My Poll will tell you that I’m a big softy when it comes to Christmas. Light the Yule log, bring in the goose, deck the house with holly and ivy and get ready to play snapdragon. She says I’m like a little boy – and if my best present from her is a bit of slap and tickle, who am I to complain?
It’s a time of festivity up at that den of smut, debauchery and innuendo (literally) where I earn my daily bread, the Lords of Aether club. You should see the decorations – like a tart’s boudoir, ribbons and bows and glitter and bells everywhere. And when I say everywhere… I’ve seen Lord Anthony, in all his glory, with two baubles hanging off his ears and a bit of tinsel tied around – well, all I’ll say is that it was a place that reminded me of the Yule log.
And the provisions would make your eyes jump out, turn circles and go back in again. Hams the size of the rhinoceros in the Zoo, turkeys like ostriches, and a hailstorm of sprouts. Wine flowing like the Thames, too – and some of it probably just as nasty to drink, especially if that swine Leach has been tampering with it again, as he’s wont to do. I once caught the ugly bugger wandering around the club one Christmas Eve with a carboy of paraffin, a funnel, a long length of tubing and a nasty grin. I don’t know what he was intending to do with them but by the time I’d fetched Jack and he and Anthony had their revenge, he saw more of the water closet than I daresay he’d intended. Rumour has it he didn’t emerge until just this side of Twelfth Night!
Being around the Lords of Aether at the festive season brings a whole other meaning to getting your Christmas meat and two veg. You can imagine what my “gentlemen” (if that’s what you can legitimately call the raddled load of spavined hedonists) get up to when the wine’s been a-flowing and the trouser buttons get loosened. Kissing beneath the mistletoe is a fine tradition, but not where the mistletoe gets hung on Spence. And we haven’t let them attend the midnight mass since Shelley tried to dance down the aisle with the verger and two of the acolytes. Better to let them eat, drink, be merry and get pie-eyed/laid/themselves shot, behind their own closed doors.
Poll and I raise a glass to any and all of you who read my account of the club members’ doings! Happy Christmas.