Gentlemens Spice

Georgie

Asquith: You know Georgie?

Browne: Do I ? Rather! Went for a spin in that ferocious motorcar of his the other week.

Asquith: We were out around Piccadilly last Friday.

Browne: Bet it was a right hoot! Last time I was out with him, practically emptied the bar at the Strand. Next morning, woke up – wrong side of Hammersmith, and a tongue as rough as a Japanese attempt at distilling Scotch.

Asquith: We began our night off at the Windmill Club

Browne: Randy sod! Is that stripping trapeze artist still there?

Asquith: In fact, she was old boy! Marvellous act, I must say. After we’d whiled away a couple of hours there, we moved onto the Savile.

Browne: Are they letting Georgie back in after he got in that infamous scuffle with those three Oxford rowers?

Asquith: Indeed. Turns out the club’s secretary used to row for the lighter shade of blue. Georgie is back in with battle honours. Good job too! Finest sherry in London. We got through two bottles of the stuff in the space in an hour. Later on and in the smoking room, there was some old fellow holding court. He asked us all, “Do you believe in clubs for women?” Georgie stands up on his chair and shouts, “Only if kindness fails!”

Browne: Ra! That’s Georgie for you.

Asquith: Well, it turns midnight and the club becomes a bit of a bore. I first suggested we head east and visit our Chinese friend. Georgie, however, is a bit too full of beans, so instead we head back to mine and I get my man to fetch us a couple of tarts.

Browne: By the way, did you get that business with your man sorted?

Asquith: I did. I explained that if I had known it was his son, I wouldn’t have booted the urchin in the face. So anyhow, back at mine, a whiskey later – girls turn up. A couple of lovely French brunettes. Good teeth.

Browne: So important these days.

Asquith: I was straight in, trousers down, tramp over piano, cigar in one hand, and I’m wapping away for England. I looked over though, and I noticed Georgie and his were – well – sitting there talking.

Browne: Oh no, don’t say the chap’s developed a whore infliction.

Asquith: It gets worst. Next they were holding hands.

Browne: Same thing happened to Archer. Fellow was near broke in a year over some Fleet Street tart. Worst of all, it meant our cricket team ending up being a man short that season.

Asquith: It got to that point where I had to leave the room for a tick, but was pleased to see, greeting me on my return, Georgie’s bare bottom going up and down like the grand old Duke of York. They were at it tops and tails!

Browne: Phew! Had to say I was worried.

Asquith: Sadly, old boy, looks like we are going to be another player short next season.

Browne: Oh? And why is that?

Asquith: Turns out old Georgie isn’t a George, but a Georgina.

Browne: Oh… Shame. Damn fine bowler.