Oh Beatrice, why did I love you with such a passion?

A naive kid, I dogged your every step, in our quaint village
of Much-Merrilly.

Possessed of a mean right fist, the lads nicknamed you ‘Bashing’,
and I, a good runner, was called ‘Dashing’ Dan.

I became your willing partner, stealing apples from that old fossil, the 10th Earl of Littlegrace, disappearing to our hidey hole in that huge, ancient tree, ‘Old Oakey’. 

We even made The Berkshire Bugle, for disturbing an angling competition,
then running off with the fish.

When PC Dick Bidcote-Burage let us off, rumours abounded of an illicit liaison.
I refused to believe them, until I saw you, clad only in a policeman’s helmet,
in his little police station.

So, one night I followed you both to Luigi’s Pasta Parlour,
a false beard dipping into my spaghetti bolognese.

Alas, I was unable to hide from Beatrice’s scathing attack,
‘You follow me everywhere, once nearly getting trampled by an elephant at the circus,
when, to impress me, you tried to do a triple back somersault on the trapeze.

‘I only put up with it to get off with your brother, who was chased by all the girls.

‘Always showing me his cuddly dolls, I should have realised he batted for a
different team.

‘What an embarrassment for the village, when he became the
first Premiership footballer to come out.’

My sarcastic comment, ‘So that was a waste of your charm,’
saw me covered in a steaming dish of Stromboli.

Then I met the cop walking his beat with a hangdog face, sobbing,
‘She’s now after the 11th earl.’

But he let slip that the latter had a horse running at Cheltenham,
called Dashing Dan.

So, I put a fiver on him.

After celebrating too much, I walked into a punch from angling champion,
‘Fishy’ Frederick, which he claimed was for spoiling his chances in
the County Cup in that notorious teenage prank.

Lying in my hospital bed I remembered Julie, always following
in Beatrice’s shadow.

She’d always tried to catch my eye, despite being such a shy girl,
tramping over hills, once tramped by Roman legions, a historical nerd, 
often delivering a lecture on former military settlements,
in between solving mathematical puzzles.

This unobtrusive female was truly diverse, but also sensitive,
sobbing when Beatrice said, ‘You are weird!’ 

A farmer’s daughter, she didn’t want a life herding cows,
especially those big horny ones, the Aberdeen Angus.
But she did have a soft spot for big-eared, clumpy Fresians.

So, blessed with a talent for adding up, she became the bullish
one’s live-in accountant.

How strange, you may say, but Julie was not as green as she looked.

As if by synchronicity, she visited me, confessing her love for one on
whose help she was counting.

What’s more, she confessed her hatred for the woman who’d mocked us both,
revealing how Beatrice had ‘cooked’ the books.

So, we hatched a daring plot, which came about thus: 
Julie did a moonlight flip, from her room in the earl’s mansion, 
his guard dogs scared away by a herd of Fresians.

While I jumped out of a hospital window, reluctantly helped
by PC Didcote-Dorage, after I’d reminded him of how he’d bent the rules,
for a teenage village thief.

Following hidden trails through Merrilly Wood, we found refuge with my brother, 
owner of rare sheep, and now a gay celebrity.

He’d even, to establish his ‘cool’ image, become a vegetarian,
and was often seen noisily chomping on a stick of celery.

But when Beatrice turned up with a furious husband, 
my elderly sibling told them, ‘Call off the hounds,
or I’ll reveal how you, an aristocrat, 
only married her to look good in upper-class society.

‘What’s more, he tried to bribe me, my club’s best goalie,
to feign injury during the FA Cup Final.’

My big bruv added, ‘He even took me to a gay haunt, Funny Girls in Blackpool.

‘I was nearly seen by a gossip columnist, Nosy Nightflap.

‘That wouldn’t have done down well with the fans,
if he’d managed a sneaky snap, for I’d just been given a raise
by Frelsea United, for never letting in a goal.

‘Why don’t you join us for lunch, it’s stromboli? 

‘Here’s a plate of it.'

The following night ‘Bashing’ Beatrice also did a moonlight flit.

She married the former constable, now inspector Bidcote-Burage, 
who used his criminal contacts to arrange for plastic surgery.

But Beatrice would cry, ‘Put the handcuffs away, 
they remind me of when I nearly got nabbed by the tax man.’

‘Sorry darling,’ he said, ‘but I only got my promotion when
I promised to hand you in.’

Now, ‘Bashing Beatrice has lost her ‘bash’, and is often heard to
curse that little cow-chaser, Julie.