THE DUCK FLAT CAP SOCIETY AND THE BOLIVAR SCHOOL OF REVOLUTIONARY TACTICS AND THERMAL DYNAMICS

THE DUCK FLAT CAP SOCIETY AND THE BOLIVAR SCHOOL OF REVOLUTIONARY TACTICS AND THERMAL DYNAMICS

Driver Chard has shocked the members of the Duck Flat Cap Society by revealing that he has secretly enrolled a revolutionary band of ex military pensioners, whose sole purpose is to undermine the governments of western Europe and north America. 

This revelation came about whilst the cantankerous senile old timer was debating the Duck Flat Cap Societies position regarding the size of the fiscal rebate due from the EU.

The rebate, amounting to 100 million barrels of Real Ale and 20 million bushels of Hops and Barley, was originally secured to safeguard the societies position as the number one imbibing society in western Europe, against the threat posed by the  agricultural drinking societies and unions in France and the low countries. 

These French communist backed societies have existed since the French Revolution and were originally provided with a luxurious stipend by Robespierre and this was further increased by Napoleon Bonaparte during his wars against the coalition consisting of The Empires of Great Britain, Austria/Hungry and Russia, together with a confederation of the remaining states wishing to be free of French control.

This benefit remained after the defeat of France by Wellington and Blucher, and has constantly been renegotiated with each new Republic, and was further enshrined in to European and French law by the Maastricht treaty in 1992 .

However, the Duck Flat Cap Society has remained a beneficiary of a rebate originally negotiated by the Prime Minister when Great Britain originally entered the EEC, and this concession has been vigorously defended throughout the nations membership of the community.


 Indeed although the rest of Europe , headed by the Frogs have regularly attempted to dilute this rebate, all attempts have failed to date due to the threat of British Football hooliganism being perilously exported to Paris and other frog cities and towns if the rebate is diluted or tampered with in any way.

Driver Chard of El Hadj Duiff has spent the last three months touring the length and breadth of the United Kingdom recruiting pensioners from local British Legion clubs Mental Homes and Retirement Homes.

 
The resourceful acting President and Charmain of the DFCS has promised full membership of the Duck Flat Cap Society, and the opportunity to bash the frogs from France with impunity, as an enticement to join his rag tag renegade brigade of false toothed knee knockers. 

 A full season ticket to Fulham F.C. has also been arranged as part of the package.


To date, the raging lunatic claims to have  raised sufficient numbers for ten divisions, and the full mobilisation of his troops are taking place over the Christmas holidays. It is rumoured that a fully mechanised wheelchair and Bath chair division has already been set up in Yorkshire, and that they are ready to seize control of York Minster during the Christmas mass on 25th December.



From these humble beginnings, Driver Chard of El Hadj Duiff resolves to take the position of Field Marshall of Europe and be at the head of a full frontal assault on the beaches of Normandy, via which ever cross channel ferries are available with the appropriate ramps for wheel chair access.   



Driver Chard then plans to march, or rather wheel the way to Paris where he proposes to Liberate the French capital and revoke all the licenses of the communist backed agricultural drinking societies and threaten to abolish them unless they affiliate themselves to the Duck Flat Cap Society, with Driver Chard recognised as their de facto President.

By the time  Her Chard had finished describing his master plan, the remaining members of the fiscal and EC sub committee had arranged for an ambulance to restrain the now foaming at the mouth octogenarian, and soon he was  route to the local rest home drugged up to the eyeballs with a 40/60 solution of heroin and Best bitter.

Further details will be released in due course after further consultation with the societies lawyers.



R.I.P   JOHN CHARD 1933 - 2020

DUCK FLAT CAP SOCIETY THREATENS TO SHUT DOWN UK OPERATION AS TAX SCANDEL OUTRAGE HITS MEMBERSHIP

DUCK FLAT CAP SOCIETY THREATENS TO SHUT DOWN UK OPERATION AS TAX SCANDAL OUTRAGE HITS MEMBERSHIP.

Driver Chard has threatened to terminate the membership of all members of the Duck Flat Cap Society in view of the the recent spate of tax scandals enveloping the UK.

At a recent full meeting of the "Tax, Subscriptions and Procrastination" sub committee, acting President and Chairman,  Driver Chard of El Hadj Duiff, blew a gasket as he debated the current sad state of affairs whilst wearing a khaki safari jacket and orange bowler hat, waving a scarlet umbrella above his white head, and smoking a Moroccan cheroot.   

As the old timer stood at the committee table he waived a white sheet of paper in his left hand proclaiming that after a meeting at the high chancellery with the Chancellor of the  Exchequer, Winston Churchill, the  Prime Minister, Prince Von Metternich and Her Hitler, he believed that he had obtained the upper hand in the simmering Tax War and had achieved peace in our time.  

As the trembling octogenarian sat down at his seat, the committee rose to their feet and gave three cheers accompanied by ten minutes of thunderous applause.
 
 However their was one dissenter, who whilst seated at the end of the table was in the most part obscured from general view, but as the applause drew to an end and the members regained their seats it was clear that the northern agitator "Dave the Teach" rejected the Chairman's stance.

He was ashen faced and had remained silent and seated throughout the riotous reception received by the fragile and ruddy faced octogenarian Chard. 

The slight figure of Dave the Teach slowly rose to his feet, and as he wrapped his knuckles against the wooden table to gain attention he simultaneously removed his black beret and place a replica Beretta on the table next to squashed packet of woodbine.

At first his voice was quite but firm , but gradually rose in tone and temperament, until he was shrieking at the top of his voice that the Northern League would never surrender to the communist red bellied faction that he believed Driver Chard supported and represented.

He removed his black donkey jacket to reveal a baseball bat strapped to his back, and a stretchy "s buckle" scouts belt acting as a make weight holster for a rusty six inch fish knife. 

The scene was set for a momentous upheaval in the societies make up and well being, but at that precise moment the last bell rang and all and sundry suddenly stopped and turned to the bar. Within minutes the meeting had broken up with Driver Chard revealing he had to go home for his supper consisting of a slither of pork pie and farmyard pickle, and the remaining ensemble, including Dave the Teach, purchasing their final beverages of the evening.

As a side note it was agreed that the societies Tax affairs would be discussed and the next meeting after a games of shuffleboard and pitch and toss, and details will be relayed to the reader in due course. 


 

THE GEIGER SANCTION

THE GEIGER SANCTION

 

Driver Chard, acting President and Chairman of the "Duck Flat Cap Society", has requested that each member of the society is checked for radiation on entering the Duck.

He further insists that all random interlopers wishing to imbibe or feast within the premises are subject to the same rigorous testing regime, with an additional need for a full anti biological warfare shower to be taken in the car park prior to entry to the premises.  

This is due to his recent viewing of a documentary on satellite TV that revealed that radiation permeates from certain bedrock.
 
The bedrock in question was situated in Devon and Cornwall in south west England, approximately three hundred miles from the seat of the Duck Flat Cap Society, but this small detail did not deter Driver Chard.

The fact that Harrow Weald and indeed most of London sits on a couple of hundred feet of thick river sediment known as London Clay, with no volcanic granite or other igneous rock within three hundred miles, was of no significance to the voiciforous old timer. 

Indeed, Driver Chard standing in the centre of the public house, foaming at the mouth and holding his crouch with both red blotched hands, was so incensed that his thoughts had not been anticipated by fellow imbibers and members, that he quickly drained two pints of best bitter in one frustrated gulp. 
 
The evening after the documentary, Driver Chard entered the Duck wearing a full radiation suite and deerstalker whilst clutching a Geiger counter to his chest.

   

 Attached to his back was a six foot samurai sword, which he proclaimed he was going to use on any member of the public who did not take the appropriate precautions to protect themselves from the leaking radiation.  His feet were clad in radiation grade rubber boots and his hands covered in similar rubber gloves.

 In fact, if it wasn't for the Fulham F.C scarves wrapped around his scrawny neck, and the "Help Me" sign around his neck, there would have been no clue that the cantankerous octogenarian silver haired Driver Chard resided within the rubber and plastic luminous yellow cocoon.

The full D.F.C.S "Radiation, Procrastination and Imbibing" sub-committee are to meet shortly to discuss Driver Chard's directives, and to debate whether the level of medication being administered to the stark raving mad acting chairman and president is sufficient to prevent a further outbreak of the clearly debilitating "Mad Albert Disease".   

Further details will be released in due course, subject to the deliberations and agreement of the Flat Cap Society.  


R.I.P   JOHN CHARD 1933 - 2020

THE DUCK FLAT CAP SOCIETY IN BUDGET CRISIS

THE DUCK FLAT CAP SOCIETY IN BUDGET CRISIS

The Duck Flat Cap Society “Finance and Monetary” sub- Committee has been in heated debate over the last weekend regarding recent proposals to increase the "Procrastination and Imbibing" Budget by 11%.

The sub-committee has been split in to two factions, broadly based on a north south divide.

 The northern faction is headed by the former leader of the “Ekee Thump Brigade”, “Dave the Teach” and assisted by his Lancastrian compatriot and ex military sex therapist “Basher Hurley”.

The southern faction is headed by acting chairman and president “Driver Chard of El Hadj Duiff”, who is assisted in his deliberations by “Chelsea Dave the Duck” and Barry “Bazza" McGovern, whose links with the criminal underworld have brought a sense of foreboding to the proceedings.

The source of the current deadlock continues to be Driver Chard's resistance in subsidising the ale houses, whore houses and associated hostelries affiliated to the DFCS, that are located in the northern Lancastrian fiefdoms beloved by Basher Hurley and Dave the Teach.

Driver Chard has enraged the northern members by strongly contesting that their proximity to Ireland and distance from London and the DFCS HQ at the Duck in the Pond, alienates the Lancastrian affiliates from any further subsidies and or rebates due from any surplus provided by the society’s more prosperous southern members and affiliates.

Indeed, Driver Chard and Chelsea Dave the Duck are of the opinion that the current fiscal stipend delivered to the money grabbing northern affiliates should be ruthlessly cut by as much as up to 30%. This is to be followed by a further 10% annual ratcheted decrease to the bursary paid to the northern scum for the following ten fiscal years.

Driver Chard is so enraged by the current state of affairs that he has threatened to take up arms against the northern renegades and as such has recently renewed his membership to the "Harrow and Potsdam duelling and fencing association".  He has also taken to wearing a pair of knuckledusters on each hand, and carries a sword tipped cane when making his way about town.

Finally, he has cancelled his weekly prescription for Viagra as he has taken an oath to revoke all sexual activity so as to save his energies for the struggle ahead. 

The "Finance and Monetary" sub-committee have taken matters further by arranging for the seating at the debating table to be adjusted to ensure that the northern faction are facing their southern opponents, thus ensuring that a concealed stiletto blade or similar weapon can not be easily used during the heated debate.    

After the last lengthy session, the sub-committee have agreed to enlist the overweight and delusional ex karaoke singer, "Ray the Dust", together with his diminutive dust cart operate associate, "Pepe Le Puke", to act as intermediaries when the next debate takes place.

The thinking behind this otherwise strange decision  being that Ray the Dust suffers from a delusion that he is a child of the north due to his love of Manchester United FC, even though his roots are in Croydon, located in the deep south of London. 

The logic being that his schizophrenic frame of mind may be sufficiently warped to enable a satisfactory conclusion to be arranged regarding the monetary affairs of the society.

Further details will be published here in due course.

THE CUMMERBUND INITIATIVE

THE CUMMERBUND INITIATIVE

After long and careful consideration, the "Duck Flat Cap Society" has adopted the standard "Cummerbund" as an additional item of compulsory clothing.

The society has initiated this change to its existing policy due to the expanding waistbands of a number of the society’s members.

With the expected onset of inclement weather during the winter months, the wearing of a Cummerbund of at least 4 inches girth will be compulsory between the months of October and April. This will be alongside the standard wearing of a Flat Cap or Deerstalker at all times, whilst attending a meeting at the Duck or any other associated hostelry.

 

It is sad to note that the number of “lard arses” amongst the membership has increased greatly over the last two years, with Ray the Dust and Pepe Le Puke leading the way.

These genetically overweight behemoths have continued to grow their humongous stomachs at an unacceptable rate during the usually fallow summer months.

The reasons for this unacceptable increase in blubber are currently a matter of heated debate amongst the "imbibing and procrastinating" sub-committee, and many observations have been made regarding the sedentary hedonistic lifestyle of these pension age part time refuge collectors. 

In particular, the intake of pork pies, lard, kebabs and double fried chips is to regulated by the direct intervention of the Dusts and Le Pukes better halves .  

 

The committee have come to the conclusion that the corset like properties of a Cummerbund will restrict the intake of alcoholic beverages during official meetings, and so render the portly and overweight amongst the gilded brethren to feel agitated and uncomfortable, thus fostering a wish to loose weight.

However, Driver Chard has obtained an exemption to this new initiative on medical reasons, due to his continued bout of "Mad Albert Disease", quadruple hernia and ingrowing toenails.


Further deliberations will take place after Cummerbunds have been surgically removed from several members of the committee, and updated reports will be distributed and disseminated to the press in due course.

MAJOR THURLBY AND THE RED FACED DOCTOR

MAJOR THURLBY AND THE RED FACED DOCTOR

Doctor Doyle sat at the bar on his usual stool, a stool that had been specially strengthened to take his enormous weight, and also shortened by four inches, so that his miniature but muscular legs could reach the floor.

He was seated towards the end of the tobacco stained snug, with his broad back positioned so that his corpulent body filled the angle between the bar and wall. He slowly lifted his large balding head and visually scanned the bar. His brown eyes darting about the smoke filled room, as if scanning and searching out his chosen prey.

At first he missed the "Major" who was clothed in a grey mackintosh and seated in the window bay, but quickly recognised his nemeses after a further review of those present. Major Thurlby was clutching a pint of best bitter and smoking a non filtered cigarette with his hat sat upon his head at a jaunty angle.

Dr Doyle turned his head as a dart thumped in to the cork dart board, but quickly turned back to stare at the Major.

 Major Thurlby reached in to his coat pocket and retrieved a small red coloured notebook and proceeded to read the contents.

 Dr Doyle could see from his seated position that the script was written in a foreign language, and quickly deduced that it was German. This was seemingly confirmed by his realisation that the cover of the notebook was adorned with a stylised Prussian Eagle.  

The overweight Doctor turned towards his pint and slowly drained the glass whilst letting out a wet fart. A set of wire rimmed spectacles adorned his bulbous and ruddy nose, and were attached to a chain that circumnavigated his elephantine neck.  His pudgy middle finger pushed the spectacles back from the tip of his nose and he beckoned to the barman to pour him a further pint of ale.

With his fresh pint of best bitter in his hand, the grotesquely obese Doctor Doyle slid off his seat and motioned towards the Major, who was still seated with his comical hat set upon his head whilst reading his notebook. The Doctor coughed as he approached the Major and was quickly acknowledged with an outstretched hand.

Their hands met for the briefest moment in a sweaty embrace, as the corpulent Doctor sat down next to the Major.  “Your business Sir?” retorted Major Thurlby as he scanned the red faced Doctor seated beside him. “You now what I want….” was his quite but forceful retort. “Give me the note book now, and all will be ok – do you fully understand me?”

Major Thurlby sat back in his seat and stared at the overheated Doctor. “Ahh….. I see you are Doctor Doyle then”

 “I expected a fitter and younger man, but if it is you, let us do business”.

“The Book, let me see it” demanded the Doctor, as he held out his hand motioning towards the red notebook in the Majors left hand.

Major Thurlby tossed the small book across the table towards the gasping outstretched hands of the Doctor, who swiftly opened the cover and began to read the pages.

He initially struggled to read the text, but soon became accustomed to the Germanic script scrawled upon the lined pages. It soon became apparent that the vast majority of the script described the addresses of various properties located within a couple of miles radius from Wembley. The addresses were divided in to localised groups of four, and were a mixture of commercial and residential properties.

Major Thurlby lifted his glass and drained the contents with a flourish, indicating to the Doctor that a refill was required.

The ruddy faced Doctor shouted across to the bartender and asked for two more of the same. This was met with a hiss and snarl by the elderly gentleman behind the bar and a shrug of his crumpled shoulders.  However, the pints were pulled and delivered to the table where the notebook was being scrupulously studied by the corpulent Doctor Doyle.

Thurlby threw his shoulders back and asked Doyle why he wished to help the Reich, and how long he had detested the British. His handlers in Berlin had only briefly appraised Major Thurlby of the background and nature of his treacherous contact, and his thirst for further details was getting the better of him.

Dr Doyle put down the scarlet notebook and stuffed his left hand in to his jacket pocket and removed a three inch piece of shrapnel. “This is the reason” he exclaimed, throwing the ragged metal on to the table. “This was removed from my knee in Dublin” he continued to shout at the Germanic interloper.

He went on to explain that his family was from Dublin, Ireland, and that the British “Black and Tan” had killed various friends and members of his family during the Easter uprising. During and after this event, Doctor Doyle had fought for the Free Irish and was present when a large bomb exploded near the General Post Office in Dublin, and that the shrapnel in his knee was a direct result of that blast.

“That’s why I hate those bastards !” he replied, with his eyes full of tears and his purple face almost exploding with rage.

He settled back and took a long gulp from his glass and placing his hands behind his neck, he surveyed the pub, looking to see if his outburst had been witnessed by fellow imbibers. He quickly satisfied himself that all was ok, as the only other person currently within earshot was "mad Pa Bumfold", who was as drunk as a bohemian parrot and would not remember being in the pub, let alone what the Doctor had retorted.

The Doctor rose to his feet, placed the notebook in his pocket and moved slowly back to the Bar. 

The Major followed him and enquired as to his payment for the information that he had bestowed upon the Doctor. The Doctor laughed and poked his finger towards the Major. “You!” he whispered, “first tell me who enabled you to establish such a detailed list of properties!”.

The Major shuffled his feet and explained that the night sergeant at Wembley Police station was a  third generation expatriate from Heidelberg, and had been supplying the Major with useful information, including details for the successful recent bombing of the Stonebridge Park Power station. 

With this, a bundle of white five pound notes were exchanged and the Major swiftly left the premises, hurriedly walking back towards Sudbury Town and the Harrow road.

The Doctor waited until he was a hundred yards down the road and motioned to the barman to pass him the phone. He picked up the hand set and asked the operator for Acorn 4444, waiting for the rhythmic hum of the ringing tone after the exchange had made the connection.

The phone rang for three rings and was answered by a deep voiced man who retorted “is it done ?” The Doctor quickly intimated the affirmative and responded in a whisper “we have him Sir, we have finally got the German bastard” and gently replaced the receiver with a huge red smile about his round face.

He pulled out the Red Book from his pocked and scribbled some notes in the margins and proceeded to leave the Mitre, glancing behind to wish the barman well, before striding out in to the dark cool air and turning right towards the “Carlton Lodge” and further mystery with  an agent who went by the name Big Dick, a Scot with a taste for "a wee dram", and a love of boisterous behaviour.   
http://horsingtonsmythe.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/the-abominable-major-thurlby.html

LITTLE LEGS PARKS IN SHOCK PYGMY REVELATION

LITTLE LEGS PARKS IN SHOCK PYGMY REVELATION

Pint sized “Little Legs” Parks has shocked the “Ethnicity and Imbibing” sub committee of the Duck Flat Cap Society, by revealing that his ancestors were Congolese pygmies.

Genetic tests have confirmed that the popular  part time midget plumber has a highly irregular mix of sub Saharan mitochondrial DNA which has been passed on by generations of mothers down his maternal time line, and DNA that matches that recently obtained from a Neanderthal skeleton discovered in China that also has DNA associated with the sub human species "Homo Erectus".

The implication being that Little Legs Parks is a product of Congolese Pygmies, Neanderthals and Pe-King man.

Those who know the minuscule plumber will be well aware of his hobbit like attributes and his huge neanderthal hands. They will also be familiar with his ability to morph in to a swarthy, if minuscule, dark skinned countenance after little more than 12 hours in the sun.

It has long been stated by historians that if a neanderthal was dressed in a suite he would probably not be noticed walking through a modern  shopping centre.
However, those who have been unfortunate enough to encounter little legs Parks whilst on the job, would be left with no doubt of his ancient lineage linking him with the extinct sub human race.

Of course, his pint sized stature has assisted the large handed plumber in his trade and allowed him to quickly go about his business as he flits and scurries between roof beams and around the confined roof spaces that he inhabits on a regular basis whilst going about his trade.

The ability to squeeze under floor boards has also been to his advantage although his limbo training has also helped in this respect.  

The DFCS will continue to investigate this strange case of Congo pygmy infestation and will release further details in due course.

DR DOYLE AND THE STRANGE CASE OF THE FARTING HORSE

DR DOYLE AND THE STRANGE CASE OF THE FARTING HORSE

Recent documents released from the archives of the "Blackburn and Walney Echo", allegedly indicate that during the early 1980’s, members of the notorious “Bogus Beer Belly Battalion”, an imbibing sub-section of the Mitre public house, encountered a strange equine-like and somnambular entity, that suffered from a serious bout of foul wind.

The alleged report describes a riotous and outrageous week-end trip by the famed battalion to the world famous "Grand National" race meeting at Aintree, Liverpool. It goes on to note that the organiser of the expedition was the ex dance floor grinder, “One Seed” Winyard Brown, who had arranged the trip with the assistance of his then employers, British Spermicidal Products Ltd.

The trip had started with a rumbustious meeting at the Mitre, where the members of the Bogus Beer Belly Battalion assembled with their cohorts and camp followers. Doctor Doyle had been hand picked by the imbibing committee to act as interpreter on this visit to the northern heathen land of the Lancastrians, mainly due to his school boy knowledge of French and Yiddish, and an incredible ability to decipher the drunken ramblings of Pat “LVO” Canney after he had consumed a couple of bottles of Mateus Rose, a gallon of vodka and orange, and numerous pints of cider. 

Dr Doyle was to be accompanied in his cultural and linguistic dealings with the northern natives by Pat “LVO” Canney, Mark “Conan” Elliott and Winyard "One Seed” Brown.

The expedition is reported to have begun in the twilight hours of  Saturday morning as the hired coach pulled away from the Mitre car park.  Swift progress was made at first due to the empty roads and the somnambulistic state of the passengers. However, soon the sozzelled incumbents of the check twilled seats began to twitch with the anticipated need to vent their exploding bladders. 

Before long a trickle of stinking urine began to roll along the internal side gutters of the coach floor, the stream growing in volume and intensity as it progressed towards the front of the vehicle and the overweight and long haired mustachioed driver. 

As the yellow stinking river reached the front of the coach and began to spill over the entrance steps the driver stamped on his brakes bringing the vehicle to an abrupt halt. The neck of the driver was crimson with rage as he turned and shouted back to the semi conscious occupants of the now stinking bus.

In moments all the occupants were lined up against the parapet of a motorway bridge, each fully relieving their aching bladders from the pressure caused by the evenings copious imbibing.  

The driver was now calming down and being spoken to by his co pilot and assumed girlfriend. His rage soon subsided as she pushed her lips to his and shoved him against the coach door. Within minutes all was ok, and the sad ensemble were beckoned back on to the vehicle for the remainder of the journey towards the heathen enclave of Blackburn, which was to act as a staging post for the events at Anfield the following day.

The Mitorian hoard settled in their seats and dreamed of more beer, and the winning horse on the morrow, with just the occasional experiment with the local female inhabitants envisaged by both Dr Doyle and the former groove master and failed DJ, "One Seed" Brown.

Soon the brave Battalion were at their prescribed staging post, and slight refreshments were taken whilst rooms were inspected and baggage placed  beside beds. A number of the Battalion used the facilities for their ablutions, but the hard core membership refrained from this nancy behaviour to ensure their alcohol levels were sufficient for the onslaught to come.

The transportation was complete and the Bogus Beer Battalion, dressed in full regalia and fitted with external additional bladders, strode in to the world famous Aintree racecourse.   Tickets had earlier been distributed by One Seed Brown and the band of select brethren was soon encapsulated within a special enclosure within the complex’s roof garden.

Prawn sandwiches and champagne were consumed at a ferocious rate, especially by the exuberant subaltern Cliff "Maisie" May and his cohort "Dr Domino Smidt", but soon the enclosure began to exert mental pressure on the golden brethren as they began to feel enclosed and encircled by a mixture of northern plebs and brainless upper class twits.

The order to decamp from the prescribed enclosure was given by Dr Doyle and soon the select band were crossing the race track and heading for the glorious and overflowing Cider and Guinness Tents , located within the race track. Soon all notion of following the thundering animals as they passed the tented enclosures was a far flung memory as pint after pint of both Nigerian Lager and cider were consumed. Finally, the Grand National race its self was upon the battalion, and raising his glass from his face, Dr Doyle exclaimed that he was to place a bet of £60 on an outsider whose odds would ensure many thousands of pounds in winnings if it passed the post first.

The race began with Dr Doyle returning from the betting pit with a clipped ticked and a surprisingly broad grin about his red face. Slowly the battalion pulled there glasses from their red and sweating faces, and turned to view the race. As the furlongs were devoured by the ever decreasing throng of horses pounding round the track it became obvious from the good Doctors behaviour that his horse was in the reckoning.

 At this stage he exclaimed that if his horse won, we were to refrain from returning home on the charabanc the following day, but embark on all conquering trip to the Iberian peninsular, paid for by the good Doctor.    

Sure enough , three fences from the end his horse leaped in to the lead and a buzz of excitement rang through the semi conscious battalion.

 The remaining unseated horses and their miniature jockey’s thundered towards the conclusion of the race, and were soon one fence from the finish, with Dr Doyle’s filly in front.

 The final fence was upon the front runners and as each jockey rose in his stirrups the straining horses uncoiled their hind quarters and proceeded to bound over the fence.

That was however with the exception of the horse backed by the now deflated Doctor Doyle, who decided to drag his pulsating sinuous body through, rather than over, the thick hedging of the fence .   

Dr Doyle and the band of barbarian cohorts stood still, taking in the full comprehension of what had just passed, and to a man turned back to their pints and glugged down a copious mouthful of craze inducing liquid.

Soon the day was at an end and all that was required was a retreat to the chosen chariot, and a return to base camp for more mead and ale. However, the coach was situated within the race course, together with thousands of others and the exact location had been lost after the first dozen pints of ale. The only way was to wait for the other vehicles to depart, and thus being the case, the tired buccaneers retired to the nearest beer tent for more alcoholic refreshment.

Approximately two hours later their transportation device was located, some 50 yards from their seated location , and soon the inebriated ensemble were cruising back to their  temporary base.

On leaving the chariot, the long haired driver indicated that he wanted a beer with the battalion, and soon they were marching towards the establishments bar area. After many hours the driver and his equally long haired female companion had consumed copious amounts of alcohol, all at the expense of the tired members of the Beer Belly Battalion.   

A   buzz of discontentment rushed around the seated athletes and their contempt for the pair of long haired Liverpool lovers was only interrupted by the bar managers call for time and last orders. 

In a burst of energetic enthusiasm, the battalion hard liners were swiftly at the bar ensuring their glasses were once more full to the brim.

 However as soon as these drinks were distributed, for no known reason, “Conan” returned to the bar and in a drunken rage grabbed the bar shutters and pulled them strenuously downwards only to trap the bar managers fingers between the shutters and the bar surface.

 The deed was quickly undone by the barbarous Conan, but the damage had been inflicted and the flow of alcohol was immediately and purposely cut by the one handed bar manager. All previous negotiations regarding a bar extension having been negated by the brutal hand crushing manoeuvre performed by the barbarous “Conan” Elliott.

The only option for the delirious band of brothers was to retire to their bed chambers and await the morning, and this was swiftly achieved by the prompting of the one handed bar manager and the threat of the local police.

As the Battalion slept, a strange stale aroma began to permeate the rooms with the room inhabited by Conan and the good Doctor, beginning to particularly reek with the smell of stale farts and sweaty  socks and body’s, mingled with the pungent after smell of beer stained clothing.

Morning broke with the clout of a ten ton sledge hammer, as the heads of the brethren thumped in unison with their heart beats. As they sat at the breakfast table , the good Doctor Doyle began to regale a strange tale encompassing events that had befallen his blood shot eyes during the previous hours of slumber.

He slowly recounted witnessing how a strange beast arose from the bed previously inhibited by Conan, and how the insane looking beast shuffled across the room blasting a continuous rasp of perfidious and heinous farts from his posterior.

After approximately five minutes the beast would place his head out of the window and vomiting a gallon or two of stinking putrid yellow bile and sticky amber liquid from his stomach and intestines. These events were repeated over a period of three hours until the beast returned to sleep and reverted to “Conan”.     

After telling his tale to the band of imbibing brothers, the truth began to fall about them, and soon it was accepted that the farting and puking phenomenon was no other than “Conan” Elliot, the barbarous imbiber from the Mitorian heartland.

Thus the documents released to the  "Blackburn and Walney Echo", and allegedly reported in their recent article, reveal that hence forth, Conan was to be known as “Conan the Farting Horse”, due to the evenings exploits and the visit to the Grand National . Indeed, to this day the South Allerton and Grimsby Gazette allegedly has a commemorative pull-out section each Grand National Saturday.

 In due course, the name was reduced to “The Horse” for typographical reasons, and so that the uneducated members of the Mitorian hoard could great the Horse without the need to grunt more than two syllables.

Thus the strange case of Dr Doyle and the Farting Horse concludes.