Confessions of a Gameskeeper

Hello. My name is Mellors, and I’m a gameskeeper. T’is merely a coincidence that I share t’same name and occupation as yon randy bugger in Lady Chatterley’s Lover, though funnily enough, I too am a man of great but rough-hewn sensuality. So that got me to thinking: if yon lewd scribbler DH Lawrence can make a living selling dirty novels, then why can’t I? Especially as gardening is the dirtiest bleeding profession there is, and I’m NOT talking about soil.

So anyway, I’ve writ a novel about a chap not dissimiliar to I, and I’ve put an extract of it below. It’s dead good. I imagine t’will be taught in universities in years to come, to literature students with wonderful career prospects in junior administration and data entry.

Oh, and keep an eye out for t’posh literary techniques I’ve used. Remember: literature is about learning, not about fun.

‘Ere we go.


 

T’were a fine summer’s day, with t’sun hanging heavy and fat in t’sky, like yon jandiced booby in a blue peep-hole brassiere.

(That’s a simile, that is, and also a bit o’ foreshadowing. But what is it foreshadowing? That’s right: more boobies.)

A yellow-dusted bumblebee flew unsteadily by: several flowers had just spunked pollen all over his little fuzzy back, the dirty fookin’ bastards. Equally loutishly, yon filthy bed of lilies waved their giant stamens at me as I passed, like a Magaluf stag party dressed in togas gettin their say-no-mores out like a bunch of prize prats who should be ashamed o’ themselves.

(More similes, a bit o’ personification, and a healthy dose of satire. Sophisticated stuff, this.)

But I did not let dark thoughts distract me from my purpose: that of planting cucumber seeds in the newly turned beds by the back gates. I trod ever onwards, passing a water feature on my journey, and stopped to thrust my big hot red face in its wondrous dampness. The sun beat down relentlessly on my behind as I did so. Ohhh, how it beat down. Again and again on my hot buttocks! Dear Criminy Heck, was there no relief from the relentless beating? Relentless, it were! Relentless!

Just fookin’ relentless!

(Bit o’ symbolism there, some repetition, and a soupcon of postmodern Marxist neo-colonial rhetoric. Top marks for spotting that.)

(Let me summarise the next few pages o’ the novel so we can hurry up and get to the juicy bit. So, our hero plants the seeds, has a lemonade and a bit o’ plum pudding, and then he bumps into Bonnie, the lady who employs him. That’s Bonnie with a ‘B’, not a ‘C’.)

“Nellors,” gasped Bonnie, swivelling round to face me with all her parts, “I need you so badly… to help me with this crossword. It’s so very hard, especially this long column here.”

“It is very hard indeed,” I agreed, having a bloody good look. It were one o’them cryptic crosswords that you have to be Rainman to understand. The clue was: “unwelcome erection beaten with the end of an Italian drinking establishment.”

(At this bit in the novel I’m going to leave a few blank pages, so the reader can try and figure out the clue for themselves.)

I thought about it for some time, sweating with the effort.
“I’m getting there,” I grunted through gritted teeth, “I’m… getting … there! It’s…  it’s…”
“Yes? YES?” begged Bonnie.
And then it came to us together, and we bellowed out the answer in glorious synchronicity.
“…painfully extended innuendo!”

(If you still don’t get it: an unwelcome erection is painfully extended, an inn is a drinking establishment, and ‘endo’ is the Italian way of saying ‘end’, I believe.)

(You know what, I’ll stop there. I think you’ve probably seen enough. Good, int’it? Clever, litererary, filthy as fook. Watch out E.L. James, here comes Mellors!)

The End

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