A PILGRIM’S TALE
A Tale of Sexual Depravity and Ink
A Romance
I
PRELUDE
(LONDON)
How many of England’s greatest heroes turn out to be Irish!
I suppose it is a little bit the same in the cursèd United States, where we all look at the great American giants like Keanu Reeves, Justin Bieber, Pamela Anderson, and it would never cross our minds that they are in fact Canadian. Scratch a great American and you’ll probably find a Canadian underneath. Scratch a great Englishman and you’ll probably find an Irishman underneath. So it is I grew up thinking Ernest Shackleton (great polar explorer), Oscar Wilde (great playwright), Francis Bacon (“Britain’s greatest living painter”), the Duke of Wellington (vanquisher of Napoleon at Waterloo), Bram Stoker (author of Dracula), Sax Rohmer (author of the Fu Manchu stories), Arthur Conan Doyle (author of The Lost World and the Sherlock Holmes stories), et al, were great English/at least British heroes, only to later discover in fact they were all Irish. And then you start to wonder: have there been ANY great Englishmen? As they all turn out to be Irish!
I pondered these thoughts as I tossed & turned in the small hours of the night. I could not sleep, my engorged prodigious tool and thoughts of Elena would not let me, so decided to go for a stroll in the beautiful Victoria Embankment Gardens, locked up for the night now of course, and enjoy a thrilling ejaculation in the cool night air, as had become my little vice. Only then would I be able to sleep. Passing the statue of Sir Henry Irving, the great Victorian actor-manager for whom Bram Stoker worked and on whom Count Dracula was almost certainly based, I walked hurriedly down Villiers Street sloping down towards the river, over-excited now, almost hyper-ventilating, thought of taking all my clothes off and ejaculating in the open air always thrilling me more than anything else, past Kipling’s house where he wrote his 1890 novel The Light That Failed. “He also made exceedingly good cakes!” said a passing hag who I had not noticed, no doubt “looking for business”. “Madam, none of our friends in the cursèd United States will understand that reference! One must consider one’s audience!” Looking embarrassed, realising perhaps she had made fool of herself, she scurried off waving her hand at me in a gesture I could not precisely decipher in the dark, a kind of Royal wave like Her Majesty the Queen gives, strangely elegant for such a low creature. Maybe it WAS the Queen, who knows?
I vaulted the black wrought iron gates of the Gardens with elegant ease, sustaining just a small tear to my britches having not quite cleared the last spike, my prodigious swoll’ pole no doubt having altered the calculations of my trajectory, introducing an element of drag I had not taken into consideration.
The beautiful gardens were lit a milky sperm white by the Full Moon. Behind Cleopatra’s Needle, the black Nile of London surged and whispered and threatened to flood under its full tide. “The great river is about to burst its banks, my love,” I said out loud, fancying I was here with Elena. “And so am I, my love. So am I!” “Who you talking to there?” said a passing policeman shining his flashlight. I could see nothing of him but his big helmet silhouetted against the Moon. “And what are you doing there in them there bushes? Get off with yer, before you feel my truncheon!” “I’m a lonesome schoolboy, constable,” I said. “And I just came into town. I heard so much about London, I decided to check it out.” “If you don’t want me to nick you for being a flasher you better get off with yer, you little eejit!” I only now realised that the slight tear to my britches had exposed my gigantic bell end and one of my testes to the cool night air. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls, constable! For it may toll for thee!” Singing “Gigantic! Gigantic! A big big love!” to myself under my breath, I made my slow unhurried way out of the Gardens with as much dignity as I could muster and was helped back over the gates by the strong manly arms of Scotland Yard’s finest. “Thank you, constable!” I said, picking myself up from a crumpled heap in a pile of horse dung. “I shall be writing to Commissioner Dick to commend you on your good work tonight!” When you live in a city where the police are commanded by someone called ‘Cressida Dick’ what chance have you got?
The events with the policeman had depressed me, and yet also put a fire in my blood, angered me, and suddenly it made up something in my mind - I had to get out of London. No, not in a few weeks, or few months, meine Freunde. Now. Now. Now. Jetzt. I suddenly hurried home, changed my trousers, washed the horse shit off my face, packed my bag, and ran to the Strand to catch the Night Bus up to the Victorian Gothic splendour of St Pancras, surely one of the finest Gothic erections in the world, as was my own. An exhilarating idea had just come into my mind - at 4am in the morning - I would head to the Austrian Alps, the mountain suppository of Punch Riot, where was stashed thousands of copies of the great literary magazine to keep them safe for future generations, and I would claim the author’s fees owed to me. As a very rich man, I would then retire. The editor said he would keep my money in “a pot” for me, until such time as I wanted to claim it. “A chamberpot!” he joked. “Invest it wisely!” I said. And he joked he would invest it in “whiskey, cigars, steak, and interns with neither morals nor knickers but very big knockers.” How we laughed! What a wonderful adventure it would be to go all the way across Europe and knock on his door, and claim it in person! He would be so happy to see me! Last minute decisions to travel are always the most exciting. I sat there on the first Eurostar of the morning as it pulled out of St Pancras on its way to Brussels, still pitch black outside, lashing with rain against the windows, as we sped across the Cuntish kentryside, oh I do apologise, the Kentish countryside, “Are we in Cunt now?” I asked a pretty young passing Eurostar stewardess, “Kent, sir,” she said sweetly; “Cunt is for first class passengers only”, and I felt exhilarated, the blood was pounding in my veins, my head was throbbing, my tool was throbbing, my hands were shaking. It was all I could do not to pull my tool from my trousers and frig myself maniacally there in my seat. Last minute travel is always more expensive but the expense is absolutely worth it, for the thrill of it. On the way to the Alps I would spend a night or two in Brussels, a few nights in Munich, and a few nights in Vienna. I hurried into the train lavatory and pulled my tool from my fly and ejaculated all over the mirror and wash-basin in white floods, howling, crying, “Finally! Finally, Elena, my love! Finally!”, laughing with the sudden ecstatic pleasure of my life. Truly, travel is the only thing that makes life worth living. Travel, and ejaculation.
Let my adventures begin!
No comments:
Post a Comment