Â鶹ԼÅÄ

It began in the far off days of yore, when knights were bold, damsels were in distress, castles were many-turreted and garrisoned by imbeciles in woollen chainmail, democracy hadn't been invented, the peasants were white-toothed and merry and oppressed and suspiciously American, Friars were fat and jolly, Bishops were bald and wicked, monarchs were just and kind and possessed of wicked brothers, wicked uncles were forced to wear hunchbacks by Shakespeare and smother their nephews in the Tower, villains wore black and had black goatees and cruel smiles hovering about their lips like midges, heroines were perfectly coiffured blondes with full scarlet lips and were full of scorn for the rough fellows they inevitably ended up marrying, and heroes were tall, and clean limbed with perhaps a slight moustache and beard and with a propensity for wearing green tights and leather jerkins with metal studs. It was, in fact, that time known as Merrie Englande, an age when there was an excess of the letter 'e' and everyone was either being robbed, were robbing or were being rescued by robbers from said villains for the purpose of Romantic Interest.

Thinking of which, here comes our hero, his arrival announced by a gay trumpet fanfare (gay as in jolly, you know - he's definitely one for the ladies, this one). It is none other than that valiant knight Nigel of Lower Loxley. We'll pause here for a moment to take him in, for he's quite a sight, is our boy. Six foot two, with a narrow waist, broad shoulders, arms grown muscular from bodging and the calves of a champion fencer, which is no bad thing for he is clad in the obligatory green tights. His aluminium sword hangs at his side, his feet are braced firmly apart, stomach in, chest out, Adonis-like head thrown back in a classic hero pose of such perfection that it would make Errol Flynn green with envy, had he the benefit of Technicolor. Having struck this pose, this gorgeous hunk naturally flashes a devilish grin, revealing perfect teeth of gleaming whiteness, and gives a hearty, thoroughly masculine laugh before slapping his thigh.

"So! Â鶹ԼÅÄ at last!" he proclaims in those chocolaty aristocratic tones that are enough to make the knees of the strongest-constitutioned female quiver. "Â鶹ԼÅÄ to my wife, my estate and my vineyards!" He turns his clear, bright eyes towards the great manor of Lower Loxley. But what's this? A column of smoke is rising from his home. His handsome brow darkens. What trouble lies ahead? Perchance 'tis the work of the Sheriff of Borchester Land's men? (Who's he?, I hear you ask. Mind your own business; we'll get to him later).

Leaping onto the back of a convenient horse (not for nothing did our Nigel win the 1189 All Comers' Gymkhana, and not just for dressage!) he gallops hell for leather to the Estate. Oh horror! What should he find, but his wife murdered, his house burned and - here Nigel permits himself to clutch his hand to his fevered brow at the sheer, unparalleled sadism of it - his vineyards trampled.

"Gad!" quoth he, "and dash it!" There could be no doubt about it - this was the work of the Sheriff! In this our hero was quite wrong. In fact all the damage was the result of a stray mower left running by Nigel's old manservant Titcombe, who has been distracted by a tryst with his lady love Mrs Pugsley (stop sniggering at the back, there, it's nothing smutty - this isn't that sort of story). Mr Titcombe was, however, strangely silent on that matter, as he was on so many things.

"By golly!" Nigel snarls, "I'll make the blighter pay for this!" And so saying he reaches into his saddle bags and produces parchment, pen and inkwell and dashes off a polite but firm letter detailing the damage, approximate costs for labour and materials for repairs and an estimate of lost profits from the destruction of his grape harvest, all totted up into a total (double-underlined!! no coward, our boy), signed and sealed, and with a P.S. inviting the Sheriff to his late wife's funeral. This done he drops it into a handy post-box, from where it is removed, sorted, lost, re-addressed, lost again, sent to Outer Mongolia, sent back and finally delivered to The Sheriff, care of Borchester Land, a mere six months after our hero posted it. Such was the efficiency of the medieval postal service. And so hence to the offices of said Sheriff (I told you we'd get there in the end), where all hell is breaking loose…


[It's all go, isn't it? Our boy's just got back from deeds of valour and derring-do to find the whole show's gone belly up. What are Mr Titcombe and Mrs Puglsey doing with those sheets in the burnt out laundry? Where is Nigel supposed to stay? Will Borchester Land pay for the damage? What's the storyline got to do with the title? All these things, mayhap, will be answered in the next part of THE BANDIT OF MILLENNIUM WOOD!!!!]

REEL 2:

At Dower House Castle, trouble was brewing. "What's THIS, Tiger??" snapped Lilian, mistress of the Sheriff of Borchester Land. "Shhhhh!" hissed the Sheriff hastily, plucking nervously at his sinister black goatee. "I told you not to call me that in front of the men!" "Oh dear. Are you ashamed of me? Then what are your feelings about this?" She was waving a piece of paper. "A dowry agreement for your marriage to DEBBIE ALDRIDGE???!!!!" "Ah." By now the Sheriff was edging away from his enraged paramour. "Look, I'm sorry Pussycat, but a man in my position…" "You position's going to be very painful in a minute, Tiger!" "… and the Baron is one of the wealthiest men in the county. Quite a catch." (To save you looking him up in Debrett's, this would be Bold Bad Baron Brian of Borsetshire, a man for whom exercising his droit de seigneur is more or less a full time job. It pays to keep an eye on the High Society scene, you know). "Well if that's the way you want it, Tiger, you can stuff it!" And so saying, she sweeps out.

Good. That's her out the way. It's a shame but frankly she's hardly good maiden-in-distress material. Debbie isn't exactly spinster of the parish, either, but to be honest Ambridge isn't flowing over with eligible women. There's always Fallon Rogers, but this story is sordid enough without subjecting her to the doubtful charms of the Sheriff, and besides her mother has a left hook that would put Muhammad Ali to shame and isn't likely to take any nonsense from passing land agents with amorous designs on her daughter. But enough of this witty banter (eh?). I can hear you clamouring to know what has befallen our hero. I'll tell you:

With his wife, his home and his grape harvest lost, and with nothing but a vast family fortune to his name, Nigel went to the appropriate welfare authorities, but finding that they weren't due to open for another few hundred years did what any man would do in position: he sold his children to passing Moorish slavers and used the proceeds to set himself up a bandit, seeking refuge in the impenetrable depths of the sprawling forest known as Millennium Wood. There he recruited a merry band of outlaws to rob the rich to give to the poor, fight injustice, right wrongs… you get the picture. Quite the campaigner for social justice, our boy. In order to provide a quick reference guide for later, we might as well list them here, thus:

Exhibit A is Little John Higgs, Nigel's right hand man, a strong, silent type, famed for his skill with his quarterstaff (stop sniggering in the back row, there), on loan from Jack and Peggy Woolley.

Exhibit B is Will Grundy, a gamekeeper turned poacher known as Will Green on account of his Barbour jacket (other waxed jackets are available).

Exhibit C is Adam A'Dale, step brother of Debbie, whose job is to keep the merry band entertained with many a japesome song of how the whole world is against him.

Finally, Exhibit D is Friar Franks, who was expelled from the Church for being annoyingly PC, and in consequence has grown enormously fat on his mother-in-law's hot, nourishing soup.

His merry band gathered, Nigel starts to expound his Great Scheme…


[Goodness - poor old Sheriff. Still, he deserves it really. Fancy going and arranging his marriage to Debbie without taking Lilian into the bargain - or probably Debbie for that matter (still, he's not entirely to blame; it was considered bad form in those days for villains to marry girls who were actually willing to join in the nuptials). And then there's this Grand Scheme of Nigel's - what could that be? You'll have to wait for the next thrilling instalment of THE BANDIT OF MILLENNIUM WOOD!]



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