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Our valiant knight girds his loins for a trip to the kingdom of Wan Chai

Tallulah Wink flutters in my ear, her tiny wings tickling my lobe, as Dan, my horse, gallops at full speed towards the Jaffe Road. “I heard on the wind that my sister Nymph, Rosaline, has employment there,” she sings, and we slow to a canter.

I discovered Tallulah hiding behind a blue crystal in the latrines of Wagyu Lounge, her eyes wide with fear and her wings wet with golden water. She has a’joined with us to find her lost sisters.

‘Tis Friday night in Neptunes II (the god of salty liquid, I’faith). I knowest I am in Harlot-ville. “Dear Lord, lead me not into temptation.” (But, just in case, I have fastened a steel codpiece to my phallus).

Three (beauteous) maidens hurtle towards us as we approacheth the bar. “Keep back!” I warn, drawing my small sword. “Dear Lord, lead me not into – Bobbins!” Before I can swoop, the cloth-head has scuttled into a dark corner with two harlots, sitting aside a most hair-heavy fellow with a barrel-gut and too-tight vest. I stand, uptight and erect, alone at the bar.

‘Tis strange. Some hours and vessels of ale later, I find myself loosely dancing the Rufty Tufty with twelve most courteous maids, while a rickety, most cheesey live band plays. As I bendeth forwards, I feel at least one hand and two fingers caress my steel undercarriage.

So merry am I, I offer this affectionate maid a beverage. Her name is Andrew. “Triple vodka and coke?” she suggests. ‘Tis an eye-boggling twelve groats ($200). “There’s a hotel around the corner,” she whispers. I thank her for this information. “I can give you what you want”.

My eyes most blurred, my stomach churnest. Another ale and... “Dear Lord, lead me not...” Smokey, ale fingers, fantasticus, steel, reddish, thudding. “Lead me not...” Ale, swirling, sways, lippies, mead, sultry, silken... “into... tempt...” Bottom, wobbliest, ale, surges, tool, lacy, blackness. Then, from the darkness: bluest light... tiniest wings... a frightened face! ‘Tis faerie Rosaline, dancing about a toothpick for a man of finance! I sweep her up and we flee.

Daylight scorches my eyes as we scour nearby bars for Bobbins (the scoundrel!). In Laguna, methinks ‘tmust be Saturday night once more, but ‘tis in fact Sunday afternoon. Musicus thuddiest blares, helpers domesticus dance away the aches of the week, male revellers swig and sing. Love. I find the rogue pass-ed out, and steeped in lipstick of rouge. He looks like a spent salmon.

Triumphant, the four of us return to Dan, who is finishing a kebab and standing with some difficulty. Odd. I quietly thank the lord for our great success.

Sam Yates

Neptune II, B/F, 98-108 Jaffe Rd, Wan Chai