Dibbler
Now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in to saucy doubts and punts.
So here I sit, deprived of Mrs D., alone in the salty glamour of my solitude. Plod has ceased his tiresome questions regarding her termination and the wife has ceased her spectral visits. Anyway, salty glamour and hocus pocus aside, I’ve been plunging into some rather murky betting waters of late.
There is a species of punter, devoid of morals and conscience, who will plonk his roubles on nothing but the sauciest of wagers. One such miscreant is my old mucker Chodder Cavendish. Chodder acquired this moniker on account of a spate of unattributable lavatory blockages at our Eton digs back in the 1940s. Therein lies a tale…
I assumed command of an investigation and dispatched a young fag to monitor the lavatory activity of the chief suspects. Two days later I was awoken at 11am by a shrill cry and said fag burst into my room with such a look of terror I swiftly deduced the return of the Phantom Chodder. Donning rubber gloves, I strode purposefully to the site.
I was greeted by a scene of such carnage as shall remain with me to my dying day. There, protruding from the bowl in defiant tumescence, was a turd whose extraordinary length and girth might have been hewn by Zeus himself. From tip-to-tip the monster measured over 40cm, an astonishing size which was later confirmed by the science boys, who whisked it down to the labs for immediate analysis.
Needless to say the investigation became a cause célèbre in my college and when I finally identified the culprit (an examination of students’ undergarments revealed four cases of anal haemorrhaging of which only three were attributable to uphill gardening), I was feted by a relieved community.
I made two demands of Cavendish: first, the unconditional cessation of hostilities within the college’s lavatory bowls; second, the immediate adoption of a fruit-based diet. In exchange, I guaranteed him anonymity and referral to the best bowel specialist in Christendom. The poor chap was so relieved he promised to return the favour should ever I find myself requiring help.
As I discussed various bets with my ‘saucy wager’ pals last week, it occurred to me that the time had come to haul in that debt. I contested a wager that no man of woman born could produce a chod in excess 40cm. The claim was greeted with much snorting and I swiftly found opposition for my proposal at 5-1. I then had a quiet word with Cavendish and set about implementing a major coup, which I shall describe in gory detail to you next time…
