Deep in the deepest, darkest, heart of the Little Frigging Woods is one of the oldest still living trees in the area. Consequently, over the years – before Christianity came along and spoilt it – this ancient tree and its immediate environs became the scene for many a pagan holy rite. As they knew how to do the religion business properly in those far of days of yore (and mine), it was the scene of many, many naughty goings-on and situations of extreme moistness in the very epitome of bacchanalian extravagance not seen again on these shores until the drug-fuelled groupie extravaganzas of 1970s heavy rock bands.
Many of these deeply religious and heavily symbolic going on are lost to us now, of course, only remaining deep within folk memory and that sort of vague comprehension that Jung called the collective unconscious and the rest of us call feeling a bit spooky. This is that sort of vague feeling of something stirring in the undergrowth that you get when you venture deep into the woods with a comely young lady. A sense that you hope she will soon feel a third presence rising between you, that she should grasp firmly in both hands before taking it deeper into her bush. Consequently, then taking you both to that higher plane of wisdom, knowledge and spiritual understanding that comes from a jolly good shag*.
*I am – of course – using the word ‘shag’ here in its old pagan religious sense, and not the more modern debased sense. There are some similarities of meaning, but the older religious sense involved a lot more movement in the elbows and fuller utilisation of the left knee while rotating the sex spatulas in a slightly more widdershins direction.
Oh, and a badger, too, of course.
Yours perversely: Norbert Trouser-Quandary