Gordon Robinson | A knight’s tale

Gene Autry, the Beast and I each held one domino.

The Dunce held five-deuce; six-trey. He faced five and deuce with double-five; deuce-trey; and deuce-six ‘out’. He felt like a man on a foggy day in London. What to do? What to do? What to do?

With a defiant “If a macca mek it jook yu,” the Dunce killed his partner’s double-five and lost to Autry’s deuce-six. Even super-raconteur, domino novice, Haemorrhoid, was judgemental. He, who always complained about “piles and piles” of files on his desk, at least knew math. He accused the Dunce of counting trees (over-reading), while losing the forest (percentages).

Then he began another shaggy dog tale.

“On a dark and stormy night, three Knights, on a quest, came upon a great dank forest.

‘This isn’t good,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘Quest or no quest, let’s go to the pub and wait for someone to invent the railway.’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Invincible. ‘This place probably has spiders.’

Sir Boris of Tousled Hair dissented. “King Arthur said, ‘Cross the Great Dank Forest; vanquish monsters; bring me Princess Mammarae.’ We must go on.”

So, hearts in mouths and chain-mail underpants clenched between fearful buttocks, three trembling knights headed into darkness. What a night! Thunder; lightning; torrential rain! Portland weather! They soon had regrets.

Suddenly!

A huge, dark shape; a loud ROAR; a disgusting GURGLE; and thrashing in undergrowth. A shadowy monster took Boris’ horse, Buttercup.

Now on foot, Boris told his friends to go find shelter for the night and wait there. After more damp unpleasantness, Lancelot and Invincible spied a small cottage. Carved into the lintel was ‘Bugger Off’.

‘Very rude,’ observed Lancelot. ‘Let’s kick the door in.’

Meanwhile, a despondent, terrified Boris trudged from tree-trunk to tree-trunk. Trudge, quiver, trudge, quiver was Boris’ miserable lot, when something, very quietly, very gently, said, ‘Can I help you?’

Boris jumped several feet; tripped over his sword; got fingers stuck in his armoured kneecaps; and sat in the mud in disarray.

Out padded an enormous, ugly, six-foot-tall dog; a mixture of St Bernard, Fox Terrier and Great Dane. The drooling dog had misshapen teeth; bedraggled coat with chunks missing; mange; twigs and straw snagged all over.

In a word, shaggy. Are you with me?

Boris whimpered, ‘Don’t eat me. Wasn’t the horse enough?’ The dog said, ‘Fear not, Sir Boris. I’m a magic dog. I chased the monster away. Buttercup waits for you on the forest’s far side. I’ll take you there. I don’t eat people.’

So Boris, impressed by that last bit, followed the dog. The weather got worse. The dog said, ‘Climb on my back,’ so Boris did.

Remember the other two? Using ‘Secret Policeman’s Knock’ to beg shelter?

Before Lancelot could kick the door, it creaked open to reveal a small hovel. A scrawny man said, ‘Please enter my ’umble abode, kind Sirs, while I draw you a couple quarts of Old Fartz Bitter Ale.’

‘Sounds good to me,’ said Invincible

‘Hashtag MeToo,’ said Lancelot, ‘but shouldn’t we wait for Boris?’

‘We could’ve been at Dank Forest Entrance Pub, but he quoted Quest Love (oops, sorry, ‘Rules’); got us up to our whatsitnots in slimy bog; freezing and frightened. Sod him!”

Just after eleven when, by Law, all pubs must close, there came a pounding on the door. ‘Bugger off,’ screeched the landlord. ‘We’re shut!’

No entreaty moved him, so the dog butted the door down. Lancelot and Invincible awoke from drunken stupors; recognised Boris; and asked the landlord to let him in.

‘Just this once,’ conceded the landlord. ‘I wouldn’t want it said I turned a knight out on a dog like this.’”

DANGEROUS FOREST

Jamaica is wandering through a dangerous forest trying to shelter from a crime storm by “getting the guns,” using ineffective or failed means instead of stopping guns from reaching criminals through leaky borders and corrupt licensing regimes. Recent FLA cass-cass ( “You carrup’; no, YOU carrup’”) is pure distraction. FLA causes crime cancer to metastasise. Shut it down.

Military types prefer to burn the house down fighting fire with fire, and politicians prefer to spit in the wind with populist prescriptions like harsher sentences. That puts horse before Knight. First convict. Then sentence.

On this dark and stormy night in Jamaica’s history, we must navigate gun crime’s dank forest. In looking for shelter from that storm, we shouldn’t turn even a dog’s option away on a night like this.

Peace and Love!

Gordon Robinson is an attorney-at-law. Email feedback to columns@gleanerjm.com.