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 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.
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.
