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The Storyteller and his visit to Longworth Castle
The Storyteller was feeling very tired. His long red coat was billowing out behind him and he had had to tie his bright yellow hat firmly to his head with a rather fetching flowery ribbon he had found lurking in the bottom of his deep, deep pockets (amongst other weird and wonderful objects into which we shall not plunge just at this moment). His crooked glasses bumped up and down on the end of his, somewhat purple by now, bobbly nose and his curly grey hair was plastered to his forehead. His legs pedalled furiously up the 56th hill (he had counted them all, oh how he had counted them!) and as he got to the top he stopped. There in front of him lay Longworth Castle in all its glory.
"At last," he wheezed as his bobbly nose slowly resumed its normal colour, "just a downhill glide and I will be there!" He lifted his feet off the pedals, leant forward over the handlebars and set off bumpily down the hill.
He had seen the advert in the local paper. "JOUSTING TOURNAMENT AT LONGWORTH CASTLE DAILY - NOT TO BE MISSED!"
After his adventures at the Tower of London, the Storyteller fancied himself as somewhat of an expert on all things medieval and legendary, and arranged to meet a fellow storyteller, Jack Line, at the Castle on the following Friday.
At the bottom of the hill the Storyteller came to a halt and wheeled his bicycle into the Car Park. The Car Park was almost full but he spotted Jack Line's blue and white Vespa over in the corner and made his way over. After leaning his bicycle against the fence he looked round for Jack. No sign. The Storyteller undid the fetching flowery ribbon from underneath his chin, stuffed it back into his deep, deep pocket and scratched his head. Then he heard the sound of bells from the corner of the car park. He wandered over and there, sitting on the ground was Jack, freshly returned from Glastonbury Festival, with bells hanging off every pointy bit of his body and laughing fit to burst (which was what was making the bells tinkle you see).
"It's OK, Storyteller," bellowed the bell-bedecked Jack. "Picked up these bells from a passing hippy at Glastonbury don't you know and thought it would be a jolly jape to hang them all over me before we met!"
The Storyteller, a little concerned that Jack might be intending to wear the bells throughout the day, grinned nervously and shifted from foot to foot.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, I'll take them off now then and we can get going", burbled Jack and, in a bit of a huff it has to be said, started removing the bells.
Unfortunately the noise of all those bells being pulled rather stroppily off all Jack's pointy bits attracted a curious crowd of cows over to the fence, followed by a fat and furious bull who was extremely annoyed at having his peaceful family morning disturbed. The fat and furious bull picked up pace and launched himself at the fence. The last bells flew off Jack as he and the Storyteller rushed rapidly from the spot and presented themselves at the ticket kiosk not a little out of breath. (The bull, by the way, calmed down quite quickly and went back to his peaceful family morning chatting to all the cows in the herd and playing with his children).
Having paid their entrance fee, Jack and the Storyteller wandered up the drive to the castle. It really was something. As wide as it was tall with lots of turrets and towers dotted around the top. People were coming and going out of the massive grey metal door set bang in the middle of the castle but, when the pair got closer and looked more carefully these people were not walking calmly and interestedly through the door, they were running in and out shouting and calling for help.
The pair hurried over and asked a rather shaky looking lady of a certain age what was going on.
"It's one of the jousters", she trembled. "Someone has locked him into a suit of armour half-way up the stairs and he can't get out."
Jack and the Storyteller ran in through the door and up the stairs. They had to push their way through the panicking pack of jousters, in various stages of getting dressed for their display, getting lances and swords poked into their soft bits as they went.
By the time they got to the suit of armour containing Sir Logbottom, (stage name of Frank Futtlenose) the jouster concerned, the suit was rocking frantically back and forth and muffled screams could be heard from within.
"IT WON'T OPEN!!! IT BLOOMING WELL WON'T OPEN", shrieked a large, red-faced young man dressed in a Nike sweatshirt and tights (??!!) and waving a black banner with "Jousting is just the best" written on it in shocking pink (even more ???!!!).
The Storyteller went to a corner of the stairs and sat down quietly. He thought, he thought again and then he thought once more. Jack came over and asked what he thought he was doing.
"I'm thinking", muttered the Storyteller, "I am thinking of a cunning plan which will save the day!"
Jack thought that this might be a bit dramatic, but hey, we are talking The Storyteller here after all!
Suddenly the Storyteller leaped up, grabbed Jack by one of his pointy bits, rushed over to the suit of armour and tried desperately to pick it up. Jack took one end and the Storyteller took the other but it just was too heavy (Sir Logbottom, it has to be said, was not a small man - in either direction if you get my drift!)
Eventually the large red-faced young man (you know, the one in the Nike sweatshirt and tights with the banner) got in the middle and heaved heavily. He had no idea why he was doing this but was the sort of person to muck in where necessary so he did (muck in I mean).
The Storyteller guided the procession down the stairs and out of the massive grey metal door and started to run towards the car park.
People began to mutter and mumble. The muffled screams from inside the suit of armour got more and more desperate. If the Storyteller had had the time he would, of course, have explained his cunning plan but, let's face it time was too important to waste.
They reached the car-park, the rest of the jousters puffing along behind (well it quite takes your breath away if you have to jog along behind two Storytellers and a large, red-faced young man carrying a suit of armour containing Sir Logbottom you know, especially if you are having to mutter and mumble at the same time).
The Storyteller led the procession to the corner of the Car-Park where the bells were still lying on the ground. They hefted the suit of armour over the fence into the field. They hung the bells all over the suit of armour and started to rock it back and forth. The Storyteller sat on the fence and started to tell a tale in a very, very, loud voice. The tale was a tale which was guaranteed to enrage the bull, The sound of the bells clinking and clanking against the suit of armour enraged him even more.
A couple of the cows with their calves came over and sat down to listen (the Storyteller really is VERY good you know) and this just about finished the bull off.
He pranced and he pounced, his short fat legs were trampling the ground like pistons. His hot angry breath burst from his nose like steam from ten thousand boiling kettles. He hunched and he punched and, quite frankly, made himself look a bit silly - but there you go.
Finally he launched himself towards Sir Logbottom, he hurtled across the field at a speed somewhere near the speed of light (or so it seemed to the onlookers) and smashed his horns into the suit of armour, punching great holes in the thick metal. He retreated and came again (Jack and the large red-faced young man had, on the instructions of the Storyeller, turned Sir Logbottom round 45 degrees). So it went on until the suit of armour was nothing more than a sieve - more holes than armour and all the bells had been whipped off in the attack.
The Storyteller, finished the tale and climbed down off the fence. They lifted Sir Logbottom over the fence and, with a handy pair of pliers provided by Sir Haybucket (in real life Patrick Pootle, car mechanic) cut him free from the remaining metal.
The bull, by this time, was flat out on the ground, four short fat legs in the air, thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, he should be looking into some kind of Anger Management Course as all this bellowing and blowing and rushing hither and thither, was really not doing him any good at all.
So all ended happily. The Storyteller and Jack Line were carried on the jousters' shoulders back to the Castle, were allowed to have a go at the jousting, shared the jousters' picnic of pork pies and pickled onion crisps and even got a free trip round the castle itself.
"A day well spent", sighed the Storyteller as he tied his hat on again ready for the ride home.
Jack thought about saying something along the lines of "We should do it again some time.........", then thought a bit more and decided not to!
(Oh, by the way, the tale the Storyteller told in a VERY loud voice, whilst sitting on the fence, was that of Ferdinand. A tale that any red-blooded bull would find shameful and shocking of course - even if the rest of us just love it to bits!!!)