The Storey.
Writ by Bindard |
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Please Read This
First. The Storey is intended to bring a little more Joy and Happiness into
the World, but some references may be obscure to those outside the Bindard
familial circle, and it does contain some
slightly blueish bits so parental discretion is advised. If you have attained the age of majority,
and are not of a sensitive demeanour, please read on … |
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Copyright © Bindard 2004. |
AND so it befell, that on the
third Monday after the Feast of St. Gormless, in the Year of the Gerbil, the
fair Bindard Brothers set out into the World to seek their fortunes. Young Sir
Brian Bindard, fair of face and broad of helm, and Sir Raymond, great of nose
and broad of beam sallied forth from the mighty portals of Castle Camerot,
well mounted on snorting beasts - but they decided to send the women
back. Great was the gnashing of teeth
and renting of garments (three days for fifty bob) among the Japanese Damsels
of the Keep as the Two rode off on their mighty steeds, for what had these
maids to look forward to beyond self-abuse or the wilting attentions of the
salaryman retainers, in the absence of their Staunch Knights? For these
Two were on a Quest, a Holy Mission vouchsafed to them by Good King
Kontiboard, he of the renowned Table
that bore his name. The Brotherhood
of the Knights of the Kontiboard Table were sworn to uphold Truth and Virtue,
Succour the Oppressed, and assist
Helpless Virgins to overcome their handicap. Just how they were to achieve these noble aims by sitting
around a table is one of the great mysteries of history, but it must have
been so, for So was it Written and So is it Sung by the Minstrels, even unto
This Day. A Curse had fallen upon the
Noble Brotherhood, and it was this Business that occupied a Meeting around
the Table on the Day when this Tale begins. Good King
Kontiboard opened the meeting with the time-honoured words, "If you are
all Sitting Comfortably, then we'll
Begin." Queen Formica, the Good
King's beloved, heaved the great tea urn and stillage of pies into the room,
her huge rump so quivering with the effort that great seismic shocks furrowed
the generous folds of her kirtle. Upon
seeing the great heavings of her magnificent hindquarters Sir Brian remarked
into his brother's ear that there was a woman for whom he could really do
something. Sir Raymond was unable to
respond with anything more than a muffled grunt because at that very moment
his gonads were in the process of slow strangulation. It so happed that that very morning,
jumping up late from his pallet to
the sound of the morning alarum, he had grabbed the pair of drawers nearest
to hand … those of Queen Formica.
Which undergarments, not cut with space enough for the male
appendages, were at that moment giving his Wedding Tackle all sorts of Merry
Hell. The flagons
of tea and trenchers of pies being distributed, Good King Kontiboard went on
to tell All there gathered of the Curse that had fallen on Camerot. "As you all know, Good Sirs, we seek
to follow our duty by sitting around this table, but our very existence is
threatened by Mighty Affliction that has been visited upon Us. Merlin, Our Official Clever Bugger will now
Orate to us an explanation of this Dreadful Malady." In years to
come, the Balladeers and Minstrels would give the Great Merlin the
Appellation Magician, but this is
not as it was in the Days of Yore.
Those of Deep Wisdom who gave Counsel to the Kings and their Courts in
the Age of Chivalry were indeed known to All by the honourable title of
Clever Bugger in Ordinary. In all the
Leys of that Great Age there was no Bugger said to match the Cleverness of
the Wise and Good Merlin. "Gentles
All," began the Clever Bugger, "there is a Great Affliction upon us. In these three moons past, each of you,
Brave Sirs, has quietly come to me to confess a Painful Ailment that Proves
even beyond my Art, and of which, for Love of your Honour, you would have no
man hear." Seeing strange
winkings and gymnastic contortions of the eyebrows from Sir Ferretface,
Merlin gave him a reassuring nod, and said in his best pallet-side manner,
"Fear Not, Good Sir, your Disgusting Secret is Safe with me … just keep
on taking the Keflex, and you'll be as right as a groat in no
time." Inflation was later to
increase the proverbial price of good health to ninepence, but since
ninepence was larger than the entire National Income of Wessex and Rutland
combined in those days, the groat was
a rather easier concept for the average Thane or Varlet to get his
head around. "No," went on
the Clever Bugger," it is a much Worse Malady that has visited itself
upon Camerot. It has as yet no name,
but now I name it by the name of … Piles.
I have chosen this Appellation, for the Pain and Suffering is so great
that any man, be he Knight or Knave, would give All he do Own for Relief, and
we of the Hippocratic Brotherhood will make Piles of Gold for Ease of their
Torment." "But what,"
quoth Good King Kontiboard, "can be the Nature of this Complaint so
Dire?" Kings used to do a lot of
quothing in those Heroic Days. "Sire,"
replied the Learned Clever Bugger, "it causeth pain beyond the endurance
of even the Bravest of Knights when he Dumpeth in the Privy. His eyes will be veritably crossed, and
in case of Clinker there be a tendency to a Great Roaring of 'Argh!' by the
Afflicted." SO BEFELL IT THUS. Good King
Kontiboard looked about him at the Nobel and Gallant Brotherhood of the
Knights of the Kontiboard Table.
"I will call on the Two most Brave amongst you to go on the Holy
Quest for the Unguent that will Relieve our Affliction. It will be a Perilous Journey and only
They who are Pure of Heart can Swear the Great Oath to Accept this Challenge". He was quothing again. The
Good King's gaze rested on Sir Raymond and Sir Brian. "Oh, Fuck," said Sir Brian. Sir Raymond said, "Oh Fuckus,"
because he had been to Grammar School and knew Latin. "Sorry Lads," continued the
Good King, "but those Oaths are not nearly Great Enough. Sir Bastard, bring on the Oath
Administering Accoutrements."
Sir Bastard, a man who took real pleasure in his duties as Torturer in
Ordinary, and whose Seed were to Multiply upon the Face of the Earth to spawn
the breed that would come to be known
as Tax Inspector, jumped up to direct his muscular retainers in
wheeling in the Mighty Oath Swearing Anvil.
With a joy bordering on the ecstatic, Sir Bastard had his men lift up
the Anvil with the a great Block and Tackle, but they soon gave up their
rugby practice and got on with the job in hand which was to raise the Great
Anvil above Sir Raymond's outstretched feet.
As it landed on the Gallant Knight's toes, Great indeed was the Oath
that he bellowed forth. Among the
Tellers of Tales it is sung that even unto This Day there has been no such
Oath heard by the Ears of Men.
Except, of course, for one.
That was the Oath that Sir Brian emitted a few moments later, when,
after he was made to view Queen Formica while she was in the Bending
Position, the Ceremonial Japanese-sized condom was forced upon his Member. And
thus is was that the Oaths were administered and the Gallant Brothers set out
upon their Quest, to Find the Unguent that would bring Succour to the Aching
Rings of the Brotherhood of the Knights of the Kontiboard Table. Many
were the Adventures (plus Vat) that this Intrepid Pair encountered on their
Journeys in search of the Unguent of Relief.
They would meet Strange Beasts and even brave the assaults of Insurance
Salesmen, not to mention a Battle to the Death with the Great Harpic Beast of
Castle Ubend. But of that, more on
Another Day. WINDING through heavily forested
dales and over bleak raw moors, the road that lead from Camerot stretched
ahead of the Brave Pair. As they rode
along, borne by their faithful equine mounts, Maestro and Allegro, and clad
in their best armour, the rhythmic bouncing of the Knights in their
heavily-pommeled saddles led Sir Brian to remark, "my Arse
Hurteth." Sir Raymond, whose
Marks and Spencer best chain mail Nether-Garments were long overdue for
their Thousand Furlong Service,
added, "Aye, and my Hanging Parts do Ache like the Very Chaucer." Dickens, of course, was centuries yet
unborn. Coming upon a wayside
Service Station, the Two pulled up their Noble Mounts and Sir Brian called
out in a Great Voice, "Varlet, come thee here and Do us
Service." From within a voice
belonging to a certain Shortarsed Villein named William, but more commonly
known as Teapot, replied, "Art thou Illiterate as well as Ugly? Canst thou not read? Cast thine Eyes upon the Great Sign which
Standeth above thy Stupid Head. Doth
it not proclaim Self
Service?" Sir Brian bid Sir
Raymond tarry a moment, "Dear Brother, wait a short minute, I pray thee,
while I go in to Reason with yon Fellow." Dismounting, and drawing his Mighty two handed blade, he strode
within, and with one stroke parted the sorry little twat's head from his
shoulders. As
Sir Brian returned to his mount, sheathing his Mighty Weapon, for he had
found a Durex Machine within, he handed Sir Raymond a gourd of Best Chain
Mail Neat’s-foot Oil. "Ah,
Brother, I thank thee mightily", said Sir Raymond, opening a filler cap
in the Codpiece of his Armour and emptying the contents of the gourd therein,
to the Great Relief of his raw-chafed Parts, "How much do I Oweth Thee?" "Tis a Present, Dear Brother,"
replied Sir Brian with a chuckle, "from the Management of this
Establishment." Noticing the
quizzical look on his brother's Noble Brow, he added, "but there were
Naught Else worth the Taking."
Dear Reader, do not think that the Brothers were Scurvy Thieves, for
they were not, they were Noble Knights, Sworn to uphold Truth and Virtue,
Succour the Oppressed, and assist
Helpless Virgins etc., etc., in the best traditions of Chivalry. They were merely exercising their Ancient Right of Pillage and
Sockage, as had been Handed Down from Time Immemorial. In later days it would come to be known as
Value Added Tax. And
there we must leave the Noble Pair for the Nonce, but feareth thee not, more
of this Tale will follow. OUR two intrepid Heroes, mounted on
those Paragons of Equine Excellence, Maestro and Allegro, rode Far and Wide
across the Forests and Wastes of Wessex, but the Unguent of Relief was
nowhere to be found. Sir Brian was not in the best of
humours upon a certain morning, when, as he remarked, the rain pissethed down
with a malignancy not to be expected outside of Manchester, and Sir Raymond
was troubled with an Ominous Ache in the regions of the Arse, that suggested
further travel would be not of the most comfortable. On this Day, with their Spirits Flagging,
and the Quest of less immediate interest than the Question of procuring a
warm pallet for the night, with perchance the Company of a maid not totally
adverse to the Ancient Rite of Legoverus, that they chanced to meet the
Merchant who was to bring them both Adventure and Joy, The Good Merchant
Moishe. The
Manner of their Meeting was thus. As
they jolted and jostled down a dark, dank forest path, the sky obscured by an
arch of matted foliage overhead, which did a fine job of obscuring the
comforting Light and Heat of Sol, but for some malign reason, of its own, did
nothing to mitigate the steady downpour that was worming its way though every
chink and crevice in the Noble Brothers' Armour, they heard an urgent cry for
help from within the tangled herbage that bordered the lane, followed by,
"Get off, you Hun Bastards," and yet more Urgent cries for
assistance. Sir Raymond and Sir Brian
did not like the Huns. Indeed, they
were not a much-liked race, with few friends among any of the Kingdoms. The Huns,
followers of a shortarsed maniac, Hitler de Oneball, believed themselves to
be a Master Race, and to have the Divine Right to Subjugate and Conquer the
World. Their Way was to bring a
Mighty Army of black-armoured men to the border of some Kingdom, and then to
Demand Tribute and Vassalage from the King thereof, and to Grievously Sore Use
the People from that day on. Many
were the Kingdoms that had fallen Thrall to the evil Huns, but it was at
Camerot that they Finally found their Nemesis. It is a Tale sung in the Halls on dark winter nights, to cheer
the Company, of Heroic Doings and the Great Diplomacy of the Silver-tongued Sir
Winston, Greatest of the Men of the Brotherhood of the Kontiboard Table. The Tale goeth thus. The Huns, as was their Pernicious Wont,
assembled a Mighty Army of their most Evil Black-armoured Knights, upon the
very Borders of Camerot. Mighty and
Fearsome was the Hun Host, so all departed to another pub, but to continue
the Tale. It was an huge Army, its
encampments stretching across the broad Plain of the Marcher Land, thick with
the Evil Hun Warriors, and boasting Many and Mighty Engines of War. Intelligence was brought to Good King
Kontiboard, and whilst without he maintained a Kingly Demeanour, within he
secretly Shitteth Himself in fear at the approach of the Evil Emissaries of
the Hun. And come they would, within
a Day, lead by the Foul Gorballess, the Herald of Hitler de Oneball. Even as he Shitteth Himself, the good King
called on the Counsel of his loyal Clever Bugger, Merlin the Wise. "Fear thee not, Sire," Merlin
said in his best Calming Tones, "for there is One among us who is
Skilled beyond Measure in the Art of Diplomacy, and hath a Silver-Tongue which could charm even the
Most Cunning of the World." The
Good King bade Merlin summon this Paragon of Negotiational Skills. And so it was that the Great Sir Winston
was brought before the King. The Good
King spake (Kings often Spake when they were Not of a Mind to Quoth.) "Good Sir Winston, Even as I Spake
the Foul Gorballess, Herald of Hitler de Oneball approacheth, to make Base
Demands with Vile Menaces of Us. Wilt
thou Speak with him for Us?
"Aye Sire, and Gladly," replied the Good Knight, for
although he Knew Well the Way of the Huns, he had no love for Any Man of
them. "I Command thee,"
ordered Good King Kontiboard,
"exert thy every Cunning and let thy Words flow off thy Silver
Tongue like unto Music to Quieten the Evil Hun." No sooner
were these Words said than the Evil Gorballess swept in, in his vile black
Krupps armour, with his mean-featured Page bearing the Crooked Cross flag of
Hitler de Oneball. He spoke No Word
of Kind Greeting, but As a Lord Speaketh to a Vassal, he barked, "King Kontiboard, hear
me. Even now the Mighty Army of my
Master, the Only Leader, Hitler de Oneball, standeth poised upon thy Borders,
with Many Men of Superior Race, Standing at Arms, and Many and Mighty Engines
of War, ready to Lay Waste to thy Keep and thy Lands. Therefore, bow thee thy Knee before the
Crooked Cross of my Master, and Swear Thee True Allegiance to his New Order
of the World." At this, the
Brave Sir Winston Stepped Forth, and these Golden Words spilled from His
Silver Tongue. "Pisseth Thou
Off, and Come Ye Not Back. We are the
Men of Camerot, and Giveth We not one Flying Fuck for your Army or your
Engines of War. Come thou here, and
Every Man of Us, while we have but One Breath in our Bodies will Fight thee, and lay Such a Smiting
upon thy Army and thy 'Superior' Race, that the Minstrels shall Sing of it
for a Thousand Years. " And with
that, did not the Brave Sir Winston
wrest the Crooked Cross Flag from the hands of the Evil-featured Page,
and Thrust it into the Villein's Entrance of the Vile Gorballess with such a
Mighty Thrust that not even his Krupps Armour could save him? And Lo,
did he not Piss Off, and did not the entire Hun Host likewise Piss
Off? For, as the Brave Sir Winston
explained, this is the Only Manner of Speaking with the Huns. They understand Naught Else but the Boot
between the Cheeks. And then the
Clever Bugger Merlin Spake of a Dream he Dreamed. And All listened with attentive Ears, for Merlin was Gifted
with Prophecy as well as Wisdom. He
told how it would Come to Pass that Cowardly and Spineless Leaders would
again give their Peoples' lands to the Hun whenever he Threatened. But Again the Seed of the Brave Sir
Winston would Arise to Again tell them to Piss Off, and to Lay a Great
Smiting on them, such as would be told by the Tellers of Tales for as long as
Men walked the Earth. But to Come
Back to Our Intrepid Pair, and their First Meeting with the Good Merchant
Moishe. Sir Brian lead the way,
Jumping down from his Trusty Mount, and hacking a Path through the tangled
verdance in the Direction of the Cries for Help, with Sir Raymond following Hot on his Heels. In a Clearing, they came upon a Small
Fellow, Dressed in the Sombre Browns of a Merchant, whose Greatness of Nose
proclaimed him a member of the Wandering Tribe of Yiddrelites. He was surrounded by Blond Huns, Five in
Number, in their black armour, verily Kicking the Excreta Out of Him. "Hold, What Meaneth This?",
cried Sir Brian. "Prithee,
Peace, Good Sirs," answered the Leader of the Huns, a Tall Blonde
Man. "This is merely a Dirty
Yiddrelite, of the Tribe that the
True Leader, Hitler de Oneball has Told are the Scum of the Earth, and to be
Wiped off the Face Thereof. They are all
Cowards, and No Man may Suffer their Existence. We are Simply Kicking him to his Maker." "So Think You All?", enquired
Sir Raymond, and the Huns Answered with a Hearty Affirmative. This was in
no Mien a Good Answer, and did nothing for the Huns’ chances of Enjoying a
Comfortable Old Age in the Bosoms of their Families. For it should be told, though Sir Raymond
and Sir Brian were Fine Upstanding
Knights of the Brotherhood of the Knights of the Kontiboard Table,
they were also the Sons of Sir Peter the Rampant and his Lady, Jean the
Gorgeous. Jean the Gorgeous was
herself a Yiddrelite, of such Great Beauty and Charm that Sir Peter had
married her and allowed his Sons to be Reared in the Manner of the Yiddrelites,
even unto having their Dick Ends chopped off, a Rite known as Circumcision,
which is the Strange Way of that Wondering Tribe. The Brothers had heard of Anti-Semitism, and, on the
Whole, Liked it Not. In an Instant they were Upon the Huns,
within another Instant, three of those Teutons had been variously Run
Through, Disembowelled, Garrotted, Killed, not necessarily in that order, and
generally made to feel that they were Not having a Particularly Good
Day. The Leader of the Huns and One
of his Men, were now lying at the Sharp
Ends of the Brothers' Swords.
"I yield", cried the Hun at the end of Sir Brian's
blade. "No you don't", said
Sir Brian and was just about to despatch
him to his Valhalla, when Sir Raymond bade his Noble Brother,
"Hold, Killeth Him Not." At
this the Hun was mightily Relieved.
"Pray, why not, Good Brother," Sir Brian enquired. The Hun's relief was short-lived, and
indeed became a very Different Emotion as he heard Sir Raymond's reply. "Methinks it would be a Great
Injustice to Send him to His Maker an Uncircumcised Dog." At this time
the Good Merchant Moishe was heard from.
"Kind and Noble Sirs, I thank you for the Great Kindness that you
have Shown to a Poor Merchant. I will
be Ever in Your Debt, and your True Friend while I yet Breathe. But as to these Huns," and at this he
spat, " I have within my Saddle Bags some rope Which may serve to Bind
Them and a Blade both Rusty and Blunt, for which You may find Good
Use." "Good Master
Merchant, it is Our Pleasure and Welcome.
Great is the Joy we have In Cutting Down the Hun, for are we not also
of the Brotherhood of the Flangeless Member?
But Good Master, would you Do us the Service of Attending to the
Trimming of these Heroes' Appendages."
The Merchant had also heard of Anti-Semitism. "It will be a Real Pleasure," he
said in All Truth, "but not for Them," which Assertion proved
Equally Truthful. The details of what
followed are Not for the Squeamish, but when the Deed was Done, the Hun
Begged, "You can't Kill us Now, It wouldn't be sporting." The Gallant Brothers could hardly
Disagree with such a Sentiment as this, so they did give the Huns a five
minute head start before Hunting them To their Deaths. They also took the Precaution of first
cutting off the Teutons' feet. The Good
Merchant Moishe was overcome with Gratitude and bade the Brothers Join him in
a Night at Inn and Knockinge Shoppe in the Next Village, where he Lavished
Much Gold on the Brothers who took
such Great Advantage of the Facilities, that they were Shagged Out
beyond Redemption before the Next Morn had Dawned. |
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