… with apocalyptic music:
Filed under: Chuckles, Earth and cosmos
And that is why I joined the air force.
Sea, air, even the land gets lashed, Sniper. And not unusual.
‘T’was on such a blasted eve when the moon’s cold glow was banished by thick clouds and lashing rain, that there came a knock on the door of the old peasant. There, bedraggled, exhausted, barely able to stand in the howling gale, was a Knight, his armour glistening with ice and the flash of lighting, and behind him his horse. Dead.
The old peasant pulled him in and his old wife hurried to stoke up the fire and fetch the poor soul some soup.
” I am Sir Taceval. I am commanded to the King’s Castle for a briefing”, said the Knight, “and I must continue my journey through the night”.
“Oooweeargh”, said the peasant, “but ye must rest thoisel’ a while”.
The Knight ate and warmed his bones and told his tale of the King’s great need to gather his most Trusty and Well Beloved men to do the necessary fight-planning and launch against the terrible foe.
“My trust steed carried me twenty leagues and has expired, peasant man. Have you another horse I may use, in the King’s name. You will be amply rewarded with faggots up thine ying yang.”
“Nay Sir splendid ‘un, Oi ain’t got no ‘orse an’ me donkey carked it lars spring, he did”.
“Zounds. That’s a bugger”, cursed the Knight.
As they spake and pondered the predicament the peasant’s hound rose from his place behind the curtain of the bed in the corner. An Irish Wolf Hound.
“Peasant, your hound is a noble beast of great size. I shall have to ride him on my quest”.
“Oooooweeargh, my Lord”, he’as a great ‘eart in’im alroit, but eat thy soup, there’s a good’un. The missus ‘as given thee our tomorrows sustenance”. (he had an unusual vocabulary and a very limited larder).
The Noble Warrior ate and thanked his hosts, and having patted his new steed and learned his name (which was ‘Begorragh”), gathered his sword up and his shield and his helmet and made for the door. The wind howled and the rain battered the shakey hut. The thunder crashed and boomed and the lightning flashed fit to bust.
“Oh my Lord” cried the peasant, with trepidation.” Oi cannot let this happen”, he cried. “No, no no. It ain’t roit. Oi can’t send a Knight out on a dog like this”
Maybe so Amfortas, but one of the joys is to tell the fish-heads that you are off home after a few hours and to enjoy the next week of North Atlantic storms. A question of degree really. I still think I made the right choice.
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