You remember when the jolly old filth visited Justin Towers enquiring about JC's land speed record attempt down the M40? As I said, I saw a glimmer of something promising in the looks I was getting from WPC Tracey. Then I started having these fantasies about being handcuffed to the bed and ravished by a woman in uniform, so I gave her a call. Since I am so devastatingly attractive to women, the usual run of beautiful models, actresses, duchesses daughters and princesses (that's a story for another day!) can get a bit boring. And there's nothing like a bit of rough to lift the old spirits.
So, to cut a long story short, I met up with Tracey 'down the nick' (as she called it) last Monday night at 2am, on my way back from Boujis. We'd had one or two smouldering conversations on the old mobile, culminating in her promising to do unspeakable things to me in the cells. She told me the other coppers would be dossing in the police canteen exchanging ‘how I fitted him up’ stories.
As the cells were all empty, because the regulars had been shipped off to Bow Street that morning, they had left her on guard on her own - so the stage was set.
Without going into too much detail, Tracey turned out to be very fond of the old pink truncheon. So, that night I was banged up, and regally banged, in the cells. Can't think why these old lags plead not guilty and complain about prison conditions. No complaints about how she treated me, I assure you!
Anyway, about 4am Tracey, wearing only police-issue pavement plodders, stockings, suspenders, police helmet and a big smile, slipped out to get a couple of mugs of tea, leaving me handcuffed to the bed wearing nothing but my bow tie (silly cow said it looked cute - but I've learned not to argue with the ladies when it might put the old leg-over in jeopardy. Apparently, it's house rules to give a refreshment break before the next interrogation session, and she said she had a few more things she wanted to get out of me. At that point, I heard a lot of shouting in the corridor, then in walked Bert (who you will remember was Tracey's partner in the squad car).
"So, you've been doin' my missus, 'ave you?" Well, what followed next was a bit too painful to recite here; but I can tell you that when Bert, and his "mate" Harry, who joined in the fun, had finished with me, I would have signed a statement admitting to 9/11, and done my 20 years quietly, to get out of there.
Anyway, when the day shift came on duty, they made me sign a statement to say I fell down the stone steps, and then turfed me out the back door.
So, you will be asking by now, what the hell has all this got to do with doctors. Well, I was obviously in a bit of a state after my training course in the use of truncheons and wet flannels (to hide the marks apparently) but that wasn't the problem. I told JC I got a bit pissed and fell a*** over t** down the front steps of the family pile, and she was extremely sympathetic. However, by the following Friday, I had started to have a bit of an itchy problem in the nether regions. So I shot down to Harley Street to see the doc for a drop of the old penicillin.
As this was an emergency appointment, sods law, he was out wandering around the hospital - eying up the nurses, or giving private tutorials at the Dorchester to attractive young female students "who are prepared to put in a little extra effort for a first" as he puts it, or whatever else they do when they're skiving off.
I was busy looking at the warning signs on the wall, and wondering if there is anything healthy left to do in this god-forsaken, commie-dominated world, when I heard the receptionist saying, Lord Justin, Dr De'ath will see you now. That should have set my bells ringing. Dr Death! But I wasn't really listening, what with a desperate need to scratch down below, and wondering how I was going to explain my sudden need for abstinence to my resident nymphomaniac, JC.
When I walked in, this absolutely stunning, curvaceous, young blonde was sitting on the desk, huge brown eyes, short skirt, black stockings, legs crossed, heaving cleavage, the whole works, flashing me the most provocative 'come and get it' smile I have ever seen in daylight. Now, normally, I would have instantly asked for a full examination, followed by some alternative therapy; but I wasn't really up for it at that moment, what with the wedding tackle not being fully operational and all.
"Good morning, Lord Justin. What seems to be the trouble?", still smiling, full red lips, white teeth, purring voice.
I then explained the relevant parts, culminating in a description of the symptoms.
"So, how did you get all these bruises?", smile even wider. "I need to know all the details if I am to prescribe the correct treatment."
By now, drowning helplessly in those limpid eyes, and already planning the dirty weekend she and I would be having once the old anti-biotics had done the trick, I told her the whole story, right down to my question and answer session with Bert and Harry, and unceremoniously ending up in the alley behind the cop shop.
As I told the story, the smile became even wider and more inviting.
"You poor thing. That's terrible. The handcuffs sound really interesting. Perhaps you could show me how that works, some time - soon" purring even more seductively.
Having got all that stuff off my chest, to a sympathetic listener, and lined her up for a bit of physical therapy on the Med the following week, I was already feeling a lot better. So we got back to business and she examined me.
"I'm afraid you have a very serious STD, Lord Justin. I will need to treat this now or it might spread to your brain. It could be fatal"
With that, she took out various extremely unpleasant stainless steel instruments and spent the next 2 hours carrying out a most painful series of internal procedures, straight out of a Stephen King film. And no anaesthetic, she explained, as this would cause the infection to flare up. Anyway, despite the agony, I was so, you know, grateful, that I put up with it all like a man.
"Now, Lord Justin, you will need to inform anyone that you have slept with since your night in the cells. They might also have caught it"
I thanked her, confirmed the arrangements to fly down in the Lear the following week, she kissed me on the cheek, and I headed off home.
Since JC's sympathy had extended to a little alternative therapy of her own over the previous few days, I had no choice but to tell her. God, at the very least, it was going to cost me the total shoe output of northern Italy to wriggle out of this one.
When I told JC, that evening, predictably all hell broke loose. The staff have spent the last few days supergluing the Ming vases back together, in case Mummy comes round unannounced. But, eventually, vast doses of retail therapy, humble pie, and lies about it all being her fault that I was taken down to the cells, chained up, and exploited by a law enforcement dominatrix in the first place, she forgave me.
The following day, I got a follow up call from the family doc. Copious apologies for not being there when I called, urgent academic duties to carry out, duty to the profession to service the young students, all in the interests of equal opportunities for the female students, etc. Then we discussed Dr De'ath.
"Dr De'ath is a very gifted young woman and a fine doctor. Graduated top of her class. I was her personal tutor and I was very impressed, so I offered her a job. Did she treat you well?"
"Fine ... in the circumstances!"
"And you wouldn't have expected her to be so intelligent and successful, coming from her background. She is the only doctor in her family. She has one brother, but he's a policeman with the Kensington Met, Bert De'ath."
I was already speechless at this point.
"Anyway, the good news is that there was nothing wrong with you. Just a bit of eczema. So you won't have to go through all those painful scrapes - and have to tell your girl friend what you've been getting up to on the side, eh?"
I remember the phone slipping from my hand before it all went dark…