no more hear you can help majesty starving future Empire at stake. Brown. It was from the famous John Brown ! My father was a man of action : in twelve hours I was admitted at the gates of B.lm.r.l by the last survivor of what had been the gallant 72nd. The G.rd.ns had perished to a man the day before, and the Bl.ck W.tch, loyal to the death, had barely lasted through the morning. I was pulled, rather than led, by the despairing maids of honour into the royal bedchamber. By the bed the P....e of W...s with dogged heroism, game and grit to the last, was lifting for the final effort his fantastically- tattooed bean-tosser upon the stupendous crinkum-crankum of the Imperial fuckstress.