Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
I’m writing this in the vain hope it will be published. My desire is to expose those responsible, but the best I can hope for at this point is compassion.
I’m a single man living in an English village which is picture-perfect. Unfortunately, like most things, it is not as it seems, and I know this to my cost.
Like many British men, I value my pint. I’ve drank locally at ‘The Ferrets Revenge’ all my life, and most of my world seemed pretty OK until about a week ago.
Recently my local changed hands, and it was bought by Bert and Dolly Crawford, a couple from London, outsiders. Both hard as brass, and she no better than she should be. Once a right scrubber, I should say. Everything changed for the worse, including the service.
It was a fine summer night that gave no forewarning of what was to occur. I not only ate at the Revenge that awful night, I also drank a fair amount, which was unusual for me.
Just after last call I was suddenly seized with violent stomach cramps and had to use the WC. I was dreadfully ill and couldn’t leave the toilet. I heard people coming and going loudly, flushing and chattering over my low groans. I must have sat there, back and arse aching, for about an hour.
It finally became quiet in the toilet but I could dimly hear noise flaring and dying away again as people went home for the night, and afterwards the clinking noises of bar clean-up in the distance. Finally all fell silent, and I was beginning to worry about how I would get out of the pub and manage to also lock the outside door without having to explain my embarrassing predicament. Naturally, I felt a right pillock. I didn’t mean to harp on about toilets, but they figure in the story.
At last I felt recovered enough to venture forth. I was just about to exit the bathroom when I heard noises. A door opened and then shut and voices and footsteps could be heard in the distance. At first I was mortified and almost decided to stay in the toilet ‘til morning, but suddenly I heard a pitiful sobbing begin, followed by shouting and scuffling. Then I heard Dolly’s voice, raised in anger: “You three little bleeders will dance if I tell you to!”
Timidly I pushed the door open an inch and peered out into the dimly lit corridor. I simply could not believe what I saw! Huddled together in the corridor were three male dwarfs dressed only in spangled loincloths.
Standing over them in a towering rage was Dolly, and one of the dwarfs was nursing the side of his head and whimpering. Bert and two other men stood further back in the shadows. One of them held what to my horror appeared to be a cattle prod.
It was clear to me that what was occurring wasn’t normal. These dwarfs were in thrall to these people, probably owned outright with money having changed hands.
I listened in shocked disbelief as the evildoers discussed plans to exploit these three small and currently defenseless men (three out of an apparent stable of twenty-seven) in a cruel betting ring that traveled on a revolving after-hours pub circuit. This resulted in them being forced to wrestle each other, sometimes in an oiled pit filled with writhing grass snakes, while heavy betting took place on all sides. Afterwards, while everybody relaxed with a cigarette and a drink, they would be tossed from person to person round a table of drunken revelers.
I felt a fierce licking of rage begin somewhere inside me and slowly grow.
I am not a brave man, Dame Wotta, but unable to stand listening to this violation of all that is good and true a moment longer, I rushed screaming out into the corridor, fists up and ready.
When I had been picked up, hit again, and once more dragged upright, I hung limply between two large and burly men while Dolly told me what they were going to do to me. I do remember begging while she ordered Bert to fetch the small funnel and a warm brandy and Rohypnol.
The last thing I remembered was thinking I might possibly choke as warm liquid was poured down my throat through the promised funnel.
When I came to I was lying on the village green fully clothed. Even though I was confused and groggy I knew I had been ill-used.
It was about six am and fully light, but no-one was around. I managed to get on my feet and stagger back to my home.
In the bathroom I needed two mirrors to view the lewd graffiti that covered my entire body, apparently perpetrated with a cheap red marker pen by some illiterate yob.
None of the crude statements were remotely true, at least not until last night.
I stood under the shower, letting the hot cleansing water flow over my battered, now fully shaved and abused body. Nothing in my social education had ever prepared me to deal with anything of this nature.
I knew I had to go to the police for the sake of the poor enslaved men I had witnessed at the Ferret, yet it was the last thing I felt like doing. Hurling my bruised body onto my lonely single bed, I allowed myself the luxury of a good roaring sob. An hour or so later I felt recovered enough to make my way to the kitchen. Swallowing down some Paracetamol with whiskey laced coffee, I also ate two chocolate bars and some cereal with milk to fortify myself.
Soon I was dressed and ready to go to the police station, finally willing to tell my story. As I was combing my hair there came the familiar sound of something being posted through the mailbox. It thudded heavily onto the mat.
On the hall floor lay a large yellow envelope. I picked it up, puzzled. There was no address, stamp or postmark on it. I returned to the kitchen and opened it.
Dame Wotta, I cannot describe the feeling that gripped me as I viewed the awful contents. Photograph after photograph of myself in every conceivable state of degradation and vileness lay before me on my scrubbed pine kitchen table. I would never be able to eat here again.
Turning from the terrible sight of myself being ravished while wearing a pale orange taffeta gown (with a beautiful matching underslip), and then again, in pink, well actually in an entire rainbow of stylish clothing, I fell to the floor in a fit of pique.
It was the most agonizing shock to see myself swarming with dwarfs in this unseemly and terribly mischievous way.
I know they couldn’t help it, I know they were forced, but I could never go to the police after seeing those dreadful images. I could never hold my head up again.
I know I will not be allowed to ever live this down. That evening when I went for my pint at the Revenge, I don’t think I imagined Bert and Dolly were sneering and whispering about me behind the bar, nor that their repeated references to my ‘little problems’ were a coincidence.
Only the final photograph is fit to be viewed, and I send this to you, Dame Wotta, so you can see where I was left in the morning. Please include it as a warning to your viewers!
What do I do now?
Sincerely,
David Onderdonk
Dear David,
What a to-do!
As I see it you don’t have a lot of options. You can either risk the ridicule of the entire village or you can come to terms with a simple fact of life. By the way, where is the village that you live in? A village green is always a nice feature, I think.
Dwarf Tossing and other similar extreme sports have been outlawed in most countries, and the UK is no exception. Despite this fact, it continues unabated nearly everywhere, as it has done for many thousands of years.
Why human beings wish to exploit each other like that is beyond me, but then, I am not human.
Stumbling upon this ring of slave-keeping tossers while indisposed was not a wise movement, but I fully expect the food was to blame. The kitchen standards in an establishment of this nature are likely to be lax at best.
I expect your new friends were made to behave in this manner by the perverted owners of The Ferret’s Revenge. I do understand a man’s loyalty to his local, but I believe it might be wise to drink elsewhere just for a couple of weeks until the fuss has died down, and then don’t stay until closing time again.
Do not judge too harshly, allow people time to change, for sometimes they do.
Life is awesome, strange and wonderful; I know I thought so while reading your letter!
I do not expect this will happen to you again – simply a one-off due to the circumstances you found yourself in.
I believe you must attempt to forgive and forget for the common good.
There are still plenty of places to get nice frocks, by the way.
I expect in a better world we would all be very good friends.
Best of luck to you,
Dame Wotta Tripp
Dear Dame Wotta Tripp,
Posts
