Back when I was growing up in the narrow wilds of Rutland (sandwiched between the urban counties Leicestershire and Northamptonshire, and separated from the sea by piss-on-a-plate-flat Lincolnshire) I knew a poacher called Les.
He was the scion of a family of mendicants brought over from Ireland by Lord Burleigh to be his gamekeepers on his acres of dank ditches, mediocre fields, lank hedges and wilting copses.
Les reverted to type and drove his pickup into fields and ran down sheep; hoed the bleeding corpse in the back and drove home. Where he would drag them upstairs and cut them up in his bath; later to sell in pubs and car parks.
This one evening, pickup full of dead mutton, he was followed home by a jam sandwich (cop car) and halfway up the stair he heard a knock on his door.
On opening the door, there was PC Arse and Detective Constable Twat revealed in the twilight silhouetted; both with shit eating grins to the fore.
"Les, what's that there, halfway up your stair?" says PC Arse.
"Oh, man," says Les, "I knocked this poor bugger down on Exton Avenue, and I'm trying to administer first aid"
"That's all well and good," says Arse, "but what about the two you've got tied up in your back yard?"
"Well, you know what sheep are like," says Les, "they follow each other."
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