It's taken me some time to come to terms with what happened whilst on vacancy in the Jolly Green Isle but, as Mozquito has it - "It's time the tale were told".
One evening I was stumbling back from a pre-pre-prandial along a deserted stretch of country lane when I came across a whole raftful of goats stuck up a tree. An amazing site and no mistake.
But this carried with it a rare old whiff of the paganicity - which is truly remarkable for a country of grand religious observance where they still make the intercessors run off with the 'housekeepers' after years of everyone knowing that the jig was well and truly up.
I happened upon a local in a ditch and asked him to outline to me the curious circumstances that led to goats being elevated thus.
"Tis the virgins!" he cried in alarm. "We put them she-goats up there for safe keeping away from those vigorously-energetic lads with the rising sap who...," and here he leaned closer in, his rank breath befouling my nostrils, and whispered, "...Who know not of womenfolk!"
I gave him five Irish Eurocents and went on my way, thinking that this practice must be established immediately around the globe.
I say this for it is my experience that the rising of the sap is an event of international occurrence.
It would be a disaster of epic-ish proportionery to end up with a worldwide race of goat-men, over whom the likes of Tallulah, Lady Jojojo, and Jools Hallam, and their crazed ilk would lord it up in their ruler's oufits of crowns and latex catsuits, using big sticks for the prodding.
Probably.
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