I am writing some Mad Hatter-March Hare slash, which I fully intend to parade past every respectable magazine I can find when I finish. Among the delights of this project, of which there are many, I have been having an excellent time looking up bizarre old-fashioned misconceptions, sifting through internet answers to why ravens resemble writing desks, and delving into the delightfully ridiculous depths of Victorian slang.
My dear nug, would you like to tip the velvet? Cram your arbor vitae down the red tunnel, perhaps, or go to bedfordshire with a wagtail where you can bury your whore’s pipe and your tiddle-diddles between cupid’s kettle drums before shoving Nebuchadnezzer through the roundmouth — unless you’re piss-proud. If you’re kinky, play the brother starling. Mandrakes might prefer to play the back gammon or visit the red tunnel. If you’re a dark cully, then you deserve the flap dragon — and keep your gaying instrument well away from me.
Now, I am willing to entertain the suggestion that this is faked or poorly researched — but I really don’t mind if it is. For I have been thoroughly entertained.