A cowboy came calling, John Wayne was his name.

He brought with him General Custer, whom he’d played in a film,
about brave deeds in the Old West.

‘Wait a minute, general,’ I said, ‘didn’t you die at The Battle of Little Big Horn, in 1876?’

But his agent said, ‘That was a conspiracy started by those native Indians,
the Oglala Sioux, represented by the great grandson of Chief Crazy Horse,
who claimed a decisive victory over General Armstrong Custer,
that much lauded soldier and American hero.’

‘We are contemplating legal action.’

I couldn’t help but comment, ‘So you’re gonna sue the Sioux?’

I’m now in considerable pain after going to a
fancy dress party dressed as Chief Crazy Horse,
where I received a kick up the ass, from John Wayne,
who didn’t like being reminded of that pesky Injun.

‘Nobody likes to be reminded of their mistakes,’
I thought, massaging my sore buttock.

Over in England tourists flock to Buckingham Palace
for a glimpse of the Royal Family, who still wave at the faithful,
trying to forget about a son who’d gone to America,
after falling foul of unofficial protocol.

Rumour has it he’s writing another book.

Meanwhile, according to a press release, old soldiers are living
in his palatial home while he sleeps in an Indian tipi in the
wild reaches of Montana, where discredited historians still
claim the Indians won a great victory, on the slopes they called Greasy Grass.

You know, where Hollywood said Custer had his last stand?

So hold the front page!

However, US schools won’t teach about an American defeat,
but you can hear the facts told in song by Prancing Pony, an old Indian sage,
who told a watching reporter, dressed in a fake buffalo-skin coat,
that the former royal is his biggest fan.

The latter, emerging from under his ethnic canopy,
was amazed to see John Wayne.

‘Hello, did you come by Stagecoach?’ he asked, in an attempt at humour.

‘Oh, that was my first cowboy movie,’ Big John answered with a grin, ‘no,
by private jet – I’ve come to join you,’ he declared, ‘in this new world of reality TV.’

‘You and your wife seem to be struggling at it though,’ he said,
the wind tearing at his Stetson hat.

Then the woman herself emerged, dressed down in a 1,000-dollar skirt,
and asked, ‘Any chance of a bath?’

‘No sweetheart, we’ve gone native.’

She tried to look cheerful, but said, ‘Oh well, we need the money,
and I’ve a good physique, so I’ll have to lump it and bathe in the river.

‘By the way, where’s the TV camera?’