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.