"Cor, look at the state of it. How the mighty have fallen... literally!" he smirked.

"Shut up and help me up, you smug simpleton!" I murmured. Botcher shrugged and then pulled me up to my feet. He made a half-hearted attempt to dust me down. 

"There. All better now?" he cooed, although I doubted the sincerity of his question.

"Actually I'm - " I stopped mid-sentence and began sniffing the air. "What in the name of the sainted buttocks of George is that foul odour?" 

"Could be the dried vomit on the front of your suit," Botcher ventured. 

"No, that's not it..." I looked around. "LONDON."

Sure enough, the foul stench that was assaulting my noble nostrils came from the capital The smell of sweat from the swathes of people jostling and bustling around me, the smell of dubious meats baked into dubious pies, the smell of smoke pouring from the smokestacks of nearby factories, like giant, concrete tallywhackers ejaculating into the sky. We had made it to our destination, but I immediately longed for the clear country air of the Likely Estate.

"Penny for the homeless?" said a foul-looking creature at my elbow. He proffered a cup towards me hopefully.

"Pardon?"

"Penny for the homeless?" the apparition repeated.

"I hardly think a penny will buy you a home, you wretched ghoul!" I sniffed. "Why don't you sod off and climb into a bin or something if you seek shelter so badly?"

"Honestly, you are such a ginormous prick sometimes, boss" Botcher sighed, stepping forward. He fished a few coins from his waistcoat pocket and dropped them into the wretch's receptacle. The devil gummed a grateful thank you and scurried off into the crowds, like a wizened, bearded rat.

"They say a fool and his money are soon parted, Botcher," I remarked. "I think I have just seen why they say so. That swine will probably go off and spend that money on gin and cocaine, mark my words."

"Oh really?" said Botcher as he pulled the chest containing my diaries out of the carriage. "Well, let us not waste any more time and get these diaries to a publisher so that you can make a few quid to replace some of the cash you spaffed on whisky and prostitutes, shall we?"

I narrowed my eyes. "I see what you are doing, Botcher. But my situation is completely different. That was my money! No-one ever gave me a handout!"

"Bollocks!" cried Botcher, dropping the chest to the floor with a thud. "You got left your fortune by your parents! You've known nothing BUT handouts!"

"I shall show you a handout!" I growled, raising a fist.

"Come on then, mush! Bring it on!" Botcher jeered, putting up his fists.

"Right! You asked for it, you twat-hole!" I said, lunging forward at my malodorous man-servant. Unfortunately, as I stepped forward, I tripped over the chest and wound up tripping over it and landing on my arse instead. Botcher cheered at this mis-step on my part, until I grabbed his ankle and yanked him down onto the ground beside me. And so we lay there, in the gutter.

Some would say that this was a visual metaphor. I would say that this was an utter pain in the arse.