Once in every while, one of our otherwise happy Citizens of _Paul_And_Land_ hits the skids. Goes off the rails. Has a moment. Or something of that type. We really don’t like it when this happens, not at all, no sirree Bob. For a couple of reasons: one, we all like each other in this place (crime levels are at an all time low and buses run approximately to time) and two, the nearest hospital is in Richard Branson Land which, as we all know, is over the sunlit uplands beyond the River and the big road.
Enough of Richard Branson Land and their dreams of world domination, let’s focus on the unhappy citizen. Poor chap, for it was a chap and not a lady, was having a torrid time and was seeking solace in the back bar of the _Paul_And_Land_ Arms, a place of disrepute frequented by ladies of easy virtue. Allegedly, at least. And some chaps who like a bit of fisticuffs. Not a pretty picture we’re painting here but that’s the nature of the back bar of the _Paul_And_Land_ Arms. Unfortunately. And a Sunday League Team that all other Sunday League Teams fear, with good reason. Competitive sport in this neck of the woods is generally pretty uncompetitive except for the _Paul_And_Land_ Arms Sunday League Team. For a Team of ladies they’re durned scary!
“Get on with it, I’ve got a pie going cold”, hollered a small voice at the back of the room. “Tell us about yon chap”. Sorry, got a bit waylaid there. Yes, this poor chap was necking way too much jollop and it was doing him no favours. He was getting into a right pickle. And not the kind of pickle that we import from Richard Branson Land. Virgin Pickle, you’re making up your own jokes, you thought it was called Branson Pickle but ha-ha. Yes, too much sauce: firstly for chappie and secondly from you bunch. Excuse Madam, thinking of sauce, can I knick a chip?
A call came into the _Paul_And_Land_ Command Centre from a lady of easy virtue (allegedly) informing the Emergency First Aid Man, who looks like Private Godfrey on Dad’s Army, that the chappie was not in a good way. He’d hit the bottom. Hard. Off cycled the Private Godfrey look-alike to the back bar of the _Paul_And_Land_ Arms and indeed, our chap was in a right two and eight. Empty bottles, cold pizza and a badly done tattoo exclaiming his love for Big Helga from Crewe.
Our sturdy Private Godfrey-alike, spooned up all the bits and pieces and stuck them in the bicycle side-car. And then tootled back to the Command Centre. With the help of a few nails, some chewing gum and a good talking to, he was soon on the mend. The badly done tattoo remains unfortunately, Big Helga from Crewe should be proud though for her chap is now well on the way to being a model citizen.
And the moral, those chips are actually rather nice Madam, don’t go getting tattoos especially when you’re sploshed up.