Trappist Monks

I got home last night

7 Romanians and a horse on my doorstep. One of the Romanians was clutching a tatty piece of paper the others just stood round smoking cigarettes.

“Are you Stegzy Gnomepants? Great white hunter?” she asked
“Yes” I replied
“Greetings to you. I come from far away and have heard of you by reputation” she said in an enchanting eastern European accent to rival Ingrid Pitt.
“I see” I said “Would this be about the mines again?”
“Yes” she said gleefully”I have here a map showing the way to the fabled King Solomon’s Mines. I come here from the New Democratic Republic of Romania in hope that you will guide us through this dangerous and treacherous terrain”
I scoffed. Many a foreign traveller had approached me with maps for King Solomon’s lost diamond mines.
“Tis but a fake my dear” I dismissed
“Ah no!” she said “This is genuine. I took it from a dying Yorkshire man in Budapest. With his dying breath he told me to seek out the fortune”
“Well in that case it must be genuine. I thought you were going to say you bought the map from a gift shop in Whitby.”

I inspected the map. As luck would have it the map detailed a long forgotten footpath to the back of my house. The mine entrance roughly where my shed is.

We trekked for over 4 hours. It was getting dark. The native bearers were getting restless and soon rumours of curses and bad mojo had run through the expedition members. By half past seven we were down to 4 people and a hamster called Gerald. We hadn’t eaten since lunch so we set down and feasted upon Gerald. Gerald had little meat so our hunger was not quelled sufficiently. The group were about to get nasty. All of a sudden the security light switched on and we could at last see the shed door. Elated we hurried toward the door our thoughts of starvation to the back of our mind.

“Wait” cried the Romanian woman “What is this!”

We looked. Surrounding us was a group of native Yorkshiremen. Their semi-naked bodies adorned with decorations and tribal tattoos. Each one of them carrying a spear and shield.

“Hold!” I commanded the group “Make no further movement”

I approached the leader of the Yorkshire men. His blackened teeth grinned at me illuminated by the outside wall light.

“Ay up cock!” I said in fluent Yorkshirese
“Appen” he replied his accent thick like tar.
“We come from many yards away lookin’ f’fabled King Solomon’s Pit”
“Aye” he replied
“Does tha’ know wur tis?”
“Aye. O’thur” he pointed.

I followed the soot encrusted digit and sighted in the near distance a door I had passed on many occasion.

“It is here!” I cried
“What the fuck are you doing out there?!” came a distant voice. “The kitchen door’s wide open, you haven’t put the car away yet and your dinners gone cold!”

What witchcraftery was this? Voices from afar? Could this be some curare in my system causing me to experience auditory hallucinations? I looked round for the expedition. They too must have heard the voice and fled in fear. The burly Yorkshire Tribes man had melted into the thick undergrowth.

“Look at the state of your trousers!” the voice continued, a little closer to my ear.

I clutched my head and fell to my knees in terror. Cold rain drops cooled my head refreshingly.

“Get in you stupid twat. It’s nearly 8’o clock”

Something pulled my arm. I looked and there stood my wife. Face like thunder. Eyes like the fires of hell.

“Sorry” I said sheepishly and went inside to watch Ray Mears on BBC2.

Author: stegzy

Once, long ago, I wrote frequently on Livejournal. I then moved to Blogspot, where I discovered that blogging requires an audience. So I moved back to LJ. Then over to Dreamwidth, back to LJ, up the road of self hosting with Muckybadger before giving up entirely and moving over to Wordpress. It was at that moment I decided I would spread my compostual nonsense simultaneously across the blogosphere like some rancid margarine. And so here I am. I am a badger. But then I'm not really a badger. I am a human. With badger like tendencies. I am a writer, a film producer and a social commentator. I am available for Breakfast TV shows, documentaries and chats in the pub with journalists where I am more than qualified enough to talk confidently about absolute shite and bollocks.

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