Monday, 16 December 2013

16th December 2013 - On the road again....

Well, we just about managed to touch base. And we are off again - down to the South Coast and Barton on Sea this time.

The dogs are totally flumoxed!! Nothing all year and then three on the trot. Of course they deal with it in a different manner. Rusty is rushing around chasing his tail and desperate to jump in the back of the Terrano - while Delft is hiding in the kitchen and doing a final check on the chickens every two minutes...

The roof on the Chicken house seems to have peeled back and the chip board beneath is getting soaked - and damp is getting into the coop so that will have to be fixed on our return. No-one has told the chickens that they should not be laying at this time of year and at least one of them is still managing the daily delivery - another has started laying under the tree again - so we miss the clutch every few days.....

Still scrambled egg for breakfast will set us up for the 4 hour journey down to Hampshire....

Meanwhile, Devilstick Peat, the Jester and entertainer from the weekend has posted a private message giving his account of the weekend. It ill no doubt be edited before appearing on the book of Faces, but I felt it funny enough to be re-produced here - in all its initial glory.......

From Devilstick to the Black Company... 

To whom it may concern, Now that the shakes associated with the D.T.s have retreated enough for me to once again be able to use a keyboard, I feel compelled to write to you regarding your weekend’s escapades.

Although the event started well enough, in that I was escorted onto site by an officer (as befits an artist of my standing). My hope of a civilized weekend soon proved to be somewhat "unfounded".

Never before have I met a more revolting retarded retinue of rebellious reprobates, roughions, robbers, renegades and rugger muffins, who’s bawdy innuendo’s, double-omtonblers, drunkenness, and perverted sexual boasts and practises (some of which were quite possibly illegal, if not physically impossible) soon made me realize that they were doomed to fail in any half-hearted attempt to raise themselves up to the level of the lowest gutter (of which I might add, they smelt).But enough about the children. It wasn't their fault, after all, just look at their role models, the so called “adults” (a word I use loosely). To begin with most if not all of them were dressed up to look like what can only be described as (and I’m sorry, but in the name of honestly I have to use this word) GOTHS!!!

Charged with guarding the encampment these blaggards and chancers seemed hell bent on drinking, boasting about those they have ruthlessly murdered and, when one tried to perform and bring some culture to the poor lost souls, LAUGHING AT ME! And nobody laughs at me (if you don't believe me, check out my reviews).

As for the so called banquet, this was so basic that there wasn't even knives and forks (although in hindsight, after hearing boasts about which object they wished to insert into who’s orifice, and the willing compliance of the “ladies” (another lose term, as indeed were the ladies) I feel this was probably for the better.

After the banquet my polite attempts to engage folk in pleasant conversations were rudely and repeatedly interrupted by the contents of various containers of alcoholic beverages being poured down my throat. All this despite my frequent and repeated protests! Resulting in my poor humble and pure body ending up so inebriated it could only be compared with the drunken state of a certain tall, blonde lady on Saturday night (fear not young maiden, I won’t name and shame you)

and while we’re on the subject of Angie, Your companies only saving grace was a TRUE gentlemen called “the not so dead, Dredd”, who, in a valiant attempt to save both her innocence and chastity, felt compelled to not only barricade her bedroom door, but also stay in there with her, protecting this poor mothers virginity. Oh how I felt her.

And Saturday was.......... Sorry, that should read "oh, how I felt FOR her.

And Saturday was no better. To start with I was awakened by a dawn chorus not, as one might of expected in such a rustic and rural environment, the sound of robins happily chirping on snow covered trees, but rather the sound of what, to all appearances, seemed more in tune with a heard of water-buffalo with the type of flatulence one normally only encounters the day after a particularly hot vindaloo. And it took me several minutes before I gained realization of the fact that it was in fact, a barbershop quartet of drunken debauchers sleepily snoring. I arose and looked down upon their faces; faces relaxed and lost in the sweet innocence of sleep, and again had a vision of water-buffalo.

I then went for a brisk stroll to a shop to purchase some cigars. It was a pleasant stroll of about 4 miles downhill into a steep valley, and would had been even more worthwhile if the shop actually sold nicotine. I mean how’s a man who’s wheezing like darth Vader meant to stop half way up and have a smoke whilst filling his lungs with fresh air before once again scaling such a cliff type road, if he has no cigars!

Upon returning to the castle I soon realized that the day was fated to follow the same downward spiral as before, and I feared that there was so much alcohol in the place, as well as in the bodies, that should someone belch onto or near a lighter, then the ensuing explosion would surely result in st beviels castle becoming Chepstow’s answer to the space shuttle. 

This drunkenness was only interrupted when the castle was attacked by zombies. I must say that, considering that most of you had spent more than the national debt of Ethiopia on drinking the alcoholic equivalent of the Adriatic sea, I was very impressed not only with the speedy manner In which your ruthlessness and total disregard for life kicked in, but also by the professional way that it was the children who were sent out, into the cold wet darkness, to fight these terrible monsters. (Well let’s face it, now that the bloody EU has banned them from going up chimneys, there's little else the buggers are good for).

According to your captain one of these zombies resembled “my type”! I asked if he meant it was tall, handsome and well hung, he said no, it looked like a clown, and I felt compelled to remove this ignorance from his mind, telling him the 2 differences between clowns and jesters, which are, as I’m sure you know, as followsA: we're funny B: they don't bugger hamsters 

I'm pleased to say that he stood there for several seconds, unspeaking as his mind filed away this useful insight into the cultured world of performance, Grateful for my sharing of knowledge. I can see him now, standing in the officer’s mess, using it to start a conversation with the brigadiers’ niece. And she, impressed by his knowledge of theatrical ways, thinking "oh, maybe I miss heard him last night, he must of said "come to my room and look at the pile of “thespian” magazines I keep under my bed".

Well after you'd killed the zombies, with little if any regard for the lives of these rare and nearly extinct animals, came the buffet, and I must say I was again disappointed, after all, I was the only one to truly enter into the spirit of things and attend the buffet in the “buff”, although it must be said that come the ball, you all entered into the spirit, for there were men balling women all over the place.

But then that gutter element again ruined the evening when a man newly promoted to the strange sounding rank of "stand and bare her" produced a pack of cards. Not just any cards, but a vile set of pornographic cards. These cards were so depraved that I was disgusted every single time I looked through them.

In an attempt to save my very soul from corruption I sought the sanctuary of the officers’ mess, and what a mess it was! I would say that never have I seen a greater mess, however, to enter it I had to step over the collapsed and incoherent body of the afore mentioned Angie, so sadly can’t.

Once in the mess, I entered into conversation with a young, nameless lady (the one dressed mainly in black) and she told me of the distress and pain she was feeling as a result of a split lip. I inspected it and saw that she did indeed have a tight little red crack; however, my offer to kiss it better was politely refused, so instead I staggered off to bed.

That night I dreamt a strange dream. I was in a boat; she was a little red wooden rowing boat, afloat on a sea of mead. The hot sun dried the wood of the boat resulting in a small crack appearing in her, a crack that looked the same as the one on that poor girls lip. I had no water with me so, in an attempt to moisten her crack before it opened any wider, I dived onto my knees, licking madly at it. I’m pleased to say that the red cracks sides swelled with moisture, ensuring me a safe, smooth ride. It must have been a hot night as the next morning I awoke all sticky.

I dressed and went down stairs and found myself having to wade through a mass of semi-conscious bodies and half empty bottles. I knew the YHA staff would not be happy with this and so, in a noble attempt to save the company’s reputation, started to empty as many bottles as I could find, swallowing down not only the various liquids, but also the cigarette butts swimming within, in the hope that they would provide me with some much needed substance as I bravely and selflessly took on this heroic deed.

Then my lift was by my side, offering me a ride, the only ride I’d been offered all weekend. A fact that I put down to my reputation for having a humungous manhood (yes, I know it’s only 7 inches, but most women don’t like it that wide). Eager to escape this den of debauchery I jumped at the chance, proud of the fact that, as tempting as it was, I had resisted the chance to lower my morals and ravish young intoxicated maidens with big, heaving bosoms (after all, when all’s said and done, I am a fool), preferring instead to set a good example to be followed by you and your fellow men (of both sexes).  

I am sending this letter to several people and it is my sincere hope that one of you will post this letter on your companies’ Facebook page so that your men, shamed by my insights into their actions, will in future strive harder to be the sort of fellows you’d expect to meet in Black company. Yours Rocking back and forth-wardly

Mr D. S. Peat

Just about sums it up I think....

Ahh!! A nice bottle of Grouse.....

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