General Chat

Rebs If you had just watched the footy from Perth you would have seen torrential rain all night. We have had rain all week. WPT - from the name I assume you are in the antipodes like Rebs & I. There are some threads like this one that I am amazed still exist - perhaps our criticism of GR is not overt enough for them. Friar

I'm a Carlton supporter. Only games I ever watch. Christ, hope they beat Brisbane. I'm off to bed, catch up with you later babe. Rebs.

Allan A’Dale wanders into the empty clearing, deep in the Forest of Gene, and looks around. In the centre he spys the remains of a fire. He crosses to it, keeping careful watch around him as he goes. Kneeling, he plunges his hand into the cold ashes. Deep down, there is still a hint of warmth. Sometime the previous night there were flames dancing on this makeshift hearth. Straightening up, Allan gazes around again, but the glade is deserted. Nothing stirs. He strolls over to a large log and, settling down on it, starts to strum on his lute. As he sings of far distant lands where the tombs are triangular, and of knights brought low by the perfidy of others, Allan ponders whether his search has brought him to the very place he seeks. For Allan is an outcast. Shunned by those with whom he once mixed so freely, now he seeks the company of a band of outlaws who live in this green and shady place, spending their lives dodging and weaving amongst the trees, always hiding from the forces of law and order led by the evil Sheriff GrumpyRules. Has he found their hideout? There is no sign of life, other than a small mouse with pink eyes which keeps peeping at him from under a huge fern, and, unexpectedly, a meercat. Allan has to look twice at this, as he has never seen one since he returned to this land from his days with the Cruisaders. Memories flood back, and Allan can no longer bring himself to sing as he recalls old friends, long since banished from the land of their birth, and those never to return from the crusades. Will he find the ones he seeks? Robin of Loxley – once a knight, now an outlaw. Tom of the thousand names. The Rebel from a distant world. And the magician who with a wave of a wand could magic the most delectable of wines from half a bucket of dirty rainwater and a couple of snails. Despairing, Allan covers his face with his hands and weeps.

that is so sad, Allan, I am sorry. Joy (with bouncebackability) PS rude occupation is still on tips! ssshhhh - don't tell! :-)

Reb, Hope you are sleeping well and I can probably guess what the 'cause' will be ... as for 'inciting riot', well we all reach the end of our tether sooner or later! Allan, Welcome .... you have a familiar, if forlorn, look about you. Dry those tears and have a beer. Catch you after dinner .... will raise a glass to you all and return later!* Regs Jane *If the thread doesn't disappear meanwhile!

Allan I really need the Necromancer. Or failing that, since dreams no longer come true, someone with knowledge of the black arts. I am morphing faster than I can control. Please help................!

hi silver is it bring a bottle??xxxxx(:

More like a crate, Lisa!

Hmm. !!! Again there is no one here. I'm sure they told me the party was on General. Perhaps its on the Tips Board. Ill go over there and have a look. If no one's there I'll get things going, they are bound to turn up when they hear I've got a box of Moet.

Ah, Robin, I doff my cap to you Sir Outlaw. I have walked this many a long mile (some b*****d stole my horse) to join your merry band. Did I hear mention of some magical nectar which you carry about your person? I think there is a Moose over there which may have need of its incredible properties so that she may return to the natural world and have done with the spell which has been cast upon her.

Bloody Hell. Where is everyone. They must all be on Connections. Can't imagine why. AOL over 80's Soapbox is far more interesting.

Enter witch stage left (a good, white witch). Gazes thoughtfully at the lone figure weeping before the ashen embers. Prithee Sir, (quoth she) What aileth thee? Why so pale and wanly loitering? Allan A'Dale: I cant find me mates, me old Tips muckers (careful with that line, Allan) White witch: Weep thee not, good Sir, I have here a fine spell, a potion. Take but one sip of it and it shall transport thee, back to thy old muckers, to the furry, (but bald) cat, the other cat, the totally confused, the landed Gentry, she who shines like a silver moon and...and...oh, everybody. (Puts cauldron on fire, takes it off, tips out magenta coloured fur, puts it back on again, gives the fire a bit of a kick and a blow. Takes from her spotted hanky a bottle of Brenda's Dad's Carrot Whiskey, a pinch of this and that powder, gives it all a stir with her broomstick, adds a few anchovies) Offering the golden flagon to Allan, she says: Ere, get this down yer gob and stop whinin'. Allan drinks deeply of the magic potion and finds himself flying, flying through the starless night...back to the enchanted, far away land of Tips As It Once Was. 'Thankyou dear witch' he shouts, his voice carrying faintly across the Boards 'Thankyou! My friends, all my friends are here...' Witch sits down. All alone again. Nowhere to go and no way to get to Tips cos that greedy guzzler Allan has swigged the lot. M.

Enter a rather portly gentleman in a brown cassock and carrying a stout staff. G'Day Good Witch he said - I am looking for my band of brothers who were forced from our friendly forest by the evil Sheriff. We have been split up and apart from a few brief sightings there has been sign of the others. You don't have a drop of mead and a morsel of food for a weary traveller do you? - he asked in a forlorn manner.

A fierce gust of wind blows suddenly across the forest glade, rustling the leaves and startling the pink-eyed moose which is grazing at one side. The moose retreats into the trees as a cloaked figure clutching a lute is blown in over the tree-tops and deposited down with a thump in the middle of the clearing. Allan A’Dale stands up, shakily, and hobbles over to a fallen tree to rest his ankle, which was twisted during his unceremonious landing. “Well”, he thinks to himself, “What a waste of time that was. That witch promised I would be taken back to the land of Tips As It Once Was, but when I got there, it was the wrong country completely. Oh yes, on the surface it appeared to be the land of Tips, but when I investigated there had obviously been a change of government and all my old friends have either fled the country or been banished or, perish the thought, executed without trial. I fear it is not for me. There was no-one there I knew, and then the spell wore off and I found myself being blown back here without so much as a warning. And all the restaurants and bars had been closed down. I’m starving.” Allan looks around to see if there is anything edible nearby. The moose retreats further into the forest. A patch of mushrooms are growing close by, but Allan eyes them suspiciously for fear that they are magic mushrooms and he may lose control and find himself in even more trouble. Sighing, Allan reaches into his pouch and pulls out a couple of rather dried up anchovies, which he chews on thoughtfully. Suddenly, at the far side of the clearing, Allan notices the witch who had given him such fair and false promises earlier. She is in deep and ernest conversation with a rather stout monk. The monk does not strike Allan as someone who would venture far without copious amounts of sustenance for his journey and Allan hobbles over towards them, using his lute as a crutch. Without warning, he finds his way barred by some invisible force field. He calls out to them, but the witch and the monk cannot hear him (or maybe they just choose to ignore him). Allan beats with his fist against the invisible wall. What manner of place is this? Where is Robin of Loxley? Where are the rest of the outlaws? Perhaps they will return at nightfall. Keeping a watchful eye on the witch and the monk, Allan returns to his log and rests his ankle again. He settles down for a long wait. From deep within the darkest recesses of the forest, a thousand pairs of eyes watch Allan.

Suddenly amongst a puff of pink smoke and fluffy butterflies - A magician (of the female variety) appears. She waves her wand at Poor Allan and before his very eyes appears a Large Punch Bowl. Inside this punchbowl of fresh rainwater, she adds a few snails, eye of bat, toe of worm and fresh fruit (to make the potion more appetising) He dips his pewter mug into the brew and drinks thirstily. The trees around are blowing in the breeze, and it appears as if they are whispering something that sounds like:- (Go back Go back, to whence you came from - You are not welcome here) They could very well be mistaken though, and so, sit, quietly, straining their ears.

My Friends!!! You join with me in a cause that is just. I need colleagues such as you who are strong, single minded and who remember the days of glory past. You have much to offer. Many fine people in this area do also. If only they would release their natural caution. Let us enjoy our time together. I have wine and ale that I shall share freely with you. But most of all............... I value your words of experience!!! Indulge me! Robin

Re-enter hot, cross, redfaced witch. She stomps towards the Monk, waving her arms and broomstick. He cannot see her. She has run from Tips As It Once Was because an attempt to add to a previous, extremely innocuous, genealogical posting, requesting further help in locating the Gormless Greens, vanished in a puff of odiferous smoke at the very second she pressed 'UPDATE'. She hurtled inelegantly through the smoke-ridden ether, midnight blue velvet cloak all askew and bloomers showing for all the universe to see, only to find herself encapsulated in a bubble of GR ice - she can see you, she can hear you but you cannot hear her. She fumbles in the pockets of her capacious but crumpled cloak and finds - oh, great mercy be praised - some dried turnip surprise.

Allan quaffs his potion and turns to Mrs Merlin for a further draught, but she is gone. The whole glade is bathed in a gentle pink glow, like a spring sunrise (which is quite a surprise considering it is late evening in June). Allan is amazed – he gazes around openmouthed and a butterfly flies in – slightly furry and a rather strange taste but all good protein. The pink glow fades and once again Allan is all alone in the woodland clearing. Even the monk and the witch have disappeared. This place is beginning to freak Allan out. He is not sure how long his fragile state of mind will survive the isolation. And yet, around him on the ground, are signs that once upon a time, not so very long ago, there were mice on the mouse organ (whoops, sorry, wrong story), a party had been held here. Battered remains of party hats and empty beer cans litter the greensward - quite amazing really when you consider that beer cans will not be invented for another 700 years. Allan is quite certain that the outlaw band must have camped here the previous night. He hopes that they will return once darkness falls. In the meantime, he must just keep waiting and hoping…………..

Cousin Marjorie We find ourselves together once more. But a long way from our natural sanctimony. I trust your genealogical aspirations have treated you well. Mine.... still leave much to be desired. Loxley

Allan You must stay with me my friend. The night sky do cast many shadows. But brave men step out of the shadows, they set aside aside their recessions, and once again they face the world as true crusaders. Spread the word!!!!! Loxley