Gentlemens Spice

A Cocktale

“I say, what a marvelous cock!”

I was so pleased the Vicar had noticed on this splendid spring day. Last year he had seemed to be obsessed by Lady Watson’s tits, and if we’re being perfectly honest, we would have to admit to agreeing they were a most magnificent pair, and most worthy of the prestigious Best Birds award in the Kensington and Chelsea Annual Ornithology Show 1911. But this was 1912. A whole year had passed. A year in which I had spent a great deal of time preparing and nurturing my Spangling Green Cock.

It was by no means the biggest out there, but I told myself size was not everything. I had spent many hundreds of hours grooming it. In the four weeks leading up to the show, I had carried out a strict regimen of massaging and bathing it at least three times a day – sometimes even before breakfast. As the Vicar placed his hands around it, I hoped that this –  this - could be my year.

“Quite fidgety, isn’t it? Sign of a good diet,” he said.

I felt a bead of sweat form on my brow as he paused, and let out a silent sigh of relief as he continued.

“Oh, hasn’t it got tiny legs?”

Why did he have to mention the legs? Like a crystal glass dropped onto a marble floor, I felt my confidence shatter. Last year Duchess Bloemfontein had put on such a staggering display of thigh that, whilst she did not win, it was the talk of the Kings Road for many months after. Sadly, the Spangling Green never has offered much to offer the eye in terms of its limbage. Oh, why hadn’t I choosen a good booby over my cock, which now seemed to shrink in the Vicar’s hands? I lowered my head.

“There’s just one small thing, my dear fellow…”

With my confidence shattered and his use of the word ‘small’, I felt an ice-cold razor rip through my dreams. “Here it comes,” I told myself, as I prepared myself for more woe. Why hadn’t I listened to Asquith when he’d told me the vicar was much more a Brown Trembler man than a cock man, and that even the humble Rough Face Shag was known to bring a smile to his face.

“I don’t quite know how to say this, but…”

Come on, get to it! Raise the cold steel of the gun and blast what hopes I have left. Just say that it’s too small. That Lady Watson’s Agile Tits and the Red Fluffy Back Tit Babblers of the previous year’s winner – Miss Emmerford – had both been big, plentiful and full of bounce. I should have taken more time in my selection. If I had been more patient I would have been standing here proudly, showing off a large Willy Wagtail.

“It’s just….”

Why do you torture me so? God, I ask thee to open the ground and swallow me up.

“The ornithology show was last week. This is the canine show.”

I had wondered why I was surrounded by bitches.