Of giving and receiving
Published: December 24, 2022
The monotonous return of the season of giving and receiving — corporate and business entities aside; they have engineered the giving and taking to go in the same direction… theirs! — reminds me of the time I was Robin Hood. When I say ‘I was R.H.’ I mean when I stood in for Robin Hood in his Sherwood Forest Heyday.
It happened that I was down at the Nottingham labour exchange filling in my dole form when the Fat Bastard — not the fat Yellow Bastard Dumpty Trumpty — Fat Fryer Truck poked his head in the shack to ask for a refill on some Lincoln Green leotards. Now, quite proudly, I admit to having nice legs — they are shapely and nicely well-defined below the knee — and when I flashed them at the fat bastard he said… “You’ll do!”
It seemed that Robin had got himself a hernia and, having just met a fair maiden whose name escapes me for the moment, he was hoping to present himself at his best to his adoring adorationists; something he didn’t quite feel good about with his hernia poking out through his forest-dweller rigging.
If I say that I think I made a good Robin Hood replacement I mean that superficially. I looked downright dashing, I did, I thought, and I also thought I had a grip on the business, too. But, as always, my level of operation also tends to be… superficial, at best; a bit shallow; not too deep. It seemed simple enough: steal from the rich and give to the poor. I loved the idea and went straight to work. So…
Here comes the carriage to Nottingham along the forest road. Clippity Clop Clippity Clop, rumble rumble.
Me: “Bail up, driver or I’ll have your eye out with me pig-sticker.”
Brakes applied, coach halts.
“You, the fat rich constable in the back, give me all your dough and stuff.”
He hands it over.
“You, coachman, are you comfortably well off?”
“Nah. I’m firkin broke, dude. I’m living off the meagre tips of nose pickings I get from these tight-arsed posh lumps and I have to eat horse shit for breakfast and dinner.
“Right. Here. Have this money.”
“Whee….! I’m rich.”
“Excellent… Hey, (to the passenger who was now blubbering like a seal getting eaten by a shark) … what’s the matter with you?”
“I’ve lost all my money and jewellery; now I’m poor.”
“Right. Hey You! The rich constable up the front. Give me all your dough and jools or I will give you a Chinese burn on each arm!”
“Ahh, bother! Back to eating horse shit.”
Well, this went back and forth for some time till fellow forestry-based social worker, Good Will Huntingdon, stepped in and pointed out — with the aid of a portable bit of forest across the back of my head — that it’s best to divvy the loot among a number of poor folk; a small amoumt to many, which was how the system seemed to work better.
And I agreed that sounded like a reasonable suggestion. However, when I got control of the loot again and started to identify poor folk who might be worthy recipients I remembered that I, too, was poor. But, on my way to cash converters with the gold and jools I was interrupted again by Good Fukn Will Huntingdon and another of his pieces of portable forest. Bash!
Guinevere. That’s who it was. No, Hang on a minute. Maid Marion; that’s the woman in question. Cracker of a bird; love to have a shot on her meself.
Anyhow, when I regained consciousness I saw that I was back at camp, de-mobbed and being given the push. Robin Hood was back in charge. Turns out the hernia wasn’t as serious as it first appeared. The Lincoln green lads, living in the forest for so long, don’t often come in close contact with members of the opposite sex and Robin, having got the grope (tops and tails) on one of the more appealing versions of the opposite gender — the aforesaid Maid of Marion and Surrounding Localities — for the first time since puberty had cracked a pioneer stiffy which stood up like a Morris Minor handbrake and was misinterpreted as an lethal hernia. A visit to the hospital and an encounter with a cold spoon had smartly set the whole thing to rights.
As for R.H., that is: Me … I’m back on the dole queue. Broke, but still got nice legs, though, even without the leotards. So if anyone feels like giving I feel like receiving.
Happy Christmas.