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Amock Comedy Compendium

THE VILLAGE IDIOT
Taint easy being a village idiot, specially if one’s
not as foolish as one hopes others think you are.
It’s a constant battle of wits, really. Me trying to
convince them others that I really am as stupid
It was that what started me thinking, especially
when so many of the menfolk came back with
busted heads and broken legs, that it couldn’t be
that bad
being a village idiot. Now,
as they think I am. One slip
could betray me, one
shred of common sense
could be my undoing.
So, how is it, you may ask,
that a fellow like myself,
don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t
no coward, but I knew that
winning the Barley Wars
(which we did) would do the
good people of Throville no
good at all, so why did we
who can read and write and
even count past 100, comes
to be the official village idiot
of the fine hamlet of
Throville? Well, there’s a
tale, you see, and I’ll tell thee
too, if you promises to keep it
fight for the Baron to raise
his taxes that way. Give
me a cause and I’ll fight, I
thought to myself, but
I’m dammt if I’m going
to put my neck on the
line so’s the Baron can
quiet.
It happened like this, see. I
were around 11 years old and
as
sup rich wine in his
castle.
And while the men were in the fields, the sweat
glistening on their backs, and the women were
aspinning or kneading dough and suchlike, Old
Codger would be down by the pond, playing with
the ducks. It seemed like a fine life to me and I
smart a lad as could be found round the
Fenlands. The village idiot then was Old Codger
and he were a legend. No-one could match him
for falling over his own two feet or forgetting an
errand between the big barn and the well, a
distance of only 12 yards, let me tell you. We
young uns used to have a fine old time, following
him around and shouting abuse at him. It
weren’t with no ill will, for we loved him really,
and he took it with a wide grin and a shrug of his
decided I should like to be a village idiot and live
a life of ease and luxury, that’s how smart I was.
Course, it weren’t easy. Up till then I’d been
regarded by all as quite the scholar and now I
had to find a way to convince my kinfolks I was a
dimwit. I did it by accidentally falling down the
shoulders.
He never wanted, did Old Codger, not for a roof
over his head or a bite to eat and when the
Barley Wars came and all the men had to march
off to help Baron Ilsley, Old Codger wasn’t in the
vanguard. No, nor in the rearguard neither. He
well, or rather staging a fall down the well. I
gave myself a few cuts, bruises and scrapes
before I went down, especially on my poor old
head, but when I came up, rescued by Arfie the
Alchemist, my wits had totally deserted me. I
was, I am proud to say, as daft as a brush.
After that it was only a case of remembering to
was tucked up, happy as a horsefly, in the barn
and eating buttered bannocks.
act as foolishly as possible at any and every
 
 
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