I was in The Cholmondeley Room in the Houses of Lords with my good friend Rory Spufnal, the one with the face like a Whelk's belly. It was quite busy and despite it being only late morning we had already sunk a prodigious amount of Rum.
Rory was regaling me with a tale of how he met his first wife, a Zebra he named Margaret.
... A fucking Zebra!? I just thought she was wearing a pretty dress, next thing you know I am in a registry office with a couple of strangers and a saddle made of bacon someone whipped up as a gift.
He paused, deep in thought.
I pulled my pipe out of my mouth quizzically.
How long did the marriage last old fellow?
Rory snapped out of his reverie.
Oh, oh not long, old bean. Thing is with Zebra's is the spitting, you see? I can't abide a spitter.
He winked, leant forward and nudged me.
I slapped the table and looked for a waiter to bring us a fresh bottle of rum.
A bottle of something else was plonked down on the table but not by a waiter. I puffed out some pipe smoke and examined the blighter responsible. He was a silver-haired fellow, a gigantic curled moustache decorating his florid face, he looked to be gravid with child.
Can I help you dear fellow?
I asked of the Blimp.
Or can I help you?
The fellow beamed back with a twinkle in his eye. He sat down and poured us all a few fingers from the bottle.
How does a 40-year-old Glenfiddich sound?
I looked at Rory happily as if we had pulled a Christmas cracker and a lamb's penis had fallen out.
That will do bloody nicely, old fellow! And what may we call you?
The Blimp winked, his moustache twitching as if it were a long-haired cat falling down a hole.
No names Boomy, no names... At least... Not yet...
Not yet? How mysterious. Please do elaborate?
The moustachioed blimp threw back his Glenfiddich and hissed with satisfaction before leaning in conspiratorially.
I think you may wish to follow me.
You have been chosen, old bean. A very rare thing you know.
I was following him down some dank and antiquated corridors deep in the bowels of Westminster. There was a deeply unsettling stench lingering in the air. Bare pipes lined the walls.
Blimp stopped at an unmarked door and rapped on it three times then twice.
The door swung open.
Enter the Lair of Dogs.
Boomed a deep voice.
I took a firm grip of my cane and looked at Blimp. He motioned me in with an amused smile.
Inside was a small room with a scarlet curtain obscuring one end. The stench was stronger in here, quite animalistic. My penis, quiet till now, stiffened slightly as if sensing danger.
Beside the curtain was another moustachioed fellow with a bulbous nose. He was slight of build in contrast to Blimp. He began to speak in a deep sonorous voice.
Welcome Uncle Boom. Welcome to The Lair of Dogs. The most secret of society's. A powerful society for Gentlemen. Gentlemen who hold the chattering classes in contempt. Gentlemen such as yourself. We have existed for hundreds of years, always in the shadows but our reach... Well, our reach is very long. Very long indeed.
He looked upwards with a self-satisfied smile at the ceiling above.
What say you? Are you, as we suspect, a Gentleman interested in a society such as ours? It can do wonders for a fellow's career in the corridors of power...
I looked at Bignose and Blimp.
Well chaps, this is an enticing offer, an enticing offer indeed. Where do I sign?
I chortled and waved my cane as if it were a pen.
I do hope I don't have to sign in blood? I do go a bit funny when I see blood you know!
Blimp stepped back toward the curtain at the rear.
Oh no, no blood required. There is however one condition to your acceptance. Call it an initiation if you will!
He yanked back the curtain with no small amount of dramatic flair.
Behind, on a blood red cushion was a large, black dog lying on it's side. It was a female judging by the swollen teats on display. It lifted its head and appraised me with an old and wise look.
I raised an eyebrow. The two fellows looked at me expectantly. Blimp cleared his throat.
The initiation to The Lair of Dogs is a simple one my friend. One that is steeped in tradition. You must kneel and take milk from Camilla's teats.
The air was heavy with expectation.
I took a step forward.
Let me be clear on this chaps... You want me to suck that dog's tits?
Bignose bristled slightly.
Teats, old chap. Teats. And her name is Camilla.
I blew air out of my nose.
Hmm. Let's get this party started then.
It was several days later when I strutted into the Club toward the table where Rory sat. He stood as I approached.
Boomy! How are you? Let me get you a drink! I must say, that's a rather fetching hat you have on! Is it new?
I pulled the hat from my head and placed it on the table.
This thing? Yes, it's relatively new. Glad you approve.
Rory picked it up to admire it more closely.
I certainly do approve old chap, so very soft and supple. And would you look at that!
His fingers traced over one side.
Are those nipples? God, what's this thing made from?
I chuckled cheerily.
Oh Rory, you should know...