Hello hello, Bosie Giddy-Gaylord here, wearing nothing but my birthday suit and a fashionable and utterly fabulous scarf on my head. Oh, do I have the most delightful tales of decadence and extravagance for you! You see, since the last time you laid your eyes upon my tasteful and dazzling, hm, articles, two of our favourite noblemen went to visit one of those exclusive clubs that we hear so much about. These two favourites being Lord Boyling and, of course, Lord Ponkleton! Accompanied by the ever so articulate Mathias, an actor of sorts, who once claimed to have been the semi-exclusive lover of a not-so-successful painter in Florence, the two noblemen headed down to the nethermost regions of the Stockholmian club life. Dear readers, at this moment, I advise you to reflect upon your morale and on the question whether you want to delve as deep into the hidden passions of your most sexual self that I can make you. All done? Very well, let us continue.

The club was fabulous. I say this because there frankly is no other way to describe it! Once the guests had arrived, to sit at little tables, sipping drinks and tasting some nibbles and/or each other, the festivities commenced. A young troupe of women and, hm, bearded women from France honoured the club with some rather ravishing expositions of the flesh, which seemed to please at least the great majority of the guests. I must erect some boundaries here, but I do admit that there occurred some bending, some jolting and, finally, some prancing.

After the show, the trio went onward, chasing whatever lucid dreams were tingling ahead of them, all up until a horrid accident nearly proved fatal to the dashing and too young Boyling’s life. Oh, I shudder in despair as I think about it, and damn whatever poor excuse of an architect built those meagre stairs. But fret not, my friends, for he escaped the clutches of death, and instead embraced the bosom of Lady Ganesha that same night.

And while he was busy bosom-embracing, Lord Ponkleton returned to the lonesome comfort of Ponk Plaza to delight in the evening’s events, briefly immerse himself in pensive remembrance of Lady Godiva-Bubamara, and, finally, fall asleep in front of a picture show in his private theatre.

Also, I would like to add that during the abovementioned proceedings Lord Jamés, our idol, sat in the Jamés Estate, masticating… Japanese treats, that is… and being quite the dashing hunk of man meat. As I watched from afar, he performed a few humdrum yoga exercises, exhibiting extraordinary bodily elasticity, and sending a tingle down my spine, as well as down the spines of my fellow onlookers. God bless you, Lord Jamés, and God bless your beard, your robust arms, your masculine curves, and your soft skin, glistening with sweat and man oils.