23 April 2008
Interval: Lord Likely Slays the Dragon
April the Twenty-Third, 1857 – St. George’s Day.
Today is St. George’s Day, a day where loyal Englishmen up and down the land and throughout the Empire join together and do…well, nothing, really. Absolutely ruddy nothing.
St. George’s Day is often forgotten by my fellow Englishmen, who seem to prefer to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day instead, usually by wearing over-sized green hats and drinking pint after pint of cheap Irish stout.
Now, I have nothing against St. Patrick, or the Irish (though I would never willingly employ one, as I hear they are extremely sticky-fingered, prone to laziness and frequently feast on orphaned children). Indeed every March the Seventeenth, I may be found propping up a bar, toasting good old Saint Paddy. Well, any excuse for a drink.
My only grumble is this: why do my fellow countrymen shun our very own patron saint in favour of that of the Irish? Can we not celebrate both, and get twice as drunk? I mean, what has St. Patrick ever done for us English, anyway? NOTHING, is the answer. Bollock all.
I respect St. Pat’s fine missionary work in his home country, and his sterling efforts in driving the snakes out of Ireland, but then again our own St. George did slay a ruddy great dragon, which in my mind is far more impressive. BEHOLD:
Astonishing. I’d wager that he pumped that distressed damsel all night long as well, the saucy old saint.
It was with a desire to see poor old St. George venerated once more that I set about throwing a huge St. George’s Day celebration at the Likely Estate. I ordered Botter to decorate my gardens with the cross of St. George, set up a plentiful supply of booze, paid an orchestra to play Jerusalem on a continuous loop, hired some dancing girls to perform provocative dances whilst wearing nothing more than the English flag, and then I invited all and sundry to come along and partake in the festivities, to celebrate our green and pleasant land, and its varied peoples and cultures.
Naturally, everyone quickly flocked to the Likely Estate like a great, big bunch of flockers.
The day was by and large a resounding success, with everyone having a jolly, merry old time. There was much singing, laughing and lewd advances upon the dancing girls, and all seemed well.
That is until Dame Dusty Flappes dropped by. Dame Dusty is an awful old harridan who lives near me, and who’s sole joy in life seems to come in ruining the fun of others. True to form her appearance at my shindig was solely for the purpose of curtailing my enjoyment.
“Lord Likely,” she trilled, “I really must complain about this…this awful fracas!“
“Really, Dame Flappes? That is unusual,” I replied sarcastically.
“It is much to raucous. I can barely hear myself think, you know.”
“I doubt you have anything of any import to think about, m’dear,” I quipped.
“Well, really!” snorted Dame Dusty Flappes. “How dare you!”
“Listen, m’lady. There is nothing untoward going on here, I am merely celebrating St. George’s Day with a few friends. You are more than welcome to join us if you wish; it is an entirely proper affair, I assure you.”
At which point, one of the dancing girls, stripped of her scant clothing, ran past me at full pelt, pursued by a lust-crazed gentleman with his trousers around his ankles.
“‘Entirely proper’, you say? Hah! It seems like an extremely debauched gathering, and I for one will not be party to it!”
“An Englishman’s home is his castle, my lady,” I replied. “My castle just happens to be exceptionally jubilant, and filled with half-naked ladies.”
“For shame, sir! For shame!” gasped the Dame. “Why, if only my poor, late husband were still with us – he would not stand for this at all! Now, if you do not cease this depravity immediately, then I shall have no other recourse but to contact the police forthwith.”"
I observed Dame Flappes for a moment, as an idea formed in my head. She was pushing sixty years now, with her best years far behind her, and her breasts far beneath her. Since she had been widowed four years ago, after Sir Henry Fonda Flappes met a rather grisly end in an unfortunate hedge-cutting accident, I wagered that the source of Dame Dusty’s irritation and anger was her complete lack of sexual intercourse. One good, hard pumping from my proud Lord Palmerston should sort her out, I reasoned, and as much as her saggy, wizened old form repulsed me, it would have to be I who performed the deed – for England, and for St. George.
“What are you staring at?” snapped Dame Flappes.
“You must miss your husband terribly,” I whispered.
“What? Well, yes, yes of course I do, but I hardly see what that has to do -”
“Hush,” I cooed, placing a lordly finger upon her lips. “It must be hard living alone, never feeling the gentle caress of a lover, never again to be held in a man’s powerful arms, never to feel his smooth, solid shaft thrusting between your legs…”
“Excuse me?”
“I look into your eyes, m’dear, and all I see is pain and suffering. There is a hole in your heart that longs to be filled, and a hole between your legs that demands the same. Come, my lady, let me be the one who fills you…”
“I…why I…” stuttered the Dame. “I do miss a bit of the other, I must say…”
“Then say no more. Actions speak louder than words, after all.”
“Oh, your lordship,” sighed Dame Flappes. “Be gentle.“
I shall spare you the gory details of our intimate encounter, but suffice to say I took my fleshy lance and I laid the old dragon.
Dame Dusty Flappes proved to be surprisingly filthy in the sack, and due to her extremely saggy bosom I was able to simultaneously receive a tit-wank while I pumped her crusty mimsy, which was rather unusual.
By and large, however, it was a singularly un-erotic endeavour, akin to sticking one’s todger into a bag of dry sand, but I ploughed on, and thought of England and the greater good.
My plan worked perfectly, and after our bout of intercourse, as Dame Flappes wiped some of my noble nob-paste from her chin, she gave me her full consent to proceed with my garden party.
I only hope that, like St. George, I may too be honoured for my noble, heroic actions.
St. Likely’s Day, anyone?
- Lord Likely.
Don’t Forget! You still have until tonight to cast your vote in the latest chapter of Lord Likely’s Incredible Inter-Active Adventure, and decide the very fate of his lordship!
Other places of interest:
Digital Sickbag | New! gaup
The Carrotty Kid
The Best Bit of the Internet (R.I.P)
(And I’m not talking about Lord Palmerston. Although he is pretty great.)
