The Lie Emporium

A Life Less Scary

"The interesting and varied life of Scary Duck, Genius, French Cabaret Chantoose and small bets placed."

"The Complete Samuel Pepys"

Samuel Pepys 1633-1703(-2006)

March 27th 1664: "Another fulsome nyghte of frolics with Mrs Pepys was rudely interrupted by a hammering on the door to my rooms just as I reach'd ye vinegar strokes. It was a messenger, sent from his Lordship Carlisle with some haste and demanding an immediate reply. It read: 'Pepys, my man. Done a poo, yr goode friend & mentor, Carlisle.' Damn his eyes, and his britches too!".

March 29th 1664: "Up betimes and away to Tyburn to witnesse the hanging of the brutal murderess Mistresse Horton, a most wanton trolloppe and slattern who woulde suffocate her gentlemen for the contents of their purses. She was indeed, as many of the London journals point'd out, most wond'rously endowed, and I had the goode fortune to find my good self in the very front row at this sad spect'cle, thanks to my patronage of ye arts. The unfortunate Horton expir'd quickly, but I could see right up her skirt as she thrash'd about in her final dance with ye Reaper. Bonus."

April 7th 1664: "Up betimes and to my office, where I argued with Mr. Wellbeloved over whether it is considered correct to break wind in front of a lady. I countered that it is not only correct, but de rigeur in these modern times. Puritan that he is, I feare he would not dare let his britches squeak for fear of causing offence to ye fairer sex. The quarrel ended with my production of a noise that would bring down the very walls of Jericho, causing Wellbeloved to storm out in search of a minister to administer extreme unction. Alas, my victory was short-lived, for I had followed through."

April 9th 1664: "The most dreadful day, for I fear Mrs Pepys may find out about my liaison with Barking Mad Sharon who works at ye Pie Shoppe as their apprentice slattern. My undoing comes in the form of a note which arrived at our rooms whilst I was attending to some unfortunate business apropos the dreaded plague, stating the followinge: 'Mr Pepys, are you going to pisse your rich, yellow waters on my heaving breast this evening, or what? Your lustful paramour, Sharon from ye Pie Shoppe'. This canne only mean one thynge: woe."

April 12th 1664: "Up betimes and to my offices whereupon I did have dealings with a M. de Villefort, and purchased five gross of 'Frenche Tycklers', which will end the dire shortage that has afflicted this fine city. On returning to my rooms after a celebratory sojourn to Ye Boar's Heade and several other fine hostelries, I was confronted by Mrs Pepys waving a familiar and somewhat ruffled sheaf of papers in my face. 'What,' she cried in such a manner I feare she may have the ragge on, 'in the name of all that we hold holy in this householde, is MILF porn?'. Alas, my resting place for this night shall be the spare room."

April 15th 1664: "Up betimes and journey'd to my small-holding outside the walls of this fayre city, where I didst consult with my servant, a Mr Duck, on all manner of horticulture and cultivation techniques. Duck revealed that the latest fashion in planting is to imbibe the fruits and then defecate the seedes into ye ground! I'truth I didst thrash Duck within an inch of his lyfe for his impudence, telling him there is far enough shitte flowing through the streets of London without having to eat it; but not before he tells me where all my legumes have come from since five years past. Then I thrash'd him again, and he was sorely thankful."

April 16th 1664: "The gravest of news comes to me in my offices today. Mrs Pepys, in her profligacy has piss'd all my money up the wall on frilly extravagances and lusty young servant boys, who depart, exhausted within a week, short of breath, but heavy in gold. I, am, alas, forced to write for my living again so to cover her debts and pay off the blackmailers who continue to bother me over certain incriminating woodcuts. It has been a long tyme, but the words, I find come easily enough: 'Dear Fiesta, you won't believe ye incredible thynge which happened to me of this day. I didn't think I had a chance with this lusty young serving wenche...'"

April 18th 1664: "Up betimes and to a specialist shoppe in Shoreditch, where I didst purchase a number of items of clothing to fulfil a gentleman's need of a lady's undergarments. They are now well hidden in the loft space in our rooms, only to come out when Mrs Pepys is away and visiting her sister, when I can become Joan of Arc for an afternoon. Then, to the prize fights where I didst see a man's face punched clean off, and there was muche merriment."

April 20th 1664: "Up betimes and to my offices where I did experiment with my friend Newton on the effects of his newly discovered 'gravity' on the writhing, naked bodies of certain busty young wenches. In the process of this important scientific work, we both make copious notes and procured some extremely detailed illustrations, thanks to the intervention of a passing street artist. My Royal Society membership is a certainty, methinks."

April 21st 1664: "Alas! Mrs Pepys has ye redde rage again, and has discovered my Joan of Arc outfit, not to mention all my scientific notes and inexplicably stain'd woodcuts from yesterday's experiments. My woe was further compounded when a messenger unaccountably arrived with my filthy Dear Fiesta stories, which had been sent in the wrong envelope and passed them straight into Mrs Pepys' hand. Damn my eyes for marrying an educated woman, for when she reached the wordes 'and then I done her up ye wrong'un' I knew I would be overnighting at Newton's."

April 23rd 1664: "To The Globe for a celebration of the late Mr Shakespeare's life, whose birthday it is. Was privileged to see Mr Dalgeish's Hamlet, though these modern adaptations vex me somewhat. I cannot for the life of me remember the line 'To be or not to be, done a poo'. Then home, to sleep in the midden. Poor, poor S. Pepys."

August 27th 1666: Mrs Pepys has left for our country retreat, for the good of her health. She leaves with an entourage of half-a-dozen man-servants, hand-picked by herself, none aged more than twenty-five years old, "as a defence against ye plague", a view with which I thoroughly concur. I am pleased that these stout young fellows will safeguard my dear wife's fragile health, even going as far as making her carriage tight against the foul smells of London's streets. For I'truth, I heard with my own ears as the footman told her "We are going to fill your every hole, Madam Pepys" and she thank'd them profusely, already gasping from the foul odours.

August 28th 1666: Woe, and indeede woe! Mrs Pepys has return'd early from our country retreat, her carriage wheel having broken in Eltham Forest. She also appears to have some dreadful ailmente which gives her a sticky, pasty face, which she says is call'd "bukkake". She also speaks wistfully of some dreadfulle ordeal call'd "dogging", and have seen with myne owne eyes the scratch-marks up the backs of her servants as they gamely protected their mistresse from these foul beasts. I feel some great guilt, as my friend Newton and I were entertaining Filthy Tanya from the Docks in a tremendous bout of scatte play, which we were forc'd to abandon once Mrs Pepy's trusty man-servants escorted her to her rooms. Alas! She is so ill! Her moanes fill the household until the early hours! If only I could aid her, but she rejects all help from her husband's hand. I know not what I woulde do without my darling wife's stout retainers, for whom she cries by name with heart-breaking regularity.

August 31st 1666: Mrs Pepys is still confyn'd to her bed, quite unable to walk. Alas, it appears that her voluminous corsetry may have injur'd her on her flight into the country, rendering her quite entangled in the mechanics of her undergarments. Happily, I hear that Roger, the largest, burliest of her retainers, plans to "screw her arse off tonyght", and she is already gasping and cryinge with apprehension at her forthcoming ordeal. Godspeed you, sirrah!

September 1st 1666: Up betimes and to myne solicitors office where I am delivered of the moste dreadfulle news. My aunt Caroline, of whom I knew very little, has, alas expir'd at the age of 73. Mr Willington informes me that poor, dear Caroline didst employ herself as a high-classe slattern in Shoreditch right up to her demise, and had amass'd a pretty penny, of which I am the soul heir. This is what one calls a "resulte", and I shall be drinkinge to her fond memory with my friend Newton this evening, before investing the remainder of her fortune in donkey porne as per her detail'd instructions. I cannot shake the feelinge from the back of my mynd that I may have had use of her servyces at some stage these past years. Frequently, with gold'n showers.

September 2nd 1666: Up betimes and out to celebrate my rare good fortune with myne good friend Newton. We commenced our revelries at Ye Olde Pie Shoppe, and thence on to Ye Worlde Turn'd Upside-Down, Ye Crosse Keyes, Mrs O'Flaherty's Slattern Parlour, where I founde, alas, that I had already imbibed far too muche to perform to any great satisfaction; and thence on to several rough establishments whose names elude me; yet I find my purse is empty. Much of the evening is a sodden blur, the last event I recall being a conversation with Newton - who was on fyne form - in the Butcher's Arms in Pudding Lane, on the possibilities of heating this great city from the emissive gasses from one's anus, which he then demonstrated to a crowde of int'rested spectators in the street outside. There was much applause, and the passing of the hat rais'd near half a crown for our bar tab. Then, home to my bedde, where, damn my breeches, I was sick down a happily recovered Mrs Pepys' billowynge cleavage. Agayne.

September 3rd 1666: If the Watch come asking, I don't know anythynge about a bloodye fire.

6th September 1666: Up betimes, and I can now safely emerge from my cellar, as it appears ye Greate Fyre is extinguish'd. Tis good fortune for Newton and myselfe that the conflagration should be blam'd on some baker's oven, and not on Newton setting fire to his owne fartes for a drunk'n wager. And woe, for it appeares that even Madame Pomprey's Slattern parlour has been raz'd to the ground, and her floozies are forc'd to ply for business in ye smould'ring ruins. Newton and I gotte six, as it appeares there is a fyre sale on.

8th September 1666: Up to the dockyards at Chatham in myne fynest carryage, where I did avail myself to the services of a comely sailor whom I buggr'd quite joyously in the presence of a fine artist called Taylor. I was most pleas'd with the results of his pen-and-ink drawings, and paid him a crown to buy his silence. Mrs Pepys accompanied me on this trip, as part of her worthy campaign for the welfare of this nation's sailors. I am told that her meeting was well attended by several dozen visiting matelots &c, and she is now much fatigu'd by her efforts, having the greatest difficulty walking the few yards back to our coach, remark'ng that she had "never in such tymes enjoy'd such seamen". It is g'd to think she shares the same interests as I.

12th September 1666: Up betimes and to my offices, where I signed several papers concerning the debts accrued on our country estate. Happily, this sad state of affairs was resolved when I found young Honourable Thomas Carr in the arms of the visiting Prince of Ludwig in some seedy den of vice I was visitynge as part of my surveys for the rebuilding of this fine capital, and not, I muste point out, to take advantage of the many buxom younge wenches who have fallen on hard times. Both Ludwig and the less-than-Honourable Carr entreated me with shock, tears &c not to tell their respective fathers, for fear of losing their allowances, and I heartily agreed, on the proviso that I should be allowed to watch their manly luste, and that they paid me a tidy sum for my silence. After my debts were paid, there was still a pretty penny to spare for much wenchinge, drunkenness and a kebab on ye way home.

13th September 1666: Mrs Pepys is still much wearied by her exertations in Chatham, and stay'd abed this morning while I visit'd my offices. I am grateful that her hand-picked footman and butler both stay'd behind in her attendance, to ensure that my beloved is eating properly. In fact, she enjoy'd a bountiful spread, as I heard both Wilkins and Fowler agreeing that Mrs Pepys had enjoy'd a "ryght olde stuffing" today, and particularly enjoy'd the "Cleveland Steamer" which form'd, I presume, the dessert.

15th September 1666: Awoken at some ungodly hour this morning by a hammer'ng at my door, with a voice without declaring "Alas! This is the ende of ye worlde" Fearing for my lyfe, I ran out into the street, wearing nothing but my baby-doll nightie to fynde a flaming mass on my doorstep. Thinking not, I stamp'd out ye flames, only to discover to my great woe, it was merely a bag fill'd with a dog turde. I'm going to fuckynge kill that Newton.

16th September 1666: Disgust'd by the poor quality of slattern in this city, Newton and I didst travel to the fair village of Hanwelle, where I dyd espie in a local taverne a comely younge wench availynge herself of an unusual pastime, viz balancynge ducks a-top one another in a manner that is pleasynge to the eye. At her suggestion, buyinge into her confidence with a flagon of wine, I tried this sport for myself, but tis fair difficult to keepe ye foule birds still for long enoughe to balance more than three. Newton suggest'd that we should be using 'mock duck' made out of carv'd wood, or gutta-percha. "Mock duck?" I cried. "Mock duck? You take me for a cheat and a guttersnype?" and I roundly damned his eyes, and his breeches too. As the birds tumbl'd to the floor once agayne, I suggest'd to our fair companion that she too might like to join Newton and I for a tumble in some rooms I had acquir'd nearby; but, alas, at this invitation, she stoved my wig in with a rough-hewn plank of wood she carri'd on her person and took her mallards I know not where.

17th September 1666: Alas and woe! News of myne rough duck balancing misfortunes has reached the City, after the comely wenche in question - who is a local character of some repute - commission'd a number of wood-cuttes of my downfall and has had them post'd throughout this fine capital. It appears that ducks may only be balanced by licenc'd practitioners, and, i'truth, I do not hold a permit. Damn those eyes and pert body! Newton and I are, as they say, in deep shyte, notte least with Mrs Newton who is a dreadfulle flat-chest'd shrew with a fryghtenynge right hook. We are, alas, forc'd to flee the country untille ye heat is offe.

20th September 1666: Tis our rare gd fortune that the Wordle Cup of the rough fielde sporte of "Footballe" is taking place in the states of Bohnemia, Brandenburg ande Saxony. Newton had acquir'd tickets to all the beste fights, and promises 'muche wenchynge and debaucherye'. I'truth his promise has come to naught, when I finde that the slatterne he has obtain'd for me is built lyke ye Tower of Londone, and I fear I shall never walk agayne. Still, Englande triumph'd in today's fight against foulest Savoy, young Master Rooneye stuffynge ye pig's bladder where ye sunne doesn't shyne. Newton found himself in ye town lock-up followinge a nighte on ye pysse in which he confront'd ye local ruffians and hoolig'ns with drunk'n shoutes of "Come & have a go if ye thinke ye be harde enuffe!" Alas, they were, and I can hear poor Newton's moanes as I wryte these wordes. His bottom wille be like a wizarde's sleeve come ye morninge.

23rd September 1666: This sojourn into the pits of central Europe is goinge from foul to worse. Newton has verily pyssed all our money away on wine and fat birds and I am forc'd, as ye prettye one in our partye, to stande around Hamburg Docks with a sign round my neck sayinge "Get it Here" in ye traditional manner. Alas, business is slow, we have barely a groat to our name, and ye last sailor has, I fear, split me asund'r, for I know not ye Germanne word for "lubrication". Englande beate Ye Papal States and ye Crouch boy stunn'd ye crowd with is dance of ye mechanical manne. Ye great lanky ponce.

27th September 1666: Our fortunes seem to have improv'd greatly, and we no longer will be sleeping in ye gutter. I'truth was rare gd luck to finde young masters Beckham, Rooney &c and the Lord Erikson in the foulest pits of onanistic debauchery. "Please don't tell ye Wagges!" they pleaded, and knowing not what ye fuckerye they were talking about, I settl'd our price at five hundred poundes, and they seem'd well pleas'd. Newton and I feast'd well in the company of ye finest Dutch slattern this eve, and ye Portuguese pretty boys having triump'd over our exhaust'd team, we set sail for London.

29th September 1666: Up betimes and to my home straight from ye Mail Coach, where I find, to my greate delighte that Mrs Pepys has rather forgotten ye busty wench of Hanwelle, after being well car'd for by my domestic staffe in my absence. Indeede, my gift of a fine German horsewurst was greet'd with a scream of joy and the exclamation to Deedes, my cook, that "It's nearly as bigge as yours!", and begg'd him for a spitroast to sate her roarynge appetite. I had no idea that Horsewurst was available in our fine city!