By Geir Madland
Now, I don’t hold much with writing, though some of what those broadhseets have said about me over the years hasn’t done my reputatiion any harm, I’ll grant ye.
I, Richard Turpin, have been invited to pen a blarg by Mistress Cordelia, or at least I think that’s what she called it: a few lines to describe my exploits today.
Me and the whippersnappers have been rehearsing, see, for our forthcoming spectacular, An Honest Gentleman, and no, that ain’t me, right enough. That’s the title bestowed on young Thomas Easter of Aylsham, pretender to my crown when it comes to highway robbery and the like.
So, I thought it might be well advised to learn him a few lessons in fighting, show him who’s boss, if you get my meaning, and we sought the assistance of one Paul Stimpson at some great concrete jungle on the outskirts of Norwich, what they call ‘Ewe-ee-ay’.
Now Stimpson’s your man when it comes to fighting, or at least what passes for fighting in these parts. But that’s the clever bit – we weren’t really fighting. If we had been, the youngster wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. No, it were playfighting, but right convincing, mind. We was slashing and stabbing with the knife, throwing punches and kicks, and making it all so very lifelike as her Ladyship, Miss Temperance, never suspected ought.
And neither will you when you pays your money and comes along to see the show. I won’t spoil it for you but Easter hangs, just so’s you know, but only after a good deal of larks and japes, derring-do and luvvy-duvvy stuff, songs to stir the spirit and bring a tear to the eye, even if Tim plays the right notes. Which he will, or my name’s not Dick Turpin.