I must say, I was very much looking forward to my long weekend on the island.
Upon leaving the boat, I decided to take it slow and load up a pipe before jumping in a “ta'i” [taxi] to take me to my hotel.
It was then, leaning on the railings and watching life go by, that I thought the two weeks in Libya, week in Greece and the 3 days in Italy (I work as a journalist) may have been too much for me after all; I spied two cows, dressed as it seemed, as Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, dancing their way across the pier head, apparently singing some kind of ditty that I had never heard before.
Of course I rubbed my eyes and shook my head; but alas, there they were. Great tobacco, was my next thought.
“So, what's all this cow business?” I asked the taxi driver.
“Mad in' they. All ova. Yule get use t'it.” he answered, by which time I realised the 2 pounds and 99p I paid for my Android “Eyelewight-Translatah” App were well spent.
“All over, you mean there are more of them?”
“Mor. Course. Shedfulls. All ova, look.”
He pointed out the window. True enough, 3 cows were standing on the roundabout dressed as police woman pretending to direct the traffic.
“But, what's going on?” I asked.
“You a porta?”
“Yes, but I'm on holiday”
“Well, bit ova secre'. But if ya really in'trested, they meet up t'night a' Gos'ill.”
It was dark in Godshill. And wet. But curiosity had got the better of me. I had dumped my stuff at the hotel and had the taxi take me to the outskirts.
“Can'ttakeyouanyfurver.” he said.
Suddenly, whilst walking past a quaint thatched cottage; I saw them; cows - entering a farm building one by one, there must have been fifty or more, dressed in all sots of ridiculous attire; there was a Ken Dodd, Snow Wight (yes) and her dwarfs, a Beckham, and one had even gone to the trouble of dressing up as Bruce Forsyth. I moved into the shadows and slipped around the side of the building. It was very quiet, just an odd “Mooh” splitting the night.
An open window, a view of the stage; now I would finally get behind this madness; so much for a quiet weekend.
On the stage was a large cow dressed as Winston Churchill. The room was full. Steam rose from their bodies. The farmyard stench was hardly manageable. A slight moo-murmer drifted through the open window.
Suddenly, Winston removed his head, revealing a rather small looking unshaven, dark haired man.
“So lads,” he said. “Fuck them crop circles.”
Off The Record Reports
I'm from Ryde but live in Germany BTW:)