Yesterday, the bloody council sent a female representative to assess the Reform Club's 'Men Only' ruling, which has been in place since the old King was on the throne. It is my view that gentleman should be entitled to have such an oasis from the fairer sex – an escape from the tawdry gossip about bikini lines, leg waxing, shopping and hairstyles. Proper chaps have no interest in such gammon and need some quality time making ridiculous wagers or getting into fights.
Notices had been sent by the committee in advance to all patrons, warning us of said visit and requesting we were to be on our best behaviour. Suffice to say the staff's faces dropped somewhat when yours truly rolled up demanding to know what in blazes she was about and damning her for an old boot and probable native of Lesbos.
“Mr. Flashman” she squeaked in snooty fashion, “ it is precisely this kind of archaic and sexist behaviour that this council is determined to stamp out once and for all.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet, toots” growled I, slapping her rump for good measure.
Now most ladies usually go a bright pink at this manoeuvre and in no time at all I have them in the Half Flashman (one hand cupping tit, t’other round the waist) and talk of a gallop round the Towers is usually next on the agenda.
But this mare was a backward sort, and clearly hadn’t sampled proper manflesh since the last millennia, and paused only to harrumph loudly before threatening to call the police.
Now, Gentle Reader, you know better than most that ol’ Flash just doesn’t know when he’s beat when it comes to the skirt game – indeed I consider myself a Grandmaster of the art. But this filly would clearly prove a tricky mount.
She wasn’t a bad bit of fluff behind all that beige, and I reckon once she was oiled sufficiently I’d have her saddled up and jumping over the fences like a thoroughbred, or die trying.
Offering her a drink by way of apology, and spouting some absolute guff about how sorry I was for my misconduct and how I’d benefit from a lesson or two in ‘how to approach today’s laissez-faire attitude to sexual equality in non-interventionist society' (the things I say when I’m sniffing out a likely trot!) her silly little face lit up and she said she’d be only too happy to offer a few pointers and thus enlighten a repressed mind.
We’ll see, thought I.
Tipping Happy Larry behind the bar the wink to make it a large one, I hung on to her every word as she informed me of the council’s vision of a unified and fair society, showing no sign of glazing over as I’m liable to do whilst listening to such twaddle, and gave her the patented puppy dog eye look that melts even the iciest of hearts. Ensuring that Larry kept the ‘mineral waters’ coming, she was soon in no fit state to drive anywhere, so I took the liberty of phoning her work to explain that she had been taken ill and wouldn’t be able to return that day, for which she was eternally grateful.
She demonstrated her gratitude fully a little later, when after popping her in the back of the Bentley and pootling back to the Towers she proved rather fond of my bedsport prowess as I gave her my version of sexual equality, Flashman style.
Whilst she was sleeping off the after effects of a two hour tumble, I took the liberty of rifling through her handbag, finding a photograph of her with her husband (poor sap), and thus gaining the blackmail material I needed to ensure that dotty little mares like her are kept well away from the Reform Club, playing no part in our male-bonding and ‘light your own fart’ competitions, that are the unheralded backbones of modern civilization.
FLASHMAN STRIKES AGAIN!
Paul Rodgers is not the best thing since fried Fred.