Letting it all hang out

Those of you familiar with Robin Hood’s Bay in North Yorkshire will picture the scene easily. It was a lovely sunny late summer’s afternoon, and the narrow twisting streets had a reasonable population of tourists peering into the nooks and crannies. The tide was in and the sea lapped the slipway at the end of the main street. On the left is The Bay, the pub at one end of Wainwright’s coast-to-coast walk. Up an alley on the right is the chip shop, so people were sitting around on barrels and fish boxes drinking good real ale and eating first class fish and chips. Although it was a windy day at the top of the big hill, down at the bottom of the town it was quite still, and the sun seemed very warm. So although I was surprised to see George, his ultra-relaxed pose seemed quite natural. The path from Middlewood passes the chip shop, so armed with my warm bundle I was heading for the pub to collect my pint when I spotted him. A big lad, he lay on his back on the warm concrete, a full half-pint glass near his shoulder. Fast asleep, his head lolled back, his flabby upper lip fluttering to his snores. He was the epitome of the relaxed male, his golden-haired chest gently rising and falling. His legs were apart and his sturdy penis rested slightly to one side, his impressive scrotum hanging down and almost touching his anus. As I looked at his physique I couldn’t help feeling admiration and envy, and I think quite a few of the other tourists must have felt likewise. Certainly George was attracting quite a bit of attention.

If George was there then his greatest admirer Robin couldn’t be far away – in fact the half pint would almost certainly be his. It would be a turn up for the book if George had started drinking halves! For a moment I was puzzled, then I saw Robin, only a few feet away from George but almost unrecognisable in a ridiculous bush hat and sporting a rather feeble moustache! At that moment he spotted me striding towards them. “Hey, how about that!” he yelled. “What are you doing around the these parts, you old sod?” Ignoring his question I asked several of my own. “What’s the prat hat for, are you hiding from the police? And what’s that creature on your lip?” Robin laughed by way of an answer and I gestured towards the still recumbent George. “He’s looking well.” Hearing his name George stirred, then seeing me he got himself the right way up and wagged his tail furiously. Of course I made a big fuss of him, and gave him a chip or three. Like all golden labradors he’s got a lovely nature and he’s as greedy as hell.