Below is an extract from the journals of Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action. This particular extract has been re-printed here as it offers an unparalleled view of how the British (especially their noblemen) refer to the act of onanism. As such, some more delicate souls may find some of the terminology rather upsetting, or completely arousing.
April the Seventh, 1857.
I was in the process of moving some of my furniture about, as I was expecting a visit from the Lord Mayor of London, Sir Danglebert Widdler, who had requested an audience with me, concerning the building of a statue of my glorious self in Trafalgar Square. Truly, this was a very important meeting indeed.
As I moved my undeniably fine furnishings around, I suddenly found myself transfixed by a Queen Anne chair I had long forgotten about.
It was certainly a beautiful object, of that there was no doubt. But oh! How beautiful! That long, slender back; those fully-exposed, curvaceous legs...it was one of the most arousing pieces of furniture I had ever beheld.
Before I knew it, I found I had become so enamoured of the chair that I was now sporting a rather rampant erection, which would most certainly not be appropriate to be sporting in front of the Lord Mayor. With only five minutes before Widdler was due to arrive, I knew I had to act fast, and bash one out before Widdler's arrival.
So, I quickly set about pounding my Palmerston (the pet-name I have bestowed upon my gentle-man's organ), furiously fapping away as if my very life depended on it.
I must have been wanking for a good few minutes, before I was suddenly made aware of someone standing in the doorway. I turned around to find my cretinous man-servant, Botter, standing there, alongside Sir Danglebert Widdler, who was clearly apoplectic with rage.
"What in the name of Lucifer's beard do you think you are doing, man?" bellowed Widdler.
I realised that there was no possible way I could fabricate any feasible untruth about my situation, so I decided to be completely upfront about my completely 'up' front.
"I was masturbating, Lord Mayor," I replied dryly.
"WHAAAAAT?" roared Widddler, his face reddening with anger.
"Masturbating," I repeated. "You know, indulging in the act of onanism. Self abuse. Wanking. Having a Tommy Tank. Knocking one off. Tossing one off. Cracking one out. The five knuckle shuffle. Whacking off. Having one off the wrist. Having a Barclays. Polishing the fleshy cane. Introducing Mr. Todger to Mrs. Palmer and her five lovely daughters. Bashing the Bishop. Shaking hands with the General. Having a stroke. Playing the pink oboe. Playing a flute solo. Choking the chicken. Spanking the monkey. Slapping the donkey. Throttling the Pope. Exorcising the demon. Making a deposit at the Spank Bank. Fondling the flag-pole. Jerking the gherkin. Making man-soup. Firing the fleshy cannon. Doing battle with the purple-helmeted warrior. Pounding the parson. Charming the trouser snake. Summoning the genie. Knighting Sir Penis. Making love to one's self. Entering the circle of trust. Getting in the handy-man. Rubbing the -"
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Widdler shouted, having heard quite enough euphemisms for one day, it would seem. "I have never been so offended in all my life!"
"I would recommend getting out of the house a lot more often, then," I quipped.
And with that, Sir Danglebert Widdler snorted in disgust, and strode off in an almighty huff.
"I don't think you'll be getting that statue made now, milord," Botter said.
"Nonsense," I replied. "After this, my hardened erection will be at the forefront of the Lord Mayor's mind for ever more..."
- Lord Likely.
For further Astonishing Adventures featuring Lord Likely, be sure to frequent his fine web-log, The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely. Many thanks indeed.