My opponent cannot write better romantic comedy than me

The Lovely Love-Struck Lovers of Olde Luton Towne A slushy, sugar-coated tale of the romance between a nobleman and a serving wench set in 18th Century England, this story is bound to appeal, not only to soppy old ladies, sexually-frustrated housewives and hormonal teenage girls, but also gentlemen of a homosexual persuasion as well. Chapter One It was nearing closing time one spring evening in 1792 and Baron Montmorency de Cadent-Farquhar, the dashing thirty year-old bachelor and local squire, had lately arrived in the lounge bar of Ye Olde Holy-Day Inn Express Luton South and was discussing the topical issues of the day with his friends, Doctor Harry Monk and The Reverend Percy Allsmite. “They come over here," ranted Montmorency, "they take all the best houses, they seduce our women, they hardly speak a word of English most of them, and not one of them has done a day’s work in their lives. And what's more, the idle, garlic-munching dandies make absolutely no attempt to integrate with the rest of society. As far as I’m concerned, they should send them all back where they bloody came from.” “Steady on, Monty, that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” said Dr Monk reprovingly. “Besides, I thought some of your ancestors were immigrants”. “They were,” replied Montmorency, “but that was a long time ago, things are different now. The country’s full up, we simply can’t take in any more so-called bogus asylum seekers. They're parasites, the whole damn lot of them. No, we’ve just got to stop those bloody foreigners coming over here and taking advantage of our over-generous hospitality, and that's that.” “Come, come, Monty,” cajoled Reverend Allsmite, “I implore you to show some Christian charity. Remember that these poor souls are fleeing a revolution. Don’t you realise that any French aristocrat the peasants capture over there will have his head chopped off?” As they continued their manly discussion, slim and attractive, nineteen year-old Tracy Schwanzfresser, who had recently been employed as a serving wench at the inn, gazed upon the company of distinguished gentlemen dreamily. “Who is that gorgeous hunk wearing the checked frock coat and the tight breeches over there?” she asked one of the older serving wenches. “Why that’s Baron de Cadent-Farquhar,” was the reply, “But don’t you get any ideas about him, little missy, he wouldn’t give a common little skivvy like you a second glance.” But Tracy wasn’t really listening, her attention was now focused solely on Montmorency and she allowed herself to slip into a decadent daydream - she wistfully imagined herself enveloped in Montmorency's manly embrace; she imagined him undressing her and caressing her nubile young body with his manly lips; and she imagined him exploring her lady-garden with his manly tongue - and before long she was as wet as an otter’s pocket. Suddenly, her rapture was broken by Dr Monk who called out:“Wench! We want more booze!” and he beckoned her over to the table. With her heart pounding with nervous anticipation of meeting her manly dreamboat for the first time, Tracy straightened her apron, walked over to the table and addressed the party: "Good evening, gentlemen,". Smiling directly at Montmorency and discretely drawing his attention to her heaving bosom by brushing an imaginary fleck of dust off the front of her dress, she said "What can I get you, my good sirs?" "Three flagons of ale and three shots of Jaegermeister," replied Montmorency, before manfully adding "and whatever you want for yourself, miss." "Oh, please call me Tracy," she said as she leaned down over him so that he could get a proper eyeful of her ample cleavage, before replying, "I'll have a penile colada, thank you, sir." "You may call me Monty, but don't you mean pina colada?" "No, penile colada, it's like pina colada but it's got jizz in it! Only joking! I'll have a Bailey's Irish Cream. Thank you...Monty." she said giving him a suggestive wink. “Forsooth!" said Dr. Monk as she walked away to fetch the drinks, "I bet you don’t get many of them to the groat!” “Indeed," observed Montmorency manfully, "one rarely encounters such an impressive pair of knockers.” “Quite," agreed Rev. Allsmite, "it would appear that the Lord in His infinite wisdom has endowed the child most generously in the jubbly department.” "Yes," added Dr Monk thoughtfully, "That's a really nice bit of skirt, that." "A fine example of womanhood." agreed Montmorency. "Verily," continued Rev. Allsmite, "I'd smash it like a cheap glass if I weren't a vicar. And married." When Tracy returned with the drinks Montmorency ventured to enquire what time she finished work and it transpired that, since his party were the last customers, she would leave when they did. "In this case," said Montmorency, "I would like to invite you back to the manor house for a coffee." "Well, I don't know..," said Tracy, affecting coyness. "Oh, don't be shy," coaxed Montmorency "my carriage awaits outside." "Well, I suppose it would be nice to have something hot inside me before I go to sleep," Tracy conceded. "Don't you worry about that, darling," Montmorency assured her, "I'll make sure you get something hot inside you alright. Come on, let's go!" Montmorency manfully escorted Tracy to his carriage and once they were both aboard he rapped his cane on the roof as a signal to his chauffeur to drive on. Once underway Tracey remarked upon how impressive his conveyance was. "Thank you," said Montmorency, "it’s a Posher 911 GT3: it’s got lowered suspension; a full aero-bodykit with side-skirts, a front splitter, a rear diffuser and a roof spoiler; and it’s driven by twin thoroughbred steroid-injected stallions, it’s one of the fastest carriages on the road, as it happens." Of course, as a girl, none of this manly technical talk meant anything to Tracy, but she was impressed by his eloquence nonetheless and said "Ooh, l bet it was expensive,” and then placing her hand on Montmorency’s knee, she continued, “but you know what they say about men with big carriages, don’t you?” "Er...no," said Montmorency. "Well," said Tracy, "they say that they are compensating for having a small, you know, appendage. Well, we'll see if that's true or not shall we?" So Tracey moved her hand slowly up Montmorency's thigh until she reached his groin and he gasped as she unbuttoned his breeches to reveal a pork soldier of magnificent proportions, complete with a cheese-encrusted helmet and all. But as Tracy liberated the flavoursome flesh fusilier it duly stood to attention, it was her turn to gasp. Nevertheless, Tracy didn't hesitate, she went at it like a stray dog scoffing a string of sausages. Soon the Baron’s tasty trooper’s tour of duty was over and Tracy took out her handkerchief and used it to wipe Montmorency's meat-musketeer’s manly mayonnaise off her pretty little chin. Moments later the carriage swung into a gravel drive and pulled up outside a grand manor house. As Montmorency manfully escorted Tracy inside, he reflected upon the events of the previous quarter of an hour or so and questions relating to her virginity crossed his mind, but he dismissed them. "After all," he thought: "these are the olden days and she is an unmarried nineteen year-old girl, so she must still be a maiden." Meanwhile, Tracy marvelled at the opulence of Montmorency's stately home. She had never seen such swanky fixtures and fittings, and she said to herself: "Look at all those posh antiques and sh*t, this bloke must be f*cking minted. If I get my feet under the table here I'll be sorted for life."