Cat-astrophe strikes the Ladies Dart Match
Cat-astrophe strikes the Ladies Dart Match
On reflection it was not Boris's fault it was Pier's! Boris had assumed his usual Saloon Bar position, curled under my chair, as the triumphant members of the Chumley Martin Cricket Team discussed, and, dare I say it, celebrated in time honoured fashion, our monumental win over our arch rivals - Studley Regis.
Yes, on Sunday, we struck a blow (or should that be batted an innings?) for the honour of the village, and blew away the opposition! Well, actually, we won by two runs, but that is by the by!
Anyhow, I digress, there we were, last night, in fine spirits (well, George, the long suffering Landlord had dug out a particularly fine Malt to celebrate) when Piers announced he needed to visit the Lav, stood up and consequently stepped full square on the slumbering Boris's tail! Well, pandemonium ensued! Boris leapt to his feet as if blasted by a 12 bore, howling with pain. It was at this moment that the evening took a most unfortunate twist......
At the exact moment of Boris's rude awakening, who should saunter in to the bar but Stalin, the resident mog of the Cat and Custard Pot. Boris, espied said feline, and assumed, in his dim, but lovely Labrador brain, that Stalin was the cause of his pain and considerable discomfort and took off like a bull after a herd of in heat heifers after his supposed tormentor baying for blood!
Stalin, as would be expected, did not want to dally with a large over-weight black Lab determined to take all of his remaining 9 lives in one swoop, so was off across the bar as if his life depended on it (which in truth it probably did)!
Now, I suppose, I should already have mentioned the Ladies Darts Match that was underway between our very own Cat & Custard Pot team and that from The Spotted Cow from Dimly cum Hardly. Anyhow, for reasons best known to himself, Stalin decided the safest place would be on the head of the Dimly cum Hardly Ladies Captain, who just happens to be their vicar as well. The Reverend, dressed in a very becoming halter-topped summer dress span around shrieking from having a rather large Tabby suddenly appear on her head. Boris decided there is no such thing as sacred sanctuary and launched himself at Stalin. He managed to place both paws on the Vicar's shoulders, but then fell back. This had two direct repercussions.
1. Stalin then took a bid for freedom and sailed out the nearest window and was last seen heading for Studley Regis with Boris not far behind.
2. The Reverend's halter-top straps, not designed for withstanding 6 odd stone of black Labrador hanging from them, parted company with the frock. The dress, now not held up by anything more than a wing, and, most probably, a hasty prayer, descended to the floor of the Saloon Bar.
You could have heard a pin drop! It must be said it is very unusual to find one of the local vicars standing in any of the local hostelries in black Janet Raeger underwear (well, as far as we know) but we all stood frozen and open- mouthed. Molly, the barmaid, was the first to spring into action, and rushed from the kitchen with a large towel and covered the Vicar's embarrassment, and I must say what a lovely embarrassment she had.
The evening probably then would have gotten back to normal, but I just couldn't resist a little jape. I turned to the cricket team members and said, probably, as it seems, a little loudly, that it was the first time in living memory one of the local clergy had been "de-frocked".
To say relations with the visiting Ladies Darts Team were a little frosty after that would be a vast understatement, but such is life in the country.
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