Mes amis...
Ah no... my friends.... please excuse my insuffisances... deficiencies... in the maintenance of this journal... again, sorry - journal.
It has been a wearying year since I fell hard with a dark and distressing sickness that wrought its poison upon my harrowed limbs and reduced me to the very darkest pit of humanity.
For last year I was struck down with a most severe case of gallic illness... Yes, the French Disease. Please do not turn away from these pages in fear of feeling the palsy's tendrils at your throat! Regardless of the bunkum postulated by Dr John Snow, There is no proof that the mallady can be transfered via the International Network.
It was my beloved Mandy (o! those glutinous folds, those tufted curlicues!) that poisoned me with this vile sickness. It was during her celebrated tour of Europe that she was brutally sired by a swarthy député in a darkened corner of the Palais Bourbon. Yes - she was infected by his stinking 'gallus'.
Soon after meeting her I was lost in the fever, with but few moments of horrifying clarity. I recall waking at one point to find myself performing La Marseillaise through an ocarina protruding from my anus, as King Leopold II looked on admiringly. The mists enveloped me again, only for me to revive to find myself lurking around the backstreets of St Mary le Bow clutching a sketchpad full of crude renderings of the local streetwalkers.
Thankfully, I am now over the worst, but still this damned disease sticks faster than syphilis and the - how you say? - retour en arrières... flashbacks are debilitating.
I was at Claridges taking high tea with Viscount Melbourne yesterday, when I demanded a mousse au chocolat then sneered at the mention of Queen Victoria. I was rightly taken out back for a swift kicking.
How much longer must this this shame continue?
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