LONDON 1767
William Hickey is eighteen - he has just left boarding school in the village of Streatham and is now living in London and training to be a lawyer.
It’s been an exciting and productive year, it’s a pity all that legal bollocks keeps getting in the way.
Hickey has spent a lot of his time since gaining employment becoming proficient at Billiards.
He frequents tables at Windmill Street, Whitehall, The Admiralty, The Angel, the back of St Clements and Chancery Lane.
Despite being left-handed he has also learned to use a sword, although if he ever fights a duel he will almost certainly lose within seconds.
His father despairs of his behaviour, which he considers both “Idle” and “Dissipated.”
Sometimes, Hickey stays out on the town all night, goes straight to the office at dawn and then sleeps at his desk.
His superior, Mr Bayley wakes him up when it’s time to start work and as he lifts his drooling head from the ink-stained wood, Hickey often feels the full force of his disapproval.
“Indeed, William these are sad doings” he admonishes him, “God only knows to what a life of such excess will lead you”
Hickey, however, doesn’t care, he’s a “Roaring Boy” and he enjoys a good night out.
Along with a group of like-minded young men, he begins a typical evening with dinner at Slaughter’s in St Martin’s Lane.
They meet up in a private room as they find the company of the establishments more mature dinners too boring.
Hickey refers to them as “Stupid, formal, ancient prigs, horrid periwig bores, every way unfit to herd with such bloods as us.”
Then they usually move on to a couple of brothels on Bow Street, Covent Garden.
One of these is run by a bawd named, Mrs Cocksedge and is situated next to the offices of the famous blind magistrate Sir John Fielding.
Hickey says Fielding must be deaf as well as blind not to know what is going on next door, which always gets a laugh.
Tonight, he’s sitting in the salon, waiting for a girl to become available, Hickey only sips from the bowls of powerful arrack punch offered to him.
As fun as it is being drunk, he wisely doesn’t want to be incapable of enjoying his partner for the evening.
Hickey has not been seen out on the town for a while.
He has been in bed with a fever for three weeks, following a boozy night out during which he got so pissed that he stole a boat, rowed across the Thames, fell into every pothole and rubbish tip in Westminster and then passed out in the street in front of his father’s wealthy friends.
Upon his recovery, he spent two very tedious months as the very picture of sobriety and restraint.
He now considers himself morally strong enough to return to Slaughters and reacquaint himself with his old friends without falling back into dissolute ways.
By eleven o clock, he’s hammered and the gang are off to Bow Street.
Someone suggests a new place of entertainment called Wetherby’s which is down the narrow end of Little Russell Street, Drury Lane.
The door looks like the entrance to a prison, stout wood, reinforced by iron bars. Somebody rings the bell and a little spy hole slides open.
A pair of piggy eyes stars out malevolently and a coarse voice snarls “Who’s there?”
A bold fellow announces “Friends” and several bolts are drawn back before the door is opened.
One by one the tipsy gentlemen file in, Hickey at the rear.
As he enters, the door slams shut behind him and the doorman - who looks like an ox in a neckcloth - is bolting it again securely.
Even Hickeys ardour is dampened by what he sees in front of him.
The room is in an uproar, with men and women standing on chairs, tables and benches.
They are shouting encouragement to two wild-haired, scraggy looking harlots who are rolling around on the beer-stained floor, intent on tearing the other’s throats out.
They are covered in bleeding scratches and shrieking obscenities at each other that would offend the ears of a bosun’s mate.
Hickey notices that both are bare-breasted but the contents of his breeches remain unmoved.
He will later make the acquaintance of one of these ladies, Miss Burgess, who turns out to be very nice (although you wouldn’t want to wind her up after a few gins).
Such is the revulsion on his face, as he stumbles back towards the door; several people tell him not to worry because it’s always like this.
He finally manages to tear his eyes away only to find himself looking at a man at the opposite end of the room who is getting attacked by three women at the same time.
Without a hint of gallantry, the man punches each woman to the floor but they leap back up and pummel him with blows and vicious kicks.
Some of the laughing men watching are hitting him with their heavy sticks when he isn’t looking and the weakened bully eventually disappears under a flurry of blows from all sides.
Hickey decides he’s had enough and runs to the exit.
He’s struggling frantically with the latch when he is grabbed by the collar and thrust against a wall.
The doorman thinks he is trying to do a runner without paying and is far from happy.
“I think you came in not long since and with a party. What! Do you want to tip us a bilk? Have you paid your reckoning eh? No, no youngster no tricks upon travellers, No exit here until you have passed muster, my chick”
With a groan of despair, Hickey returns to the carnage of the taproom, the doorman, who is proud of his deductive abilities, following behind.
“So, the young ‘un there wanted to be off, but I said as how I knew a trick worth two of that, too much experience to be taken in by such a sucker, told him not to expect to catch old birds with chaff, didn’t I young un hey?”
A picture of misery, Hickey remains at Wetherby’s until his friends wish to leave.
Frustratingly, the more miserable he becomes, the more they laugh at him.
His relief when they do finally walk out is short lived as, laughing even harder, they take him to a place called Murphy’s’ which is just as bad. He vows never to return to Wetherby’s again.
A month later, of course, he’s back.
Hickey may be fond of a drink or two but his favourite pastime is sex - he simply loves the ladies.
His final term at school had been marred by scandal and near expulsion because of his youthful enthusiasm when it was revealed that a maid by the name of Nancy Dye had been sneaking into his room after lights out.
It was all because of a fat boy called Blackall who had seen Nancy tiptoeing into Hickey’s chambers and wanted her to visit him in the night as well.
Nancy, in no uncertain terms, told the horny little porker what he could do with his idea, so he threatened to expose the pair to the headmaster.
Hickey, quite rightly, gave the blackmailing little sneak a proper beating for his impertinence which led to the arrangement becoming common knowledge. So much for “Schooldays”, today Hickey is a man of the world.
As a trainee lawyer he fully enjoys London’s Bagnios, Bawdy Houses, Nunneries and Brothels.
The city is literally bursting with opportunities for a young gentleman such as he to “Jock” himself stupid.
The pox, of course, is an occupational hazard but shuffling about covered in mercury plasters with a hole where your nose used to be is something which happens to other people….not Hickey.
The pox however is the last thing on Hickeys mind because he’s currently pursuing a lady of “quality” named Fanny Temple.
Fanny is well spoken, never swears, speaks French “assez bien,” has a lovely singing voice and probably goes like a cooper’s hammering arm.
She is the mistress of a well-heeled mystery gentleman who pays for her countryside lodgings in Hammersmith, her carriage and her servants.
He also pays for her rooms on Queen Ann Street which is where she and Hickey find themselves one night in May.
As they tumble into bed, Hickey is just pondering on how much better this is than a night at Wetherby’s when there is a commotion in the corridor outside.
It’s the cook, shouting “Thieves, Thieves” at the top of her voice.
The look of shock on Fanny’s face combined with her cry of “My God! I am undone” convinces Hickey that it’s probably not thieves at all but rather a subtle code indicating that the mystery gentlemen has arrived unexpectedly.
Panic overriding distaste at becoming a romantic fiction cliché, Hickey hides in a nearby closet.
From within, he hears the lustful voice of Fanny’s “Protector” and recognises it as that of a sixty-year-old friend of his family.
This upstanding pillar of the community has eight children and a solid, happy marriage based on strong Christian values.
So, it’s of particular annoyance that the dirty old bugger’s popped round to his strumpet’s house for a quick one without warning.
Fanny thinks fast and calls the maid to air some clean sheets while leading the old goat into the dining room.
Hickey can hear her telling him she has a headache and is overcome with happiness at his surprise visit.
Squatting in a closet nursing a powerful erection, he is far from happy.
The maid takes the sheets and Hickeys clothes down to the parlour, locking the bedroom door behind her.
Hickey climbs out of the window, sneaks into the parlour, gets dressed and makes his frustrated escape.
He won’t be going back there again!
The next day Hickey receives a note from Fanny at his rooms asking if they can meet later.
Before you can say “Boxing the Jesuit” he’s back at Queen Ann Street where he happily remains for several hours.
It’s good to be young.
