Do Virgins taste better?By our reporter who can't play the virginals, Denim Sue
Widespread alarm in Welsh Village
dragon descended upon the small Welsh village of Llanddofurffaddas yesterday, threatening to burn the villagers out of their homes, steal their crops and incinerate their sheep. A meeting was hastily convened on the outskirts of the hamlet, for fear that stray sparks might well lead to a premature conflagration.
Walking towards the dragon, Jones the Law, Chairman
of the Parish Council, said to Jones the Learning, the Parish Clerk,
who had reluctantly agreed to accompany him to the meeting, "Couldn't
we gather a force to defend the village from this fiery monster?"
After a lengthy discussion, during the course of which the dragon suggested a variety of alternatives, the two burghers finally came to an agreement with the monster. It would not steal their crops and livestock or burn the village to the ground in return for being allowed to drop in twice a year and invite a virgin to lunch.
Reaction to the agreement was varied when Jones the
Learning broke the news to the assembled villagers in the local pub
— 'The Wizened Sheep Fancier'. "We
really had no choice," he blustered defensively. "As none
of you spineless buggers would help us, we had to agree to the dragon's
demands, isn't it?"
led Jones the Coal to remark derisively: "He's been reading too
many fairy stories." Jones the Learning, who was something of a
philosopher, reflected that nobody could do anything about it anyway.
He then began to speculate on the dragon's insistence on virgins. "Do
they taste better?" he mused, "saltier, sweeter, more juicy,
perhaps? And does he savour them slowly or swallow them whole?"
As I was now on my third pint of 'Sheep Fancier's Woolly Willie Warmer', I rather lost track of who was who, especially after Jones the Organ sat on my lap. Fortunately I was wearing stout, woollen bloomers at the time and hardly felt a thing. The conversation continued around me while I fended off the attentions of the nimble-fingered keyboard player.
"There's no way we can get rid of him,"
complained Jones the Death. "His thick scales make him virtually
invulnerable. Best give the beastie the virgins, isn't it?"
"If he ate enough virgins he may become too
fat to fly, that would make it a bit easier, wouldn't it?" proffered
Jones the...Jones the — well another Jones anyway.
Leaving the bounds of the alcohol purveying establishment, swaying only slightly, I came across three charming young ladies from the village. One of the trio, whom I shall refer to as Cerys Jones, although her real name may be Raglan Jones, gabbled something garrulously in Welsh, which was roughly translated into passable English by her sister, whom I shall refer to as Morfydd Jones, although her real name may very well be Megan Jones. "I'm dead scared of dragons," said Cerys with a shudder. "You would be too if you were still a virgin round here. Being eaten out by Jones the Organ is one thing, providing lunch for a bloody great, fire-breathing dragon is quite another, isn't it?"
"We're not naive, you know," added Megan, whose real name may be Morfydd — or possibly Cerys. "We've all heard the dirty songs and seen those filems with explicit scenes in them, isn't it? I've even played shepherd and milkmaid with some of the boys. Oh, and I know all about those women with their vibratin' pink toy jackrabbits, thank you very much."
At this point Cerys and Morfydd's other sister, whom
I shall refer to as Megan Jones, although she is almost certainly called
Cerys Jones, took over the translation.
Cerys, Morfydd and Megan (who of course are really Megan, Morfydd and Cerys) are all the daughters of Jones the Something-or-other.
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