Another Tale From the Badger
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A Tall Tale From The Badger free porn video
I 'spose all you johnny foreigners think we British don't talk about sex. 'Tisn't true y'know, well, not all the time like you lot. It's just one of those things put about by people that are jealous of us bein' English. Stereotypin', that's what it is. If you say things loud enough and long enough then people'll believe it. Y'know the Froggies are always sayin' that they have a monopoly on culture. Huh, don't know when they translated Shakespeare from the French! And like Germans have square heads. 'Tisn't true, they're more bullet shaped. And Dutchmen wear clogs. Not true at all. Doesn't stop us calling 'em Cloggies 'though. And the French eat anything from under a flat stone that can't get away - well that is true of course.
So I thought I'd set down a few of our evenin' chats in the 'Badger', our village pub. A group of us get in there of a winter evenin' when the central heatin's well wound up and we swap a few yarns. Most of us have travelled a bit and have somethin' interestin' to say. Well, quite a lot happened through the nineties and into the new century, what with the old Queen going and us getting a King. Course that's more as it should be. I'm as fond of the ladies as the next man, but it's barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, what! Better not say that in front of her ladyship mind. In fact don't you say I said that at all. Have half the population on me neck I will.
Anyway, we get stuck into a few beers and then one or other will tell some tale of our past escapades, usually have a bit of sex there somewhere or other, don't y'know. Well, we're all men of the world, and of course comin' from a rather superior breed of men like the English, well, women all over the world just can't get enough of us. It's a fact that they'll always go for the ones to give 'em the best brats - Darwin said it all, just like animals really.
Still, enough of this! I'll get started.
We were settled into our usual corner of the bar and there had been a deal of chit-chat about little in particular, the weather, bit of gossip, well not really gossip of course because we men don't do that, local affairs would be more accurate, with the accent on affairs if possible, if y'see what I mean. Colonel Sanders - wipe that silly grin off y'face, it's the only thing about him I feel sorry for, had the piss taken something rotten for years. Ha! Should've got himself promoted to Brigadier like his pater. Well anyway, he was there and old Tim Screeby, and the Vicar, and Doctor Ormsby, yes, yes, Bertram Oliver Ormsby, gave that trophy to the school. Yes that's right, the kids always say they've got the BOOT when they win it. Then there was myself... what? Oh yes, I'm Lord Pecan, buggered if I can ever remember which one, still, not the one who murdered his cook, allegedly. No, no, cook is just fine... or indeed the daft beggar who charged somebody or others sodding guns. Who else? Ah, hmm, oh yes, well a couple of the reg'lars y'know, oh, and Smithy, he's into piles y'know. No no, big steel thingies, nothing to do with his bum. And young Pook. Nice lad, quite often joins us old codgers, intelligent lad, takes an interest, always askin' questions y'know. Mind, that missus of his certainly rustles up some good grub.
Anyway, when Squiffy Sanders says, "How about another pint, young Pecan, and you fellers, what'll you have?" I knew he thought it was his turn to tell us a tale.
If there is one thing I object to about Squiffy, and there are many, it's the fact that after all these years he still calls me 'Young Pecan'. Dammit, the bugger's only ten days older than me, but it was enough to put us a year apart at school, and he's never let me forget it.
Where was I? Oh, yes, Squiffy's tales. But first I had to face another pint of Blenkinsop & Sanders Old Revolting. Well of course that's not what the brewery call it. Ha! They call it Best Bitter, but if that's the best they can do, well... So why do I drink so much of it? Damned fool question that, what the devil else am I supposed to drink, eh? Anyway, y'can't say too much about it because Squiffy's family have been brewing it for, oh, about two hundred and fifty years, and since they own the place and he's buyin', well...
"Right oh then," says Squiffy when we're all settled again, " I was going to tell you about a funny thing that happened to me at the end of the second French war in '09, well after the end really, we were the army of occupation then, 'til we got a proper government set up - they never did have much of an idea of democracy, mainly had bureaucrats to govern 'em. Well us and the Germans were occupyin'. We had to have a bit of help to put the buggers down, squealed like stuck pigs and fought like women those Froggies. And of course the jerries were entitled to have their land back too, same as us."
There were murmurs of agreement all round, most of us had had experience of it.
"I'm never sure why they call it the second French war," said Smithy, "surely that little fracas when we annexed all the country down to Pyrenees in '07 couldn't be called a war."
"Well, the historians call it that," said the Doc, "so who are we to argue?"
Long sentence that, for the Doc. You could tell it affected him. Usually, if a patient had something terminal he'd just say, "you're going to die" and leave it at that.
"Quite so," said Squiffy, "but it wasn't annexation, 'cause the English Crown owned it from way back, and since so many of our people owned property over there, well, we had to go in and support 'em when the peasants started getting' stroppy, what? Should never have let them have it back after that do in the middle of the last century, when we beat that German chappie."
"Ah yes, you mean Hitler," said young Pook, "I read a lot about that. It was after that war that that silly common market idea was started. It isn't an easy history to read because the daft buggers could never make up their minds what to call it. Common Market, European Economic Community, European Community, European Union and all sorts. It could have worked too, if it weren't for the Froggies, seems they thought it was just set up for their benefit. My old man used to say if you have one market and one currency, then you should have one language - The Kings English, 'cept it was the Queens then.
"You're right, young Pook," exclaimed Smithy, "There was a lot of talk at the end of the century about relinquishing national identity and being together and things. Fed'ralism, that was it. Why I remember when the old British Airways took the Union Flag off the tails of their planes - was it '98 or '99 - and no self respecting Brit would fly with 'em anymore. Of course once they discovered how good the others were they didn't go back either. If there was one thing the Froggies did well it was self promotion, wouldn't have found them doing that sort of thing! Excreta torum cerebrum vincit an' all that."
"Not having the benefit of a classical education, what does that mean?" asked old Tim Screeby
"Ha! Bullshit baffles brains," I said.
"Just so." said the colonel, "Nice to see you fellers appreciate that. Course, the union's as strong as ever now there's no common market for those daft Scotch nationalist johnnies to run to. 'Ceptin' they're not johnnies are they, call themselves jimmies... or jessies or some such, I don't know. Anyway, once they realised the world didn't owe them a livin' and only the English'll give 'em one they soon changed their tune. Huh, they'd not last five minutes if it weren't for us. Still, one has to support those poor buggers who can't help themselves... "
We lapsed into silence for a moment. Squiffy was right of course, it's the Englishman's lot to look after and help those less fortunate than themselves. Has bin for centuries. Ho hum...
"Come along now, cheer us up with your tale," said the Vicar, "I for one cannot wait to hear it."
"Yes, of course Vicar," said Squiffy, "but I've an empty glass now, so set 'em up while I nip out for a jimmy riddle, and then I'll tell it to you."
Well of course, that was a bit rhetorical, the Vicar certainly wasn't about to buy a round. I mean we don't pay the blighter for him to waste it down the pub do we? So it was quite accepted that one of the others of us would get 'em in. Mind you, I often wonder whether he'd buy one if he did have the money. Always seemed a first out of the taxi, last one to the bar sort o' feller to me. Course I could be wrong...
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