Lord Lucre here. “Filthy” to my peers. Which doesn’t include the likes of you. Anyway, tricky situation now. With Lestrade back in action. Damn tricky. We had hoped for open season in London but it appears we shall have to display some circumspection. Received a call from Holmes. Seemed the country house mob were holed up in St Paul’s cathedral. Tricky fellow Holmes. Meticulous planner. Knows we hate the mob. Can’t help but feel we’re being setup here but what are the options as regards the country house bounders? We hate the swine and that’s that.
Took a hansom or two down to the Wren’s place and spied in through the main doors. Dark in there. And the terrain looked like a shooting gallery. Wide open apart from the pews. Keener on shooting partridges rather than playing their part in the sport, we played for time. But the mob saw us and headed for some affair in the centre. There was obviously something in it that they wanted to keep from our deserving paws. We barrelled in. Big mistake. This was not to be the aristo mob’s finest hour. Too much sherry the night before. Far too much. Became obvious as we tried to run the hurdles towards the prize. Talk about flailing walruses! Which is more than can be said for those swine from the country house. They formed a firing lane while sending their allies; a troop of prancing pygmies; around our flanks. We placed great faith in our man of faith, the Reverend Green, left behind to provide covering fire with his gatling gun. Sadly the Reverend dropped his giver of mercy at least three times. Either it was the drink or the presence of his assistant, Cherry the cheery chambermaid. Whichever it was (and he’s the devil for both!) he never got a shot off. He was turned into a holy pin cushion by some naughty gnomes who had crept around the sides of the cathedral. Then again, the leaping lords could scarce criticise because we were all under the weather too. Frankly, we were looking for barn doors to shoot so that at least we could hit something. At least most of us were. I’d swear that Colonel Mustard was blasting away at pink elephants and still missing. Shouting “Stuff this for a game of soldiers”, we chucked the guns to one side. I lead the main party in a frontal charge on the main position while Colonel Mustard and Baron Hardarse tried to carve a path through nimble ninja midgets on the flank. It was a bit like the charge of the light brigade except that none of us could be described as light. Colmans Mustard and the servants were shot down but we Lords Lucre and Muck, protected by our personal Chobham armour, crashed into their line and chopped a way through. On our flank, Colonel Mustard and Baron Hardarse were playing a good game of ten pygmy bowling but there were just too many of the challenged of stature ones. Eventually, they fell beneath a heap of dancing dwarfs. Frankly, given the state of his hangover, I’d swear that the spears came as light relief for the good Colonel.
Muck and I charged into their lair where the insolent servants were taught to respect their betters in no uncertain fashion. Mystifyingly, the survivors leapt out leaving us in sole charge. Looking out, we realised that the mob had formed a circle around our position. It was just like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Sadly, rather too much like. We were gunned down by volleys of fire as we sortied to teach them who were the masters here… they were!
As we lay prostrate, the mob made away with what looked suspiciously like the Crown Jewels. Does Her Maj (Gawd bless her!) know? (Sorry ma’am. We’ll do better next time). The men from Frankenstein, Burke and Hare’s home for the terminally convalescent picked us up and we are now being reassembled from surviving and “donated” parts. As I look down at the spaghetti , I note with interest several things that I did not know I had. But which I do now. Whatever they are.
Lord “Filthy” Lucre,
A gentleman from a company of gentlemen.
No oiks allowed.
Nothing personal but we have standards.
You don’t.
Pictures:
1/ Lords Lucre and Muck and their friend, Colmans Mustard, charge the enemy's position. The butler Crichton follows as a respectful distance.
2/ Colonel Mustard keeps watch while Baron Hardarse sneaks forwards.
3/ Reverend Green moves the gatling forward ably supported by Cherry the cheery chambermaid.
February 16, 2008, 06:39:21 AM
