Tales from the Lonely Tavern - Edition Three By King Rat - Professional Yorkshireman

Editorial

Behold ye listeners of the righteous truth, for day has passed to night and yester folly has turned to moro's squander. If rantin's of a non-commissioned exaggerator is what thou be wantin', then thou has arrived tat right place, the lonely tavern. Sanctuary, for all those of common purpose who refuse the outside world their pound 'o' flesh. Just sit self down and close the oak.

Ye olde pub chat

Tis edition be low on Pub chat as ar lass came o'er for thee's born-day jollyarities. But before thou begins tellin' all n' sundry that the Rat has lost precious drinkin' time to parley with his woman, think this, she hails yonder town near Pennines, a blunt lassie of West Yorkshire stock who'd drink many a seasoned sailor under table. So with Sat'day and the Sabbath at loss to tuther engagements it came down to some good olde weekday tankard-tippin'. That matters to say this night of antics would be tinged with sorrow, as a close friend of thee and younger siblin' passed away that same mornin'.

Bob the snake, a 9ft python, met his reptilious deity in absurdly violent means. In odds that defied the laws of the gods n' the sods, Bob was strangled to death by the remnants of his own dead skin. Now, a lot of thou heartless brigands will be laughin' with contempt at such an obscure demise, but I tell ye tis not a humorous tale to be passed round the campfires of thumbria and Cumbria, I would gladly barter many a ruffian's existence in this backwater town for the resurrection of that gentile serpent.

So for closures sake if thou frequent a pub sometime soon, please raise a pint for Bob, a python I once knew. On subject of animals and primal instincts, is it me or is every male width and breadth of this town got the ragin' rut. Wither it be time of year or cos moons in conjunction with Uranus (watch it!) I seem unable to shake off this burning desire to sow my somewhat stagnant seeds.

Within everyday circumstances, thee's able to keep this surge of deep desire in check with cold showers and folk music, but somethin's stirrin'. I blame change in the world's climate and the economic droop, ...... I hear leaches are good for that.

Crap Jest of t'week

If Kraftwerk happened to be a political band with right wing leanin's, would they be Nazi symphasizers!

Common-sense from the common man

No win, no fee, NO WIN, NO FEE! Rancid parasites sucklin' on the teats of decent folk sloggin' guts out f'wages ya be shamed to pay a lame pig. Thin lipped lawyers robbin' a kings ransom 'o' coin from the country's well-bein' like born again highwaymen. "Mrs Hobson claimed £12000 after a nasty fall at work", well if ye not be such a fat wench with ankles a prize porker be proud of, then you might not have such a buggered up centre 'o' gravity. Ya'see fellow Tykes, folk these days won't admit its them whose done wrong, without a reason nor cause it'll be someone else's. It's fair to say that thee, the King rat, is far from perfection himself. In fact the annals of written history clearly state the rat is the last madman on the Mary Celeste and a man who has more knowledge in cockin' things up than most.

Thy minstrel regaled all who'd lend an ear, a myth 'o' blunderin' fools in the kingdom of commerce.

As once appened in the year of our lord nineteen-ninety-eight, mucker and co-worker hired in one of the colonial's grub establishments nigh ended up dead or worse - unemployed. A curvaceous colleague of ours needed two stout lads for some lumpin' work. As none where about, me n' aforementioned fellow worker offered our services, in recompense we'd regain a faint sense of our long-departed dignity.

To cut a tale short, a couple of tugs later (steady), a broken gas pipe, the evacuation of a hundred people, and a £1000 piece of engineerin' beyond human repair, we were upto our necks in it. In our defence we're a couple of blatant idiots, but strangely enough that's not a government approved disability anymore. Believe thee readers and eavy breathers that were one lashin' I'll ne'er forget and that's for sure as rain in Manchester. Common man says "if you gonna face the chop, at least look the executioner in the eye, but always keep the knee raised just in case".

Ale of ye week

Black sheep best (%) - Black sheep brewery If an ale could be king of a country fair n strong, rule over a kingdom far n wide, His subjects love him for years long, then Black Sheep he would be, brewers pride This ladies n gentleman is one of many well-founded reasons why thee be drinkin' in the realm of ye rale ale. From small beginnin's of cautious youth, tresspassin' on paters ground, cometh Yuletide, first taste a' mucky beer (digressin' slightly).

We used to go campin' in earlier days with larger family in tow to Thorton-le-dale, south of sacred moors. In said village were two inns.

One, not a warm welcome to strangers, where a long standin' mucker of mine lost three English pounds in an automated sheath vendor. Tuther, a purveyor of the finest ale which has topped thee's roll of honour for seven whole years. Black sheep, of brewery splintered from Theakstons of Masham. A Rich, lingerin' sensation of flavour, long, strong, and a kick for the taste buds. Nothing more much be said, try one, then you'll know. Serving suggestion: Best gulped out of a Viking vassal made from bull horn while wearin' furs.

Coming up in Edition two - Give thou respite, ave not thought that far ahead yet.

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