I woke up this morning tied to the railings outside Number 10 Downing Street as if I were some damned Pankhurst suffregette. Confused, I looked about me to gain some clue as to how I found myself there. I soon realised that my situation was unlikely to be connected to the struggle for equal rights, as I was naked from head to foot, and my testicles had been painted a shade of deep ochre.
Imagine my dismay when Mr Gladstone stepped out of of a carriage and passed by me on his way into his venerable house. Attempting to smooth over the obvious embarrasment, I uttered some words of support for his Irish Coercion Act. He merely harumphed and slammed the black door shut behind him. Miserable ass!
Once freed by a particularly tactile Peeler, I donned some simple working man's clothes from a line and headed north-west, to Chez Stiggers. On the way, I pondered upon the mystery of my morning. I rifled through the events of last night for some clue: a meeting with a fellow Devotee of Raku at the Bucket of Blood, then to the Kings Head and on to The Porcupine, where he was kicked out for exposing his anus to an off-duty policeman. I continued alone to a range of low gin houses along Haymarket.
I recall viciously kicking a tramp about the face, then all is shrouded in darkness.
As I allowed myself entry to my house, I vowed to discover who it was who left me in such an uncompromising position. His entrails would be wrapped around a streetlamp within the hour!
Goodnight my dear friends.
Augustus
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