Owls

I am walking through Hampstead Heath

and stop when I see a grey brick townhouse with huge windows looking out onto the green. I like it and walk up to it. I think that it is a hotel. Perhaps once a doctor’s house. I go into the garden, and walk up the window.

I am peering through the window when I see a very attractive lady on the other side.

She turns when she sees spots my head peeking in. Stopping she strolls over to the window and opens it.

“Yes?”

She looks like Juliette Binoche. Dark hair. Smoky eyes. A rough lustre in her voice. Her body is slim and taut. Like a rubber band.

“What is this?”

“It’s a hotel. Would you like to have a look?”

She says it all in a quiet cold voice. I suppose she means well.

“Yes please.”

She fully opens the window and I climb inside.

“You have a view over the park.”

“Yes. It used to be a doctor’s house.”

“Oh.”

I tell her to undress. She stands against the wall and removes her jacket, a short black and white matelasse cut to her waist, then her white, silk blouse, dropping these around her.

“Would you like a tea?”

“No thank you,” I reply.

She unzips the tweed skirt and lets it fall to the floor. Then one stocking at a time, rolling these down her long, slender legs and throwing these across the room at me. I catch one, but it costs me a little effort and I knock the chestnut table standing against the wall.

A family portrait of who I don’t know wobbles but regains its poise. She is now down to her underwear—a black see-through bra and sheer net thong. She raises one leg onto a chair and announces:

“How much more?”

“All of it.”

The very next thing I know I am eye to eye with her naked breasts. The nipples look like two owl eyes. My eyes trace down her body, over her cream skin, down past the navel, to the downy tuft of her pubis. I take a step back and strain to take the whole thing in. In essence she looks like an owl. The round, brown eyes, the black beak down below. She notices what I am thinking and immediately begins to flap her arms and make hooting noises.

She runs around the room doing this, climbing the wooden stool, up onto the table flapping her arms like a banshee. I let her finish then give her the mount of her life. When I have finished I climb back out of the window and resume my walk. Deep into the brisk, crisp Autumnal morning air.

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The Stylist– the Art issue!

If, like us, you have always wondered what art is then prepare to find out.

What is art? Is it a feeling? An act? A desire? Or something deeper? In order to find out The Stylist magazine team decided to convert ourselves into an art exhibition this week by doing our work in the Saatchi gallery and carrying out spontaneous art acts.

The week was a whirl of brainstormings and other arty things. Thousands of you looked at us. Me in particular.

We decided to start the week by carrying out some random terror artacks. First stop the National on Monday!

The goal was to become an art exhibit so we all painted ourselves blue and walked into the gallery hall.

Sitting in that gallery, covered in blue paint, I felt an overwhelming sense of pain wash over my body. I think it was the consciousness of a millennia of art weighing down on me. Or perhaps it was the acidic pain burning into my skin, I don’t know. In this artistic expression I too had joined the long ranks of the artists, from Picasso to Van Gogh to Mona Lisa and was now sharing in the multifaceted telepathic brother-slash-sister hood of art. I had become a cultural terrorist.

Later that day we went into the Tate and I took a piss in the corner. I was loving this freedom of artistic expression. Eventually a black security guard came up to me and shouted at me to get out. I shouted back at him, that he was an oppressed slave like me, and to let me continue my protest, or even better, join in like he would have done in the Motherland. But he didn’t and soon the police came. I told them that it was his fault and it was all smoothed over as he was taken away in handcuffs.

This successful protest made us even more determined to do something arty. I devised the SHART! movement on Tuesday which involved Sally from HR having a dump in public places as a sign of art. My crowning moment came in Westminster Abbey. I crept into the church and told Sally to have a crap in the pulpit. I termed this movement pulpshit. A crowd of people came and watched it was so successful and Sally was led out in handcuffs and TEARS!—another success!

On Wednesday I got Susan the accounts woman to dress up as a rat. She didn’t like it and at lunchtime started to complain about feeling hungry. So we told her to go outside and forage in the bins for her food. At first she refused but then we stood around her in a circle chanting “Art, Rat, Art, Rat, Art, Rat,” and rolled her down the stairs. After lunch she came in with some kind of white sauce on her whiskers and covered in rubbish. We made her sit in the corner in the name of art.

Then later that day I decided to have a masturbate-off with this girl who I have had my eyes on who works in the filing dept. At first she refused but then I told her a story. I said if she didn’t do it she would be fired. So we sat facing each other on these revolving chairs and had a wank-off. I won, covering her in my love spray from head to toe. This was called an ARTwank.

On Thursday I noticed the gay guy who works in subs. I’ve always disliked him. He just sits around working all day. So we, me and Simona, decided basically to sellotape him to his chair. I attached a bit of tape to his arm and then spun him around really fast covering him from head to toe in tape. We then painted him blue and called him “Mummy”. And you thought art was boring!

As I sat around brooding on my next challenge I was suddenly inspired. For there, passing before my eyes was none other than the wispy-haired clitoris, Brian Sewell.

He was being quite sneaky so I told the girls to shed his clothes and staple him to the wall in a Christ pose. Someone put a pope’s hat on him and we all had a really good laff. It got a bit serious later when he passed out due to a lack of sugar in his blood system. But anyway you can’t sue art.

Later I suggested to Sue, the woman in accounts, that she cut her ear off. She refused. Apparently I was told that it could be considered an illegal offence if I forced her to do it, so we compromised and shaved off all her hair instead. Later Will Gompertz came around and we did the same to him. He kept crying to us saying “No I was growing it for Meryl, please, please, please.”

I just said chill Will its only a bit of art.

The week has been a t’riffic success. I hope you agree that we now know what art is. It’s you and its me. Infact its all of us.

love

Luella

x

15 shades of Grey…continued

In my consternation I dropped the book on the floor and ran after Norma. Unfortunately she told me to sleep in the living room, bitterness in those cruel blue eyes.

Despairingly, I chided myself. Who is this Christian Grey? What is he? Why has he usurped my place? I logged on.

My fingers raced almost as fast as my mind whirring commands out at 5 words a minute like spiders weaving a web. But the more I learnt the less I knew. This is the conundrum of Grey.

Intellect, Power, Strength, Sex. The man has it all.

I can see the reflection of my old philosophy teacher in phrases like: “Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese?”

He is a family man. “Sh–! It’s my mother,” he cries after one vigorous romp. At times he is romantic: “I’ve never had vanilla sex before. There’s a lot to be said for it. But then, maybe it’s because it’s with you.” At times a gentle-man: “Miss Steele, you are not just a pretty face. You’ve had six orgasms so far and all of them belong to me.”

“Wow,” I whispered to myself.

Christian is Dionysius Aloysius all rolled into one. The very epitome of macho. The man I could have been.

“Meee,” I wailed to myself in despair.

But this was not the end of my curiosity. My feverish fingers looked for more information. Soon I found an intellectual’s forum for well-read women to talk to others of equal intelligence. I joined it under the pseudonym Norma (God forgive me).

“If Mr Grey and Miss Steele only have happy ends, then great, as women we now expect more, so step it up guys, one happy ending isn’t enough, we like multiples now!” said Ffiona.

Jackie countered any objections to the book with the simple, yet emotional plea:

“If this book is so bad why has it sold so many copies?”

And then came the final stage of my self-discovery. I needed to know who was this EL James? Who was this man who could capture the innate sexuality of the masculine sex so perfectly.

How wrong I was. For I learnt that EL James was a woman! This inflamed me even more. Groping into the internight I sought out a photo of this woman. Who was this enchantress that could write like this. My inner God flew higher than he ever had. I trembled like a blade of grass in the Arctic wind. My popsicle shook like a Jew’s harp. Perhaps we were meant to be together.

Her photo. O my word.

David Cameron writes

“David, David, David. Let’s tell it like it is,” comes a voice like smooth mocchiato from the other end. “You’ve bent over and let yourself get shafted by practically every politician in Europe. What is wrong with you? What do you believe in David?”

I clench my hand into a ball, but leave the thumb poking out in case I need to point at someone. My head is spinning.

“Lord Barack, look I am the PM of the UK and I won’t be spoken to like that.”

“Grow a pair of nutz you English Limey. C’mon let’s tell it like it is.  No more beating around the bush. It  is, repeat after me…. A CLUSTER FUCK. Ok?”

I put down the phone and let out a deep sigh.

“What do you believe in David?” The words echo like a vibrating harp in my mind.

What do I believe in? I believe in the forests. I believe in people. I believe in the right to eat and drink. I believe in my pet beagle Alfie. I believe in our daughter….Rachel.

But most of all I believe in music. I was the first boy in Eton to get into hip hop. All the way from Mousse T to Chaka Demus and pliers. They gave me respeck then.

I decide to put on the latest Riahanna remix, and am bogling in the front room when Sam comes in and tells me to turn it down.

“Chillaxe bitch,” I say, when whap, she slaps me across the face.

I’m lying in a heap on the floor and wondering where it all went wrong.

3pm press conference

It’s true things haven’t been easy ride these past few years. They got me on Eton, they got me on Bullingdon, my double first at Oxford wasn’t good enough for them. I’ve tried to dumb down, act black, act poor you know but no. They still hate me. So no more Mr Nice Guy. I walk into the room and smooth my lapels.

“Quite frankly the situation in Europe is terrible. The only way to describe it is as a cluster fuck.”

Later that evening I am curled on the sofa watching the news, really feeling down about life. Obama is being interviewed:

“Describing the situation in those terms is frankly unhelpful and potentially counter-productive. I mean God– and I’m talking black, white or brown– only knows what he was thinking.”

15 shades of grey

“O God John, no!”

Those were the words uttered by my wife Norma last week, signalling a grave moment in our relationship. I will recount the tale here. But be warned this is not for innocent eyes:

“It is a bitterly cold evening as my wife Norma and I sit infront of the hearth warming ourselves. I wrapped in my wool cardigan, holding a cup of cocoa peruse the internet for Anthony Beevers while Norma reads a work of modern literature entitled Fifty Shades of Grey. It is a book, she says, on the virtues of temperance. I too believe in the virtues of grey and am particularly satisfied by her reply.

Ten O’ clock and Norma has retired to bed. I am still quite wide awake though. The potent concoction of Ovaltine and chocolate has rendered me with a fizz of energy. Perhaps, I think, I will take a look inside her book and thus drift off to a clement sleep. I turn the page. ‘Tis a pleasant opening. A narrative by a rather sprightly woman. Perhaps it is a modern Little Women. Ah indeed, it is a typical work of Christian chastisement and homely didacticism. Most pleasing. Observe as he is throwing her over his knee. Now he is spanking. But wait. I read on. Hmmm, I do not understand. The spanking appears to be pleasurable. Now he is removing her clothes?! This does not look like your normal work of Christian literature.

[Ed: the page is obscured by several chocolatey splashes here]

O God. This is my fate. Yes it is true I too did once purchase a pornographic magazine. It was on the very day that I started as junior home secretary in 1976.

I still remember the terror that addled my brain as I travelled on the central line into work with the soft pornography magazine inside my briefcase alongside a cheese sandwich, an apple, and a photo of Norma. O God the fear, the terror that I might be found out! I had, of course, locked my briefcase with both a seven-digit combination and security key which I hung around my neck. And yet my mind quivered with fright! What if it fell open on the train? What if a thief purloined it and discovered the contents? What if, somebody with X-ray spectacles, such as were all the rage those days, was able to see inside? What if, what if?! I would be ruined.

Yes, I will admit that I was a quavering wreck by the time I reached Whitehall. The experience was akin to an Edgar Allen Poe story I had read in my youth in which a beating heart so hounds the subject that he throws himself into the arms of the law. Yes I almost gave myself up to the police plebs that guard Westminster. This experience was preternaturally thrilling and so I vowed never to buy another magazine of this nature ever again. Fortunately that was when Norma came into my life.

But that was always a man’s privilege. Things are so different these days. Boys as young as sixteen will peruse the internet looking for images of women in states of disrepair. Men send each other blue photographs of their wives in the toilet. In my curious and inflamed sense of despair I decide to find out more about this Christian Grey? Who is he? What is he? And how is he….I peruse the internet to find out more. There someone has constructed an image of him. I see it.

He is indeed a beautiful man. I think of Harry Hotspur. “And on this day which man shall hold his manhood cheap.”

But my own beacon is all burnt out. Flames of youth quenched. Now indeed all is grey. Woman thy name is vice…O no my hand has slipped. I find myself on a website called bangmeonthebus.

God what is this, I must get it off the computer. Quick, quick I hear footsteps on the landing. It’s Norma! O god I’ve clicked close and four more pornographic pages have sprung up.iee close, close you filth close. Nooooo…..it’s too late.
Norma appears at the door. She catches me peering into this hideous convocation of images. No Norma no it is not as you think. I was just curious.

“Is this what it has come to John? Arousing yourself over pornography?”
“No Norma no I merely wanted to see what you were reading. I thought it was a book on temperance for god’s sake!”
“There is no such thing as temperance anymore John. Why don’t you grow up and get into the 21st century.”

She walks off. I am destroyed. It’s just like the time the backbenchers revolted over the council tax. I sit and stare forlornly at the screen…look at it, pages of pages of naked women enjoying flagellation, extreme upskirts, voyeur cams, sybian machines, girltogirl munch….”

Finny’s Cricket Diary

Read the full diary here

Finny on… getting lost

“Waheeeeey. Beeeeeers. Wheeeee.

It’s fair to say that we hit the beers pretty hard after winning the T20 series in Abu Dhabi to mark a successful end to the one-day leg of the tour. Fortunately there was a club in the hotel that made it a lot easier to stumble to our rooms. I still managed to get lost on the way to mine…uh hur a hur.

I basically crawled into a darkened room, thinking it was my own. As I got into bed I noticed a shape lying next to me—it was Sachin Tendulkar! He woke up and asked me what the hell I was doing there.

“God I don’t know I said, I got lost. What’s the big deal anyway?”

“Please kindly leave now.”

“Well at least let me go for a piss before I leave.”

I went into his loo and took a big piss. I could hear him getting agitated outside. Eventually, at the end of the day, I left.

As I was going out I could see him on the phone to security. I mean Jesus, the man has no humour!”

Finny on… benefits with friends

“Literally I love beer.

A hur a hur. Jimmy kindly asked me to help him out by attending a dinner for his benefit – he’s never spoken to me that nicely before, but I knew he wanted something. And I knew that whatever it would be it would be something really funny and amusing and drinking related. A hur a hur. Well when I turned up I found him and Swanny on stage crawling about on all fours. One of them had a beer glass strapped to top of his head the other was trying grab it in his mouth. They kept chasing each other round in circles like two dog! Clueless!

Then you know what? We ALL had a beer, got topless, tied our ties around our heads and started to piss around for forty odd minutes. It was great fun. I was sick everywhere. Jimmy was sick all over Swanny. Then one of them was sick into a glass and I drank it.Wahaaaaay!!!! These lads are some of the funniest guys I’ve ever meet. And now so am IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII! Wahayyyy. God I love a bevvy.”

Finny on WAGS

“The arrival of wives and girlfriends is always a happy time for the lads, however, I didn’t have anyone jetting over to see me. Ah well back to my solitary masturbatory ways! Only kidding. You think I’d do that??! I mean have you seen some of the prostitutes out there in Colombo. Cor, you could fall in love all over again. Only kkkkidding!! I don’t use prossies. Nor does Swanny! U hur a hur.

I am renowned for being a bit of a trash telly junkie, which isn’t looked upon lightly in the dressing room. My favourite is Jeremy Kyle. Next is Geordie Shore. Then the Apprentice. Next is TOWIE. Followed by the X Factor. Then comes Pete and Jordan show. Next is I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here. Also House. Then there’s Britain’s Got Talent.

I will however draw the line at Big Brother. It’s lost all its charm in recent years. It’s pretty disappointing how things like that can go downhill so quickly!

Anyway the opportunity to have a proper chinwag with a few of the girls about the trashy reality TV back in England was absolutely brilliantttttt. All the mind-numbing, brain destroying, personality warping stuff that have made the English the superior race of individuals they are today! Wa heeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Anyway I even borrowed a few of their magazines—Vogue, UKGT, Playgirl— but none of the boys know this, so keep that to yourselves! Please. Shhh wink wink.”

Finny on… after-dinner activities

“The evenings in Sri Lanka are beautiful outside the hotel, and beyond the curtains, but the most important action happens behind closed doors (get your minds out of the gutter). It’s sex of course! The boys like to chow down at about 11 o clock. Andy Flower is the worst of the lot. Like a perverted ringmaster he leads us into phantastical processions of mind bending depravity which neither human nor animal could ever imagine. Wahaaaaay!”

Finny on… Bressy’s literary skills

“Tim Bresnan has limited literary skills. Full stop. He was in charge of writing the lads’ names on the bottles for the first Test. I’d say the lads have some pretty easy names to spell. Cooky, Straussy, Belly, Finny, Anderson. Easiest of the lot I reckon could be Broady… Bres couldn’t decide whether it had an extra ‘R’ in it. Or an I.

Ah well. It is who he his. You’ll often find him huddled in the corner of the dressing room, crouched into a ball, looking back at us. More Neanderthal than man he sits there giving us dark shifty glances, brows furrowed, hands clasped in agony. A doctor came to look at him once and just said “This man needs an emergency operation.

Well I don’t know!”

copyright AOC

Letter from Jonathan Trott

Dear cousin Bert

How are ya? I am playing cricket for England.

The lads are a good bunch. There’s Straussy. Cooky. Belly. Broady. Swanny. Wrighty. Finny. Monty. The last one’s originally Indian. I say I’d love to go to India, heard it’s beautiful. He says he doesn’t know he grew up in Walsall. I say what about the names. Does his mean anything? Mont. He says he doesn’t know he grew up in Walsall and then starts to talk for 3 minutes but I don’t understand anything of what he’s going on about. I say niver mind.

Oh an there’s another Saffer in the team. Kiv Pietersen. Rally nice chip. He is big and is helping me settle in. He keeps saying that it will come good but don’t try too hard. He’s lent me all these things. Bat, pads, triangular face mask. He tells me not to worry about getting hit in the face, “Your ugly anyway Trotty,” he says. “Seriously mate, you’re lucky you don’t have a face like mine. Gold it is. Think about getting it insured sometimes. Then I think, nah best to age gracefully.”

Anyway bru I’ll give you a bell soon, just goin out to bat. Miss you, love to the folks

Trotty

PS I tried to read that book, “The art of War”. Bit of a disappointment bru. I thought it was all about war and ninjas and shit. But it’s not. I don’t know what the hell it’s about.

Kevin Pietersen’s Cricket Diary II

Day 1

Average down to 46.24. Why God?

Day 2

I’m on the dancefloor. I’m dancing. I’m doing that rolling thing with my hands, arms up in the sky, moving down, back up again.

You make me feel like the one, make me feel like the one, oh yeah….

All the eyes are on me. All of them.

Yeah I feel like the one, feel like the one.

O jeez. In the corner. It’s Belly. He’s looking at me while sipping a cocktail. Hooded eyes ravishing every inch of my body. Focus Kev. Feel like the

O God. I’ve lost my rhythm. My feet feel heavy. Straussy is looking at me too. I’m sweating. I’m walking over to Belly. I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind.

Wait. I’m not in a disco. I’m at Lords. I’m on the field. It’s the 20/20 final. The whole team is staring at me. And laughing. Bellyyyyyyy!

Day 4

I’ve been taking lessons in false modesty. My coach Rob Spear tells me I should use the phrase “I was lucky enough” more, as in “I was lucky enough to score a century today; I was lucky enough to visit a school of orphans in India; I was lucky enough to meet Mandela (LOL!!).”

He also says never to point with the finger but to use a thumb like claw approach. Also I shouldn’t mispronounce opposition players’ names.

I say, “are you kidding? Have you ever been to Sri Lanka?!!”

He says “c’mon Kevin.”

I say “it’s Kivan. KIVAN you fucking muppet.”

I lay into him with all my fury.

Day 5

They’ve got a new player in from South Africa. He’s been drafted straight into the first team. Senior management think that his failure will turn on my success. His name’s Trott.

Day 6

I got 15 today. Bowled.

Day 8

Trott’s not understood his role in the side. He’s a fuckin idiot. C’mon Kivan.

Day 9

God. I’ve never prayed to you before. But I’m praying now. I’m on my knees big guy. Firstly– as you know I am a great cricketer. But I don’t seem to be getting the scores in. C’mon God pal, give us a hand here mate.

Day 10

Score two.

Day 12

“Have you ever scored a century at Lords? Have you ever scored a double century at the Wanderers? Have you? Have you? I mean what are you? What have you ever done man? Nothing! You are nothing to me!!”

I hang up the phone to Mandela and stride out onto the balcony wearing only my sunnies and a smile. Hold on. This is not my balcony. I’m at Lords. The whole world is watching. There are muted gasps from the members lounge and an old man dies in the stands.

Day 13

My average is down to 46.21. Are you happy now God?

CB Fry and The Titanic

“I am Charles Burgess FRY!”

Thus I shouted as the policeman gripped my arm, and attempted to lock an iron bracelet around my wrist. The nerve of the man. The sheer unadulterated nerve!

It’d started pleasantly enough. I’d been dining at the Savage Club with two compatriots. We were picking over the ruins of the Lords match in which the Chinaman Ellis Achoo had devastated England with a new ball he had invented (that I named “the bad one”). It came as no surprise to me that the inept buffoons had lately lost their nerve, led as they were by that odious urn of excretia, Grace.

In any respects I was preparing to eat the haunch of pheasant cooked with a modicum of plumage which was when I discovered that I had no fork. Well of course one cannot eat pheasant with one’s hands these days and so I decided to take my neighbour’s. Doyle, however, is a most cantankerous fool and refused me.

Angered I took the nearest thing that I could find– a gold fork lying in the display cabinet on the wall and buried it deep into the partridge. As I raise it to my lips, I notice the room’s eyes on me!

“What,” I shouted out loudly as Messrs Rees, Jakes and Fosworthy looked on. “Think I know not how to eat a pheasant?”

I brought it to my lips and bit hard. Ah it tasted good. I was masticating it when a servant came over and stood above me.

“What is it you blithering idiot? What do you want?”

“Um, Sir,” quoth the discomposed lackey. “Please, but you may not use that fork. It’s not for use.”

“I’ll use any fork I like you fool. How dare you interrupt my luncheon. Now go away.”

“Sir, that fork belonged to Lord Nelson. We have it here on special display. It is priceless. It is gold!”

To say I was angry would be an understatement. I buried the fork deeper into the pheasant and ate directly from it, licking the utensil from top to bottom.

There was a visible gasp around me.

“Someone call the police,” arose a shout.

And then Doyle approached me with a grim look on his untidy face.

“I am arresting you in the name of the king.”

Well I wasn’t having this lickspittle arrest me and so I served him a mighty blow to his face. He went down in a crashing heap. Unfortunately another man took me from behind. He had grasped my arms in a lock and weighed me to the floor.

“I arrest you sir, for defiling Nelson’s fork!”

There were thirteen of them Poesy all upon me. I could not take them all, though I tried.

A few hours later I was at the dock of the Queen’s Court in the Old Bailey. The magistrate, Lord Kempton, used to be a friend of mine. We had shared rooms at Oxford. Unfortunately he had been lost to law and the sentence that he issued was a harsh one.

“You are to serve fifteen days in Pentonville for the defilement of her Majesty’s property!”

This could not be true. What travesty! For, Poesy, I was due to sail with the England XI to Australia in ten days time!

“No,” I cried. “You cannot do this. I am to sail to play cricket in Australia! You will undo a lifetime’s work!”

Kempton understood my plight but said the law was blind and that his hands were tied.

“Fear not Fry,” says he, “you will be there. We will get you to Australia. There is another boat. The greatest ship of her kind. She is faster, more navigable and more commodious than any other and she sets sail in 15 days. Her name– The Titanic!”

Fry’s Titanic diary

Day 1

Gods! Finally I am set sail. Three days after my teammates are already departed. They en route while I languish here in the bowels of this ship.

In truth this ship is a hideous wreck. My quarters, are cramped, and carry a foul air of pestilence.

Day 2

I dined with the Rt Hon George Absquith this evening. Lady Margaret and I did make badinage. My repartee was unparalleled. I got quite drunk on the champagne and tried to follow her back to her cabin, but she would not let me inside. One day she will realise what she has lost.

Day 3

Canapes on the pavilion this evening. There is muttering of war. I tell everyone not to be stupid. Who would make war on the English? These are the days of peace and freedom. The only war is to be made on the pitch! Ha! I get quite drunk and attempt to swing from the chandelier in the main hall. Luckily I see sense and merely swan dive off the parapet.

Day 4

Managed to get a net today. I commanded one of the deck hands—a small boy named Toby— to throw me a couple. One of my shots was hit so hard that it loosed a lifeboat. Ah well they will never need that!

The captain is a rum bloke called Smethwick. I fancy he likes a bit of the lash.

Day 5

Supine supernumeraries! What an experience. I was playing tennis on the deck with the Rt Hon William Perry this morning. As I closed the match with a smash to his head, I saw a fine form floating past. O but how! Dressed head to toe in willowing white cloth she’d come to play. Her name is Penelope Simmons. I am enamoured. I am entrapped.

Day 6

Curses. I have been dreaming about my team. I cannot help but wonder how that adipose barrel of butter Grace is faring. Undoubtedly he is turning them against me. On my boat! Where I should have been. If only we could go faster. I will tell the captain of this junk to burn more coal! Fry needs to reach Australia!

Day 7

Good, we are making time. I threatened the captain last night to increase our speed to the maximus. He pointed that we were already travelling as fast as we could. Then I looked at the map. “There,” I said to him. “Why can’t we go that way?”

“Those are the North Atlantic straits Sir,” says he. “They are the most treacherous waters in the northern hemisphere.”

“O you quaking, quavering fool. Are you English or are you a coward? What straits ever bowed the English before. We must go that way—through there avaunt!”

After some hard slaps to the face the fool saw sense. Finally we are catching them!

Day 8

I mustered up the courage to speak to Penelope. What an angel. She is going to holiday in India with her parent. I asked her if she likes cricket. She said yes and asked me the same. I could only look away and blush.

Day 10

I must break out of my cabin.

Day 11

The weather turns against us. These seas are cold. The ladies and gentlemen of the ship had a dance today. I charmed and wooed every lady. But my eyes were set on the fairest of them all. Penelope! We danced three roundels and a waltz. Ah the romance. At the end she slipped me her glove. I feel she is smitten.

Day 12

I had a vociferous argument with the captain. The fool tells me we must change course. The seas are too rough by day. We shall sail by night then, says I. Under the stars. He tried to protest but I whipped him into understanding.

Day 13

I have grown closer to Penny. She calls me Charles now. How felicitous!

Day 14

O the error of my ways! O dogged mistakes! O painful fate! Earlier this afternoon I thought that I would surprise Penny by calling at her chambers and escorting her to luncheon. I reached her room to find the door ajar. Thinking my arrival would surely be a charming surprise I crept in. O but what I found! She was there lying insensate on her sofa. Her eyes drooped into a sort of oblivion and she made soft moaning noises. Lying next to her on the floor was a bottle of morphine! She is a morphineuse! I left immediately.

Day 19

I have been in an ill humour for ten days now. Penny keeps calling around. She told me that she had taken medicine for an old ailment. I do not believe her. Fie the liar!

Day 20

Today was another dinner. An American braggart was there—his name Boy Hoover. He is a large man and considers himself to be possessed of the deepest bass in the world. Over dinner I challenged him to have it out. Thus we stood abreast of each other. He went first. Indeed he produced a note of such ungodly profundity that I thought it would stir the beasts out of their briny lairs.

But he had not reckoned with Fry! I opened my mouth and yodelled a note of such ear-splitting intensity that many thought it was the ship’s foghorn itself. Ha! The American is defeated.

8pm

It was the ship’s foghorn!

8.30pm

The captain has been down in a funk. He announced that we have struck something in the water. I told him not to be foolish.

9pm

The ship is still. We do not move.

10pm

I am on deck. The scene is a riot. I believe we have hit a berg! The captain has lost him mind. I saw Penelope running around in circles! The poor wretch has lost her parent. She is like a little bird and relies on me utterly.

10.15pm

God I cannot get to a lifeboat. It’s women and children first. Do they not know that I above all need to get to Australia.

11pm

Uff the ship sinks. This is serious. I see all the women are off. Penelope has boarded one. In the confusion she lost her parents. She sees me. Suddenly she stands and screams “You are the only man I ever loved CB.” O God !How could I leave her. How could I let her go? NO! You are CB Fry. I will reach her boat. I can jump it! Yes I can jump this distance.

11.23pm

I made the boat! I produced a new world record long jump and bounded out of the poopdeck and into the lifeboat where Penelope sat. Unfortunately the force with which I hit the boat unbalanced it and sent Penelope flying out miles in the air and out into the sea. I trust that she will have been rescued by an able sailor.

Postscript

The voyage was a perilous one. But I made it. I rowed for 16 days without food nor water until I made it to the southern tip of Australia just in time for the Melbourne Test. That same day I scored 141 and took 4 wickets for a measly figure. As ever I was a success.

But I never heard from Penelope again. They found her chiffon skirts floating downstream, and no one knows if she was alive or not. The tragedy of the Titanic will be told for years to come. God bless her and all those who sailed in her.