Ghost Who Walks
Be Bop Badoop
Gentlemen,
I hope this letter finds you well, but I put pen to paper tonight in abject shame.
It is a paradox that personal qualities which on most occasions see me victorious became my undoing on this night.
My tale began as I sat in my own extensive grounds, enjoying their pleasing aspect over a cigar of the finest shag and several bottles of most excellent cognac imported from the Olde World. Friends from the most exalted houses of this parish had ridden to the hunt this very morn and all was well within my soul.
All of a sudden the hounds in their kennels - and indeed the entire district - began baying in a tone of such voluminous, ghastly quality it was reported in the newspapers the following day. Much was whispered of the almost human anguish heard in the dying seconds of their howls.
At once I sprang to my feet, lithe as a panther sensing prey. In one immense hand I held my gleaming pistol, in the other a palm-full of certain powders of enormous power - the knowledge for the making of which I had acquired in the jungles of Siam.
I drew in a deep breath and bellowed with such force that mighty oak trees splintered and several nearby peacocks expired in terror:
BALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL...
By most base instinct I knew twas an old nemesis, Sir Francis Debutante-Ball. This despite his reported sentence at court to death, being for the violation of a virgin male of the white race, receiving stolen goods, supporting the vile Footballe Club of Essendon and impersonation of a Spanish General.
He had escaped justice and come to call on my stately home with vicious, mincing intent.
Immediately our almighty battle commenced. The prize we both knew in our very bones was control over the outcome of the match to be played that very evening on the hallowed turf of the Cricket Ground of Melbourne-town.
Hedges, shrubs and bushes were immolated in the fire-wall of our unrelenting power. Statuary, gardeners and games-keepers exploded under the onslaught of our magical salvos, attacks and counter attacks.
For much of the evening Sir Francis had the upper hand. His limp-wristed mastery of the command of squirrels, voles, stoats and other woodland creatures weighed heavily in his favour whilst our pitch was so near-at-hand to the environs of Mother Nature.
I realised in good time that I must draw my enemy inside the walls of my home where I could gain the upper hand against these effeminate powers.
After tip-toeing through the rear conservatory, past my sainted great-aunt asleep after an extended cocaine binge, our battle began anew in the east wing parlour.
The violence surged from room to magnificent room. The very stones of the manor shifted and ground against one an-other like the teeth of one hundred thousand men witnessing history - gouts of ancient mortar spewing in dust from betwixt them.
Servants fled in terror, or died in the attempt. Slipping in the ichor that in places was knee-deep, fewer and fewer escaped our terrible rage the longer we carried on our fight.
Finally, in the drawing room after a short pause at a sideboard for fresh drinks, came the death-stroke. Sir Francis remained defiant to the end but - O! - how we both knew I was rushing to glorious victory.
Unfortunately, gentlemen, here my own immense handsomeness was my undoing. For I became mesmerised by a recent portrait commissioned at great expense tastefully depicting your humble correspondent astride Her Royal Majesty, Jeanette Howard.
After scant minutes of gazing upon my own magnificence, dwelling on my well-turned calves, brawny thighs and sturdy buttocks, the house clocksman rang out six bells and the rules of etiquette demanded we retire to dress for dinner.
Our battualia ended a draw, as did that of the footballe.
The quail was excellent.
Adieu.
I hope this letter finds you well, but I put pen to paper tonight in abject shame.
It is a paradox that personal qualities which on most occasions see me victorious became my undoing on this night.
My tale began as I sat in my own extensive grounds, enjoying their pleasing aspect over a cigar of the finest shag and several bottles of most excellent cognac imported from the Olde World. Friends from the most exalted houses of this parish had ridden to the hunt this very morn and all was well within my soul.
All of a sudden the hounds in their kennels - and indeed the entire district - began baying in a tone of such voluminous, ghastly quality it was reported in the newspapers the following day. Much was whispered of the almost human anguish heard in the dying seconds of their howls.
At once I sprang to my feet, lithe as a panther sensing prey. In one immense hand I held my gleaming pistol, in the other a palm-full of certain powders of enormous power - the knowledge for the making of which I had acquired in the jungles of Siam.
I drew in a deep breath and bellowed with such force that mighty oak trees splintered and several nearby peacocks expired in terror:
BALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL...
By most base instinct I knew twas an old nemesis, Sir Francis Debutante-Ball. This despite his reported sentence at court to death, being for the violation of a virgin male of the white race, receiving stolen goods, supporting the vile Footballe Club of Essendon and impersonation of a Spanish General.
He had escaped justice and come to call on my stately home with vicious, mincing intent.
Immediately our almighty battle commenced. The prize we both knew in our very bones was control over the outcome of the match to be played that very evening on the hallowed turf of the Cricket Ground of Melbourne-town.
Hedges, shrubs and bushes were immolated in the fire-wall of our unrelenting power. Statuary, gardeners and games-keepers exploded under the onslaught of our magical salvos, attacks and counter attacks.
For much of the evening Sir Francis had the upper hand. His limp-wristed mastery of the command of squirrels, voles, stoats and other woodland creatures weighed heavily in his favour whilst our pitch was so near-at-hand to the environs of Mother Nature.
I realised in good time that I must draw my enemy inside the walls of my home where I could gain the upper hand against these effeminate powers.
After tip-toeing through the rear conservatory, past my sainted great-aunt asleep after an extended cocaine binge, our battle began anew in the east wing parlour.
The violence surged from room to magnificent room. The very stones of the manor shifted and ground against one an-other like the teeth of one hundred thousand men witnessing history - gouts of ancient mortar spewing in dust from betwixt them.
Servants fled in terror, or died in the attempt. Slipping in the ichor that in places was knee-deep, fewer and fewer escaped our terrible rage the longer we carried on our fight.
Finally, in the drawing room after a short pause at a sideboard for fresh drinks, came the death-stroke. Sir Francis remained defiant to the end but - O! - how we both knew I was rushing to glorious victory.
Unfortunately, gentlemen, here my own immense handsomeness was my undoing. For I became mesmerised by a recent portrait commissioned at great expense tastefully depicting your humble correspondent astride Her Royal Majesty, Jeanette Howard.
After scant minutes of gazing upon my own magnificence, dwelling on my well-turned calves, brawny thighs and sturdy buttocks, the house clocksman rang out six bells and the rules of etiquette demanded we retire to dress for dinner.
Our battualia ended a draw, as did that of the footballe.
The quail was excellent.
Adieu.
Oh god no, please not..... this is Football son!
"Goddess" 
![C4[2]Yo`DooR](https://www.bigfootycontent.com/avatars/s/21/21849.jpg?1742370429){kind=avatar}
