• Mood: sympathetic
• Music: god :: the lord is my shepherd

and she slipped it in cider

Last night I traveled to the little known village of Poke Stoges, Buckinghamshire. The town is thusly named after the controversial sport of 'Poking the Stoge'. At night the beast is lured into trap of honeyed ale where it becomes intoxicated; falling into a deep sleep. At first light competitors trawl the traps and using a stick, at least one inch thick, the Stoges are violently poked into a wakeful state:



[ the call of the stoge poker ]

Some believe that the Stoges should then be left to skulk back into the undergrowth. Others, however, believe that the Stoge should be beaten to a messy death and then made into sausages. It is heartily believed by the inhabitants of Poke Stoges that Kenny makes exceedingly good sausages.

Here are some photographs which record my visit. Sadly, there is no footage of the elusive Stoge as it is currently 'out of season'. There are images, however, of the Chinese Banquet which was kindly arranged for us by the King of Poke Stoges to mark our visit.