Lord Snatch, overcome by a profound lotophagical and on that account intensely pleasurable torpor, dragged his emaciated, pestilential hide through the rusty gates and up the familiar and slimy steps to the foot of … er … Squattocrat Heights. It had been … how long? Thirty-six hours? By Snatchian standards, rilly no more than an average κρυπτεία (although, taking into account the equine character of so much of the proceedings, the mot juste would perhaps have been 'chevauchée’). —
Lord Snatch, Squattocrat Heights
His Lordship was on the whole relieved to have wormed his way out of ceremonially castrating Ianeass the Gimp. Granted, it might in the fullness of time have rendered marginally less offensive the Mancunian ghastliness of that appalling little grunter. But rilly, the whole beeswax was far too squalid and infra-dig and, not to put too fine a point on it, Golden Bovian. For his part, Ianeass had needed vey little persuasion to forgo his own Abelardian martyrdom, grumbling about heritage and tradition just long enough to take the edge off the mordant indecency of the whole sorry spectacle. On the other hand, it had been vey commendable of him to suggest that Onanisticles the Scagsmith take his place, even if such a suggestion would never - could never - have been acted upon. That chep’s resemblance to an erect todger would have been remarkably serendipitous, despite in the final analysis in no whit diminishing the Golden Bovinity of the thing. Jolly handy with the pretexts though. Not the foggiest how a gremmer school oik like thet could have got his greasy paws on so obscure a document as the Codex Optimatium. Nonetheless, he’d fished the xerox out from a teetering pile of genital protectors, rustled some pages, and there it was in bleck and white: οι αριστοκρατικοί τοξικομανείς δεν πρέπει να εκτελούν ιερατικές λειτουργίες, which is as much as to say posh lotophages are not to engage in godbothering. —
Onanisticles the scagsmith, Ianeass the Gimp
Lord Snatch had quietly acknowledged to himself that, for all that Onanisticles the Scagsmith was fundamentally no more than an irritant - and most particularly so when his speech degenerated into this confected archaism - on this point at least his reasoning was sound. Accordingly, the houyhnhnm pelt being stuffed into a tebly dernier mot Primani bag, there had appeared in the vicinity of Bath Buildings a pair of vey yellow eyes sunk deep into the front of a vey yellow head wobbling atop a vey emaciated frame. (The vey emaciated frame had not borne the vey yellow eyes and the vey yellow head by the most direct route back to … er … Squattocrat Heights, inasmuch as this most practically rational of lotophages, anticipating a dearth of the eponymous commodity, had bent his steps unto the pop-up pharmacy at that time operating out of premises in Picton Street.) —
Primani bag, Bath Buildings
Now from within emanated those cultured vowels immediately recognisable as belonging to Lady Snatch’s theatrical agent, Mr Francis MacMahon. —
Francis MacMahon
“It is all the same to me,” said Lord Snatch, smiting with his Primani bag the hominid, “at all events I would vey much prefer to forgo the pleasure of having his paroxysm expressed upon my tryser. Down boy!” —
Lady Kelly Snatch
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