by Lord Edmund Bryll, inventor of Brylcreem

Owing to my recent travels, during which the lovely, though lamentably rather old, Lady Edwina and I excursed through may exotic lands of delicate beauty and colourful locals of a distinctly destitute disposition, which disposition I am happy to inform you was not one iota ameliorated by any largess on behalf of myself or, indeed, Lady Edwina, or, indeed, our many servants, I have not been afforded the time to peruse the electronic communication media with which I connect to my many followers, well-wishers, and miscellaneous hangers on. Quite right. Yes, well, hmm.

So one can imagine my surprise, not to say shock, when, upon my wholly triumphant return from the savage lands overseas, and upon my efforts to share with you all my pearls of wisdom vis a vis the retrograde Nordic lands and their many shortcomings, owing as they are to a surfeit of inbreeding and sodomic activities involving ungulates of a wholly antleric nature, not to say reindeer-buggering, that, evidently during my prolonged absence, this portion of the Internet, which hitherto had been rather a haven for intelligent discourse and especial erudition, with the notable exception of one aforementioned elk-violator named Ingvar, and, if I am being wholly honest, which I feel I must, hurtful though it may be, the additional presence of one Daniella A. Apple, who is as lacking in intelligence and sanity as she is in the customary skills of personal hygiene, had become host to a brigand in the form of Sir Reginald Phlegminham, my eternal nemesis and onetime rival for the affections of the once beautiful, but now exceptionally old, Lady Edwina.

Sir Reginald, if I am compelled, as I regrettably am, to use his proper honorific, though I must pause here to mention briefly that his membership in the peerage fair soils the integrity of the institution, was a longtime friend, not to say bosom companion, of my erstwhile nemesis, Lord Beaverbrook.

I trust it rather goes without saying, though naturally I shall herein explicate for those readers of insufficient wits to comprehend the subtextual information, that Sir Reginald almost certainly shared his chum’s predilection toward romantic entanglements of the ovine sort, not to say fondness for sheep-fucking. It further goes without saying, though say it I most emphatically shall, that Sir Reginald is a most untrustworthy sort, except as the case may be that he possesses distinctly proprietary carnal knowledge of wool-bearing livestock, on which topic we may afford him a modicum of trustworthiness, if for no other reason than a singular lack of desire to investigate said knowledge further.

So, one must undoubtedly recognize that Sir Reginald’s scurrilous slanders vis a vis myself, my illustrious invention, Brylcreem, Lady Edwina (old though she is), etc., originate from a person of extraordinarily dubious honesty. Furthermore, and nevertheless, and possibly hitherto, one can safely, not to say trivially, dismiss anything that emits from Sir Reginald’s sheep-fellating cake-hole.

With especial regard to Sir Reginald’s libelous statements regarding the secret formula of Brylcreem, I trust the intelligent reader to have already disregarded his misleading and altogether uninformed speculations as regards elephant semen, as anyone who has attempted to procure said procreative fluid in quantity will no doubt testify to the commercial inviability of the endeavour, for which reason we typically use sea lions.

To summarize: Sir Reginald is a filthy liar who beds sheep. Yes, right, well, hmm.

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