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SPORTING SHOOTER - OCTOBER

The Man who told me this story swears that it is true – who are we to disbelieve him? But I warn you that this tale plumbs the depths of urban depravity.

The Man was spending a dreary evening alone in a dreary pub in Nottingham. At the next table were two ‘Working Ladies’. They were discussing their clients in a free and easy way, so that the Man had no trouble earwigging. One Lady had a ‘regular’. It seemed that he was an elderly gent of ‘straight habits’ and somewhat limited stamina. His one foible was a predilection for wearing women’s’ knickers – this was long before footballers adopted the habit. One day the old gent was late, which was unusual and was wearing male Y-fronts – even more unusual. His explanation for both was more than usually unusual.

It was thus – The old gent lived, alone, in a part of the City where there were large houses with large gardens. He was changing for his ‘business meeting’ when he happened to look out of his dressing room window and saw his neighbour, two houses away addressing an unusual urban pheasant with an unusual (for urban Nottingham) right and left from his 12 bore. The bird was winged but carried on before crashing in the old gent’s garden and doing a runner into the shrubbery. The old gent was of a sporting bent and not one to miss a sporting opportunity. In spite of the fact that he was dressed only in a pair of lace-trimmed cami-knickers, he rushed downstairs and pulled on his wellies. Thus attired he went out into his garden, crawled into the bushes where he found the stricken bird and neatly pulled it. At this moment he heard the click of the garden gate and saw the Post Lady walking up the path. For fairly obvious reasons, he chose to conceal himself by crouching in the bushes with the deceased pheasant clasped to his… well, his anatomy. When the coast was clear and he made his way back to the house, he discovered that his lovely knickers were covered in mud, blood and feathers. With no replacement available, he was reluctantly forced to put on a pair of ordinary male Y-fronts. This explained both his tardy arrival and unusual mode of dress, for both of which he apologised profusely. The Working Lady was not in the least put out – in her line of work, she had learned to expect the unexpected. Besides, as she told her colleague, the old gent had promised to make the bird oven ready, after it had been hung properly and make her a present of it – all she had to do was stuff it and that, after all, was something that she was skilled at, in her line of business.

Should I ever have to go to Nottingham (not a thought I savour) I shall be able to look on it in quite a different light.

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