Will Brown's sexual agony
Dear Will
Columns: Hollyox
On any other night, The Trout Pub, just outside Oxford was just a regular pub. Pensioner's huddled in booths over very slowly disappearing pints, underage girls - too young to get into pubs in town - slurp at their Bacardi Breezers through straws, families on their weekly pub meal, crowd around a table laden with fat chips. The Thursday of second week was not, however, any other night. It was the chosen date, long awaited by the crustier members of The Culling Club. They knew. Quent Huntington-Smythe did not know. He had googled and asked Jeeves about the society for nigh on four hours. Quent did not know what to expect, nor whether to be flattered or fearful. ...
