Cleavies Fish Counter #22
Happy Easter fish-heads, if that’s not too much of a contradiction of terms. Sorry not to have troubled you about the price of fish for a week or two, but I took boy George [not Boy George] and boy Jakes skiing for the former’s 21st. When I say skiing, that’s what they did. I came down the mountain more like a cross between a three toed arctic tree sloth and a glacier, and all the more dangerous for it. Still, no broken bones, and back in Port Isaac ready for Easter.
We’ve probably all but forgotten it’s true meaning, or so we’re told. Just like dear old Christmas when, lest we forget, we celebrate the day when the baby Jesus came down somebody’s chimney, at Easter we simply stuff ourselves with chocolate and tell jokes like the ones that end with the punchline ‘I can see your house from here’, or ‘What a bloody way to spend Easter’. Don’t ask, but they raise an annual titter for those of us with nothing newer to tell.
They were, of course, far more religious a thousand or so years ago, and naughty jokes like those would have had you horribly tortured with spiky bits of metal and molten lead and the like, and your entire village burnt to the ground and your family massacred. And just to make it worst, this would be done in front of others for public entertainment. Well, I don’t know about you fish-heads, but think of the humiliation, eh? That would probably have done for me, way before the debilitating effects of being hung, drawn and quartered took full effect, ‘The molten lead up the jacksie was pretty bad, but the embarrassment….can you imagine how I felt?’
With all these lurid images of medieval justice flitting in and out of my mind that we descended a couple of weeks ago on Hastings. It has apparently not rained in Hastings since William the Bastard [a much better epithet than ‘the Conqueror’ don’t you think?] stuffed it up poor old Harold the second, who was tired out anyway after a fortnight’s walking up in the northern hills.
Now, you may be asking yourselves that as William was from Normandy in what is now France, why history does not remember him as William the French Bastard? Well, of course apart from the fact that it might upset that oversensitive malignant dwarf Sarcozy, William and the Normans were of Norse origin.
Somehow, it’s all rather soothing to reflect that the French have never conquered us. Isn’t it re-assuring that our ancestors were butchered by psychopaths of Viking origin, not French ones? It helps me sleep at night, I can tell you
Anyway, Hastings is drier than the Atacama desert, and al fresco local events are de rigeur, my dears.
So how come it p****d down on the night, eh?
We had a cracking night there though, and a lovely crowd of music lovers came along and joined in the fun. We’d brought a nice bucket of the finest Cornish water [not the Camelford stuff, obviously] to auction off, just to try and make a bit extra from the trip, but it got watered down with the rain and we had to give up on the idea. Another time maybe.
So, happy Easter to all you fish-heads. Stuff your faces with choccy, have a nice roast lamb dinner with your folks, and try not to run over too many bunnies in your four by twos or whatever they’re called.
The Warbling Walrus of lurve.