Bunfight at the OKe Corral

For such a part of the world both Wyatt Burp and Doc on Holiday found the riding to be good.  With a fair tail wind and overcast skies it was cool easy going as both climbed through the Peetons.  A range of mountains so named by the flourish of extra nasty nettles everywhere.  Fed by the wet foul smelling excretions of a million sweaty cyclists who have passed this way before.  'Don't let one of dem get ya Wyatt!', said Doc.  'Dem's worse than rattlers!'

The hills are alive with songs of birds - and lycra wrapped desert snakes that occasionally skittered past.  Making a sound akin to someone repeatedly singing 'Ohhh, I can't find my testicles, te-tum te-te ta-ta!' as they ground down hard into their saddles to the top of every busty hillock.  Riding quickly down mountain passes we kicked up tons of dirt which left us blathered in a sweat and dust encrusted patina.  Every orifice full of grime.  Every part of our bodies covered.  Both of our mules were blathered with a greasy foaming sweat.  Water containers had that gritty taste from all of the dry gulch riding.  Up and down through canyon and mountain pass was the only option on this day in this part of the world.  We're finally in the Wild West!

We arrived in Tombstone, Oklahoma [well Okehampton actually] during a thunderstorm.  A place renowned for its problems with the Clantons.  Yeah, we've all had problems with the Cantons haven't we?  It was late in the day.  Skies were lit bright by great aural acoustic shocks.  It was impossible to use our crap navs in all of the rain.  Somehow our horses, Garmin and Google - so named cos Garmin has a tendency to go on random walkabouts irrespective of the direction you point him in and Google cos of the fixed wide eyed look on its face after it accidentally ate from a patch of nettles - got us to the hotel in Okehampton - a town full of blokes with average size penises.   We arrive at Betty Cottles Saloon - and spot their bike corral.  It's Oke too.

The mules are put to bed in an OKe shed.  We kick open the bar doors and enter like two drowned coyotes.  Tough ones of course.  With pumps in hand we approach the bar.  Folk move aside.  We slam our water bottles down and demand a drink.  'You sure you guy's ain't had enough?' says Betty.  'OK Betty.  How's about some Chitlins 'n Vitlins', says Doc.  'Two dinners, easy on the beans', shouts Betty to the cook as we mosey in reverse with our weapons drawn into the corner of the room.  

[The Clanton's arrive, spy Doc and Wyatt in the corner so back away into the Oke bike corral at the end of the bar.]

Doc and Wyatt face each other across the table.  Water bottles are unholstered.  'You havin' a puddin Doc?', says Wyatt with a burp having demolished a plate of over cooked beef lasagna.  'Yeah', says Doc.  'Yeah', says Wyatt.  Yeah.

Whilst waiting they notice a commotion start in the Oke corral.  The Clantons, now full of scrumpy, are starting an arguement with a bus load of out of towners from Cornwall who are looking to buy themselves a pair of wives in an attempt to reverse generations of in breeding which has left them heavy set with round fat heads, jug ears, low foreheads, beards and black spiky hair.  And that's just the women folk.  

'There's only one sticky toffee pudding' says Betty.  'Yew mean the posh gent at the other end of the bar?' enquires Doc.  'No just the one sweet - with custard', says Betty.  

Doc and Wyatt face each other across the table.  Water bottles in hand.  Safety catches are now off....

'Are yew gonna have that toffee pudding?', says Doc to Wyatt.  'Are yew gonna have that toffee puddin?', says Wyatt to Doc.  Oh no!  A mexican stand off!

[Just then the standoff is broken by the Clantons who are now well pissed on the scrumpy!]

'You're a basted you is', says one of the coach party to one of the Clantons.  'Noh, yew is a bastud', says Billy Clanton before reaching for his cream pie.  'Noh, noh, YEW is a basted' says another member of the bus party.  The tension rises.

Frank McFlurry, so named cos of his liking of MacDonald's crumbled Oreo biscuits mixed with ice cream, quickly reaches for his loaded lemon meringue and all hell breaks loose!  Women scream like they've put their knickers on the wrong way around!  There's a smashing and a grabbin and a thumpin and a ploppin all over the place.  Teeth designed for flippin tops off bottles of the harder stuff are sunk into raspberry ripples and noses are put right out of joint.  Betty is boopin folk with her one good broom and somehow successfully pushes the cream covered mob into the car park.  One cack covered individual staggers up to his Saloon room with his wife who then continues to bend his fecking ear for gettin in on the fight.  'Yes my dear, no luv, of course my dear...', sounds tail away into the night airs as Doc and Wyatt, still alive, satiated, and somehow able to resolve the puddin arguement ready for the next day on the trail, retire to their rooms for the night.

The Bunfight at the OKe Corral.  A night to be written in the annals of history!

Ciao for now.