Gentlemen,

JRT,

Have I got a May Day story for you? Oh yeah - like today! You know how our lads are keyed up ready to go over to France? The Jerries seem to be massing along the Franco-Belgian border and the balloon could go up at any time. To alleviate the tension we agreed to join the festivities in the village and soon we are involved in a merry programme of Morris Dancing as we performed traditional dances like The British Grenadiers, Sheperd's Hey, Haste to the Wedding and one in particular that seemed most appropriate for what was about to happen - Lads-a-Bunchum.

We gyrated and pranced in a most delicate and sensuous manner in our flowing robes and skirts, laughing and posturing gaily...er...(what the hell am I saying?) until the time came for the Maypole Dancing. The girls took up position and set of in perfectly timed sequences around the lads while they stood still as required in the Grand Chair dance. The many coloured ribbons plaited around the pole but I noticed that something was going awry. As a spectator, not wishing to participate in this effemin...er...fertility rite, I was watching from outside the swirling group of maidens. I dashed forward to view the parchment on which were written the age old movements and sequences. Just as I thought...it had been tampered with...and I, with an ever growing feeling of unease, backed off still further and waited for the outcome.

By now, the lads had become hopelessly ribbon-bound to the maypole like a cluster of helpless flies cocooned in spider's silk! At that precise moment, a staff-car from Manston pulled up with a screech of smoking rubber and out jumped Olga wearing a malevolent grin (and it wouldn't be long before she was wearing little else) and proceeded to take her time in selecting one of the unfortunate young pilots. Eventually she cut free one of the new Pilot Officers, a handsome blonde-haired youth who was was carried off to a nearby hen-shed while the rest of us, conveniently ignoring the poor bugger's screams and protestations, quickly sloped off into the Lord Stiffshaft's Arms for several pints of Randy Dick's Fertility Mead.

As the moon came up, all was now quiet in the hen-shed but I was careful to tiptoe past with my two bottles of Vicar's Ruin while making my way towards the old hops store for a midnight tryst with Ophelia and Heddabord. No need to rush old pal...I'll save you a place.



'Find your enemy and shoot him down - everything else is unimportant.'

Manfred von Richtofen
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