“We’ve got to make sure that this is not just pub talk,” demands Eddie, talking in the Village Pub.

We nod in determined nod-dom. I sip my pint aggressively. Big A sways slightly; later on he will be accused by Mrs Big A of accidentally attempting to wee on her.

In fact we are all quite drunk.

“What shall we do first?” asks Short Tony.

There is a bit of a lull whilst we think of a suitable opener for the newly-formed Village Society for Extremely Dangerous Sports and Leisure Pursuits.

“You know what I’ve always fancied?” muses Eddie. “That paragliding stuff. I think it’s paragliding. Just up there, with a lawnmower engine strapped to you. Like a bird. Not a plane. A bird.”

Poo eases out from its holding pattern and begins its gentle descent towards my pants.

“Don’t forget I’ve got a bad leg,” interjects Big A. “I can’t do anything that would risk my leg.”

“Yes, he has a bad leg. Good point,” I add.

“How about one of those Boxing Day swims? Like they do every year when there’s nothing else to put on the local news?”

“That sounds great,” I enthuse. “But I can’t swim. So it can’t be swimming or swimming-related. Or anything that might endanger his leg.”

“Shooting?”

“Golf? A round of golf. We never play golf.”

“We could all go bowling one night.”

“But it’s not just pub talk. We’ve got to DO this.”

We shake hands. The Society is formed.

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