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Uneasy lies the head that wears the goose

Shhhhh…Gromulin is on vacation this week and we’ve promised not to harsh his mellow with current events and filthy politics.

And so I give you: the Goose Master.

It was a three fete weekend, and the last of the three was in a village noted for its flock of geese. They peck around the village green and occasionally impede traffic and somehow have managed to avoid Meester Fox all these years. Or, at least, made babies quicker than he can eat them.

The highlight of this village fate is therefore naturally goose-related. To wit, goose-shit bingo. They don’t call it that. I’m not sure what they call it. We used to do something similar with cows back in Rhode Island, but a goose is more exciting as it generally shits itself shortly after being placed in the arena.

Mark the field off in a grid, sell grid positions, release the goose, the square he poops in first is the winner.


But this grid has upwards of a thousand positions, I heard someone say, and the prize is the not inconsiderable sum of £500. Serious bidness.

So enter the Goose Master, whose word is law. That’s him. In the hat. With the goose on it.

It’s more exciting than it sounds, at least the first-catch-your-goose phase. They aren’t tame. The poor goose always looks completely gobsmacked to find itself in an arena ringed with clapping humans.

And it shits almost immediately.

But that doesn’t necessarily count — only the first whole and proper poop counts, not some panicked half-hearted evacuation. This year, the poop fell across grid lines and the prize was split.

And a lovely weekend we had for it, too. We’re having a spell of warm weather (at last! We had the heat on repeatedly in June and early July). In a little while, we’re going to crack open a bottle of wine and sit outside under the stars. We can see the Milky Way out where we are.

*raises a glass to Grom*

July 18, 2016 — 8:49 pm
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