Rub a Dub Dub
Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub, and who do you think were there? The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker and all of them going to the fair.
While you have been in Yorkshire with your parents, a very embarrassing event has occurred, and I know you will read about it in our local newspaper mailed to you by that despicable busy body Gladys Tullybelton who claims to be your best friend, or in a letter from your sister Agnes who as you can attest, never wanted you to marry me, preferring that mealy mouthed lawyer Harold Cockerham, who by a pure stroke of fortune became the richest man in the district after luckily throwing his lot in with the Imperial Tee Cup Company that obtained an endorsement from the royals after a substantial under the table payoff to the Prime Minister. Therefore, I believe you should receive this bit of unwelcome news directly from your cherished husband, who loves you dearly, but who occasionally suffers a penchant for the drink and a salacious interest in the nubile flesh of the world, and what red blooded Englishman doesn’t have these faults from time to time? As you know, I’m not a regular church goer, but on occasion I will enter the dwelling of our Maker, and will sing and beat my chest with the best of them, and when the congregation looks over and sees my red face and slightly bulbous nose, they know that I am a man of god, if not every day, certainly on those days when I am sober. Remember, that in twenty years of our marriage I have been a steady provider to you and our three children except for the three years that I spent in jail on that spurious charge of selling horse meat at the shop after representing the items as sirloin steak, and fortunately for you and the youngsters, your mother and father took you in with them at their fine house. To this day, I am remorseful that I defaulted on the very generous loan that your parents gave me to start the business in the first place, and then they were also kind enough to pay the exorbitant legal fees of Neville Cockerham, Harold’s brother, who managed to shorten my sentence from six years to three after I swore that I would never get in trouble with the law again, but I must sadly admit that the law has once again come after me, and this is why I am writing this letter to you, my love.
It all started when that sleazy baker, Humphrey Twaddlesworth, with his stale scones, beetle-infested buns and mealy muffins, may that man rot in hell, suggested that he and I stop at the Dog and Duck for just a pint of ale. After a hard day’s work, carving ham hocks and making my signature swine jelly made from the finest hog brains in the shire, and with you and the kids gone on vacation, I felt that a small pint of spirits would be a perfect potion after an uncharacteristically warm August day. We sat at our usual table in the venerable establishment, and soon we were joined by Rodney Goldhind, possibly the most unsavory lout in the county of Smittenshire, who produces some of the shoddiest candlesticks this side of Shropshire, Twittenshire, and Shireshire, whose workmanship is so substandard that special misshapen candles need to be produced to fit in the second-rate sockets produced by this slovenly gentleman, if you can call him that, who recommended after three more pints that we move to the Goose and Screw which as you know is another pub in town, and maybe you are not cognizant of such, but also the location where many of the lascivious, wanton, and debauched women in the area hang out to have a beer with the blokes who are looking for some prurience if you know what I mean. I myself, protested the transfer of our libations to this licentious saloon, and rose to go home, when my former friends Humphrey and Rodney reminded me that they had paid for the initial rounds of our imbibing session, and that I should buy my share of the beverages at the Goose and Screw, so what was I to do? Of course I did the noble thing, and continued on with them to this house of iniquity, simply to satisfy my debt to these loathsome scoundrels.
Regrettably, our quaffing became less than abstemious at that sinful place, and all three of us became inebriated to the extent that we lost some of our Christian judgment that I have occasionally misplaced in the past under the influence of some tasty Guinness that I will concede is a better quality ale than is served at the Duck and Dog, but significantly more expensive, and I confess that I soon spent more on this plummy beer than I had intended, and soon the few quid that I had in my pants pocket was lost as was the entire pair of pants, but that comes later. Deplorably, we met an intemperate vixen there named Roxy, curse me that I ever met her, who came over to our table sporting quite a generous cleavage (I’ll spare you the details), and we bought her a few bubblies all the while becoming more tipsy. Soon we were joined by two of her lady friends, Candy and Crystal, and we got to carousing, and then they suggested that we go to the fair grounds to continue our partying. As you are aware, Smittenshire hosts the annual pickled pepper festival that our family has attended on so many occasions, where we have eaten the delicious ice cream and cotton candy (if not the peppers), while having great fun throwing a ball at a target and upon hitting the bulls eye, submerging the principal of the school into a tub of water from a platform situated above the tank, and everyone laughs and has a great wholesome time, all for the sake of charity.
Now as I mentioned, it was a very hot sticky night, unusually humid for England, and it was at that point that the six of us made a very lamentable decision. Humphrey proposed that we take a swim in order to cool off, and with our prudence clouded by the booze, we found the tub that Mr. Skimpole, the principal, had been dunked so many times during the day, but at night this area was dark, and the container was still filled with that enticing cool water. The next thing we knew, in a besotted lack of propriety, we jumped into the receptacle and somehow lost our clothes in this aquatic adventure. The water, I have to admit, was wonderfully refreshing, enhanced by Roxy’s sensuous back rub, but I swear to the good Lord on high that I never ogled or lusted after the voluptuous female bodies that accompanied us in the tank, and I state for the record that these big bosomed girls were all a tad overweight. Well, we were having a jolly good time cavorting in the container, when the disgusting candlestick maker had the asinine notion to perform cannonballs off the platform, and these boorish shenanigans caused a considerable commotion particularly when his rotund bottom hit the water, for suddenly the overhead lights came on, and in the illumination, there we were, all six of us, splashing around naked in the tub, soon surrounded by a throng of onlookers who were curious to see us in our birthday suits when in truth it was none of their business.
After that, the rest as they say is history. The constable was called, and after hastily wrapping us in towels to the cheers and whistles of the boisterous and lustful crowd, we were hustled into a paddy wagon and hauled off to jail where I sit currently writing this sad epistle to you. My lawyer, Mr. Cockerham, has advised me that I will soon be released, charged with intoxication and lewd behavior in a public place. Because I am a repeat offender, the maximum sentence is one year in jail (they called me the ringleader in this caper but that’s a complete lie), but there is good news; Cockerham is confident that he can eliminate the prison time, although I will be forced to pay a heavy fine as well as a substantial bribe to the judge. Unfortunately, after last night we have no money, and in addition, my wallet was misplaced in the pool along with my denims, so I will need an immediate sum to post bond, and if I could impose upon your saintly parents for another magnanimous loan, it would be deeply appreciated, and I swear I will pay this one back.
Your Affectionate Husband
PS. Say hello to the kids. I bought them some toys at the fair and they will be great fun after they dry out.
Rub a Dub Dub