Written by George Fripley
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Monday, 30 January 2012

Wurzel of Clutton (952 - 1000)

Wurzel of Clutton lived in the time of Ethelred the Unready. He was regarded as a philosophical great by one or two of his fellow drinkers at the Harvester's Arms. He was a farmhand who worked cultivating barley, but only when he wasn't in the Harvester's Arms. Research of the parish records of the time indicate that he had a reputation for being lazy and wasteful.

His fondness for scrumpy, cider, mead and indeed anything alcoholic meant that he was rarely in a fit state to write anything down. However, in his rare moments of clarity he did pen some insignificant thoughts which provided no contribution whatsoever to the literary world or the understanding of the society of the time.

Some historians, well a few, all right one, who had heard of Wurzel, suggest he was typical of the farmhands of his day and was completely unremarkable. His seminal work is thought to be Harvest Time, although his other works including Cider, Mead and Cheddar Cheese, Ode to Naughty Nineteen Year Old Nina, and Don't Blame Me, Blame the Cider Your Lordship, are of similar quality and should quite probably be forgotten.

He met his demise around 1000AD, although the exact nature of his death is not recorded. It is thought that he had an accident with a scythe during one of his many cider-fuelled attempts at carrying out his harvest duties. Parish records do reveal that his funeral was attended by at least 17 offspring of various ages and various mothers.

Harvest Time

Sometimes during harvest time,
I sit down in my fields of barley,
Some think it's lazy, but I think it's fine,
To pass the time with my old neighbour Charlie.

We sits and talks of farming life,
Beneath the oak, its boughs growing wider,
And philosophise about finding a wife,
As the breeze blow ripples 'cross our cider.

Then as the evening sun drops down,
And we're usually as full as a boot,
Provided we can walk, we goes into town,
And chases the girls in our birthday suits.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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