

## The Chobbingham Green Preservation Society

### By Leonard Sime
Contents

1 Mr Dainty's Electric Fence

2 Go Karts

3 Geoff at the Dog and Duck

4 The Thoughts of Mr Strong

5 Statues

6 From Greer to Gaga

7 Jim Spickett

8 Monty's Pipe

9 Chobbingham Flyer

10 Interview with the Vicar

11 Jack Walker

12 Abducted

13 Darts

14 Jet Silvers

15 The Dogs

16 Great Aunt Dotty

17 A Ghost Story for Christmas

18 New Year at the Vicarage
1

Good evening, I'm Leonard Sime. As usual on Wednesday I chaired the weekly meeting of the Chobbingham Green Preservation Society. It's a society formed by a few of the townsfolk of Chobbingham to see what we can do - nothing more, nothing less. It's called the Chobbingham Green Preservation Society in honour of Mrs Harrington, who was a huge fan of the Kinks. Had everything they ever did, and would often give us her Autumn Almanac or Phenomenal Cat on the ukulele when it was Go As You Please night at the Bowls Club. She's dead now of course, but it was nothing to do with her musical tastes, she simply threw herself off a bridge. So we drafted in my friend Mr Malinga from the Post Office and I must say he's been a more than adequate replacement, besides being a veritable John Coltrane on the tuba, he can play practically anything on a kazoo. Our experimental music nights at the Dog and Duck really took off after he joined. We sound less and less like Philip Glass every week. We sound more like the Bonzo Dog Doo-dah Band now.

Last week the society was bogged down with the old chestnut of whether we should erect an electrified fence around the bowling green. Mr Harrington said he was fed up with tourists picnicking and erecting tents on it, particularly in the middle of an important game, and Mr Dainty had offered a compromise, we'd put it up in summer and take it down in winter, or we could put it up in winter and take it down in summer, or put it up on Tuesday and take it down in two weeks, when Mrs Strong suddenly flew at him, kicking and biting, clawing and spitting. It took three of us to subdue her. When we asked what was wrong she said she thought that he had been talking about Richard Briers in an uncomplimentary way, and had seen red. Mrs Strong has to be heavily sedated at all times, everyone knows that, and had forgotten to take her pills.

I reminded the group that an experimental electrical fence which, at Mr Harrington's behest, had been erected around the statue of Elton John, had killed four people and a dog. The statue was supposed to be John Major with a hat on, but it definitely looked more like Elton John, no one was fooled, and we were stuck with it. We finally took the fence down when Mr Easterby's cat accidentally brushed up against it. The poor beast was purring away contentedly one minute then suddenly there was a bang, a flash, and a shriek, and it flew backwards straight through Dr Glossop's surgery window, killing Mr Collinson who had a suspected heart condition. In the end we agreed that, in this day and age, it wasn't practical to electrocute people willy-nilly, and the fence remained in Mr Dainty's shed.

Mr Strong said that rumours were rife that a well-known rock star was moving into the village, and Mr Harrington said that was all very well if it was the likes of Bryan Ferry, or Midge Ure out of Ultravox, as they were quite neatly turned out, but he drew the line at Mick Hucknall out of Simply Red yomping about making the place look untidy. We all said aye to that apart from Mr Dainty, who had been in a psychedelic group in the 1960's, but he couldn't remember their name. He always comes up with a name but it constantly changes. This week he thought he was lead guitarist with Mister Winkle's Ever Expanding Plantpot. Mrs Strong harrumphed, there was no other word for it, and Mrs Dainty said they had had several names since they were all on drugs. All four or five of them. She wasn't sure if they were all dead apart from Mr Dainty and maybe we should have a statue? Mr Dainty said we could put the electric fence around it, but I was more concerned with the new go-kart track. Mr Dainty offered to erect the fence around that, but Mr Harrington told him to start living in the real world. He wouldn't expand on that and we adjourned for a cup of tea.

Mrs Strong took me to one side and asked me if I was fond of a custard cream, or a bourbon finger. When I said not particularly she pinned me up against the wall and demanded to know what was wrong with them. As chief biscuit buyer for the society she had been buying cheap biscuits for 18 months now, and there had been quite a hoo-ha about Penguins one evening when Mr Dainty had suddenly risen to his feet and began ranting about poor quality comestibles. I'm afraid he took another sound beating from Mrs Strong and no one had dared mention the matter again. But here it was, confronting me now. A very powerful woman Mrs Strong, with or without heavy medication, and Mr Dainty gained a black eye as the rest of the society eventually dragged her away from me. She was screaming that she'd kill me one day, and that in fact she'd kill us all, if and when she found the time. I told her she had been short listed for the go-kart team and that seemed to placate her until Dr Glossop finally arrived with his big syringe. That was the end of the meeting as far as I was concerned, although Mr Dainty seemed intent on finding a suitable site for his electric fence, until he began to have another of his acid flashbacks and, after any other business, Mrs Dainty bundled him into their Honda and he disappeared screaming into the night.

Two days later and it was time for the go-kart trials. The whole village had turned out and we were going to pick the best five drivers to take on our local rivals Claxham. The Chobbingham-Claxham rivalry is centuries old and fierce, and it appears to have no point whatsoever, but we all join in. The Society was organising things and we had all gathered at the track, apart from Mr and Mrs Strong. I was attempting to talk to Mr Dainty, without much luck, and I turned 270 degrees to see Mr Strong approaching with an almost forlorn look on his face. When we asked what the matter was, he explained that the previous evening Mrs Strong had forgotten her medication and had gone off into the night. She had turned up at an old barn staging bare-knuckle fist-fighting and had met her match in the form of a small gorilla, unbeaten in 19 professional contests. Mrs Strong had taken something of a drubbing and had later died in hospital. Apparently it was her first ever defeat and she had passed away while resolutely demanding a rematch.

No one said anything for a few seconds then Mrs Strong jumped out from behind a Nissan Micra and screamed with laughter, dancing around and pointing at us, claiming she'd fooled us all and shown us up for the idiots that we all were. This must be her new medication at work. At that, a long black limousine with tinted windows pulled up, and out stepped Bryan Ferry. He took one look, turned, got back into the car and drove off and we haven't seen him since. At least Lance Percival stayed a fortnight before upping sticks.
2

This week's meeting kicked off with the good news that Mrs Mitchell from the pharmacy was expecting a baby boy, her first. Mr Dainty said how did they know it was a boy when amoebas don't have willies. Mr Harrington pointed out that it was a foetus not an amoeba, and Mr Dainty looked confused, then disgusted, then nonplussed. But not necessarily in that order. I don't write absolutely everything down \- that way madness lies.

In between meetings the go-kart team had been chosen with, Mrs Strong as captain, and Mr Harrington, Mr and Mrs Dainty and Mr Malinga making up the five. I was to be judge and jury and we decided that Mr Dainty's electrified fence would be erected around the track but not switched on. The switch would be entrusted to Mr Malinga since another of Mr Dainty's acid flashbacks could result in catastrophe.

We then moved on to a sadder piece of news. Mr Cornforth, the butcher and centre forward for Chobbingham Academicals, had become very irate when, after our last game, the Claxham Clarion had claimed that he couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo. To prove that he could he invited the press, and Mr Dainty with his video camera, to Farmer Stephenson's top field and, armed with a medium sized banjo, attempted to spank Mr Stephenson's prize heifer Sandra. After about ten minutes of ducking and diving in what appeared to be absolute terror he thwacked the beast on the rump and it kicked out, catching him on the temple. This, the doctors later told us, was almost certainly what killed him.

During the meeting we watched a playback of Mr Dainty's video of the incident, which was quite funny up to a point. The point at which Mr Cornforth was loaded into the ambulance. When the video was finished Mrs Strong got all irate about the way it had been lit. Mr Dainty said it hadn't been lit at all. Now, Mrs Strong must be heavily sedated at all times, everyone knows that, and this news was like a red rag to a bull. Mr Dainty fled from the meeting room and sprinted down Montague Street, screaming, with Mrs Strong in hot pursuit. We found them drinking cocktails in the Dog and Duck, Mrs Strong having accepted the impracticalities of lighting such a scene, and conceding that Mr Dainty would have earned himself £250 from the television had Mr Cornforth not been killed, however accidental it may have been.

The following day Mr Goode arrived on the green in the Zen Buddhism bus. The bus started out as a mobile library but Mr Goode, being a devotee of Zen, had begun to give lectures on the subject, so now the side of the bus reads 'Mobile Library' and then, in purple spray paint, 'and Zen Buddhism Bus'.

Mr Goode has a Zen monkey called Ken, at least he says it's a Zen monkey, but no one's fooled, it's a monkey, full stop. Strangely for a Zen Buddhism bus cum Mobile Library there are no books on Zen Buddhism, just a Zen pamphlet written by Mr Goode. Mr Malinga has become quite a devotee of Mr Goode's teachings, which almost got him into hot water during one particular meeting of the Society. We were discussing whether to erect Mr Dainty's electric fence around the boating lake, when Mr Malinga said that Mr Goode said in his pamphlet that electric fences were morally wrong. Mrs Strong said Mr Goode's pamphlet was bollocks. Mr Malinga said Mr Goode's pamphlet said that it was ok to say that about Mr Goode's pamphlet. Luckily, Mr Malinga was wearing his running pumps, and Mrs Strong high heels, and he managed to get away, although Mrs Strong nearly caught him by the butchers.

Mr Goode told the assembled crowd that the Zen Buddhism bus would be making an appearance at the go-kart finals in order to cheer us on, and he would be dressing Ken the Zen monkey up as Charlie Chaplin, in order to confuse the Claxham team. Mr Malinga said it was a crazy plan, but that it just might work.

All that week was spent gearing up for the go-kart tournament against our fierce rivals Claxham, the only fly in the ointment being when Mr Malinga had insisted they were karts, not go-karts. Mrs Strong said they were bloody go-karts and everyone said aye, more out of fear than any insider knowledge of the karting world, like, say, Noel Edmonds would have.

Finally the big day dawned, and the Claxham go-kart team arrived in the village accompanied by thirty or so Claxhamites. They had brought a team of cheerleaders, whose only song appeared to be about how Claxham was much better than Chobbingham. It went on for about five and a half minutes, rambling on about how they beat us at skittles in 1992, and what a nice clock they had in their High Street, and a particularly bizarre bit in the middle where they tried to express, as a percentage, how much better than us they were. It was dreadful. Luckily our cheerleader was none other than local stand-up comedian Bernie Boyce, of questionable humour, who, immediately after the song finished, blew a raspberry into the microphone and everybody laughed. 1-0 to us. Not literally, of course.

Mr Dainty's electric fence had been erected around the track, but not turned on, and the remote control given to Mr Malinga, as arranged. The Claxham team were all dressed in red, and so were the Chobbingham team, and it was decided that one team would have to change. The Claxham team manager said it was more practical for us to change, since we were at home and they lived fifteen miles away. Mr Harrington pointed out that we always play in red and they always play in blue, but they said that blue was their second strip and that they normally played in red. Mr Malinga said, since they were away to a team playing in red, then they should change to blue, and Mr Harrington agreed that it says so in the book of the Queensbury Rules, somewhere near the back. The Claxham manager insisted that it would be quicker for us to change. This went on for three quarters of an hour until Mrs Strong got the Claxham boss in a headlock, marched him to his car, and bashed his head repeatedly on the bonnet. Thirty minutes later they were back dressed in blue.

Mr Goode arrived with the Zen bus and Ken the monkey dressed as Charlie Chaplin, which confused nobody, and first of the races got underway, with the Claxham team winning easily. This was the story of the second race and, predictably by now, the third. With three races remaining we were facing an uphill struggle, no question, and Mrs Strong took it upon herself to hold Mr Malinga responsible. She held him upside down by the ankles, banging his head on the track, while all the change fell out of his pockets, along with the remote control for the electric fence. Ken the Zen monkey leapt forward, picked up the device and scuttled off. No one could find him, even though he was in fancy dress, and we were all for calling the competition off but Claxham, who were long odds-on favourites by now, were having none of it, and the fourth race went ahead as planned.

Another one-two-three for Claxham and their star driver ran towards the cheering Claxham fans, leaping onto the electric fence in celebration. Unfortunately Ken the Zen monkey must have flicked the switch on the remote control, and the Claxham driver began a sort of strange dance with sparks flying off him. The other members of the Claxham team rushed to his rescue but, as each one tried to pull the other away from the fence they too became electrified.

Unaware of all this, we quickly gathered up our instruments and improvised a version of Do The Conga. It was an experimental Do The Conga, but you could still tell what it was, and the whole village clapped and whooped as the Claxham team expired one by one.

When the dust settled, and the remote control was retrieved from Mr Goode's Zen monkey I announced that, since the Claxham team were unable to compete in the final two races on account of being dead, Chobbingham were indeed the winners. So it wasn't all doom and gloom. At the next meeting of the society we voted six to one to attend the funerals of the Claxham team, but in the end we didn't bother. The go-kart trophy now stands next to the bandstand on the village green, protected by Mr Dainty's electric fence, and Mrs Strong hasn't physically attacked anyone for four days, perhaps thanks to Mr Goode's Zen Buddhism pamphlet, but probably due to even stronger medication from Dr Glossop and his big syringe.
3

Here is the news. It has emerged that the landlord of the Dog and Duck, Geoff, is a transvestite. Geoffina, that's what he calls himself. We thought it was his sister. He used to come into the snug, dressed as Geoffina, in a frock or some such, and say 'Have you seen our Geoff?' in a high-pitched voice. We never cottoned on. Four years this had been going on.

Last Saturday, during talent night in the Dog and Duck, Mr Dainty again gave us his Genesis-era Peter Gabriel, pretending to be a cosmic lawnmower while our improvisational music group clattered and plonked along in, thankfully, 4/4 time for once. Mr Dainty appeared to be getting away with it, too. Unfortunately this was the night Geoff elected to push his luck, and fate slipped a mickey into his Green Swizzle. For some reason he had decided to have one drink as Geoff, and one as Geoffina, alternating throughout the night. He probably thought it would confuse people - they would think both of him had been there at the same time. However, by half past ten he must have had seven pints of lager and six port and lemons, and he staggered out of the ladies in a tweed jacket, collar and tie, pink mini skirt, stockings and high heels, with half his moustache hanging off. He was wobbling around shouting 'Have you seen our Geoff?', but by then the cat was well and truly out of the bag.

At last night's meeting Mr Harrington was in full flow. He railed at everyone - politicians, judges, architects, butchers, footballers, Duran Duran, and Geoff and Geoffina. No one was safe. He proposed that we boycott the Dog and Duck with immediate effect. Unexpectedly, it was Mrs Strong who leapt to Geoff's defence, claiming that Mr Harrington was living in the dark ages, and that he ought to 'get with it'. We all said aye to that, and Mr Malinga added that he had always found Geoff to be a very good landlord. And a good landlady. Mr Harrington accepted defeat huffily. He is, of course, a Special Constable.

Mr Harrington went on to say that Mrs Turner from the Co-op had a huge arse but this was old news and the meeting was closed. Afterwards, a rather worried looking Mr Strong approached me, saying that he was anxious regarding the speech he was to give at the Chobbingham Women's Institute, and would I help with the writing? I managed to convince him all would be well, partly as my good deed for the day as chairman, but mainly because I couldn't be bothered. I hope he doesn't revert to his ventriloquist routine - he has previous form, and I winced involuntarily at the memory, but consoled myself with the fact that I wouldn't be there this time, and it was nothing to do with me.

We then headed for the Dog and Duck, where Geoffina was serving. There was no sign of Geoff.
4

'Do you know,' said Mr Harrington, 'Mantovani, that's the only classical music worth listening to isn't it? Because it's got a proper tune and you can follow it.' The rest of the Society were listening in silence. 'It doesn't sound like he's making it up as he goes along like, say, Beethoven, or Profokiev or Gustav Holst and all those other miserable Commie bastards.'

It had now become a stunned silence.

'And, by the way,' he continued informatively, 'Reg Varney - no relation.'

We had been discussing possible avenues for our experimental music group to explore, and it had come to this. Mr Malinga said he still thought Scritti Politti was the way forward, but Mr Harrington said we didn't fight Mussolini so that Scritti Politti could release records willy-nilly. Mr Malinga said no, he didn't suppose that was the reason. And, thankfully, the topic disappeared over the horizon.

Mr Strong's speech to the Women's Institute had been an astounding success, according to an effusive Mrs Strong. She had since become Mr Strong's agent and, either by inducement or sheer brute force, had secured him a gig at the annual Young Farmers' shindig on Saturday night at the Dog and Duck. En route to his becoming an in-demand after dinner speaker. She had collared us, one by one, on Friday morning. Would we attend? Try to stop us. After witnessing Mr Strong's calamitous address to Chobbingham Academicals FC, Christmas 2012, where he resorted to a ventriloquism act with his sidekick Colin the Cat, we were itching to see this transformation at first hand.

Mr Strong comes from old money, but doesn't have any now. Mrs Strong, however, is the daughter of Mr Nixon, of Nixon's elastics. Nixon's Knickers. On his death she inherited the business and promptly sold it for a fortune. Therefore, as far as the upkeep of the Strong's estate is concerned, along with everything else, all balls are in her court.

A couple of pints in the company of Mr Malinga in the Dog and Duck is my chosen way of spending a pleasant Saturday night, and we took our usual seats amidst a sizeable turnout of Young Farmers, as well as the rest of the Society dotted around the room. Geoff the landlord (dressed as Geoff the landlord) leapt on to the stage and, after a few pleasantries, asked us to give a warm welcome to Cuthbert Strong.

'Cuthbert!' giggled Mr Malinga, which set me off, until Mrs Strong turned and shushed us with an intimidating glare.

Mr Strong appeared on stage from behind a curtain with almost no trouble at all, and stood behind a lectern.

'Good evening.' he offered, and cleared his throat, 'Is it worth saving? This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle. This other Eden, this precious stone set in the silver sea. A bumping pitch and a blinding light, an hour to play and the last man in. Play up, play up, and play the game, for Harry, England and St George.' He paused for a few seconds. 'Stands the church clock at ten to three, and is there honey still for tea?' Another pause. 'And Oxford marmalade, and double-decker buses, and HP sauce?' Another pause, followed by an emphatic 'And spotted dick!' Where was this going? We soon found out.

'And fat people. There are a lot more fat people than there used to be. And fat kids.'

Mr Malinga turned to me,

'Oh, no. It's his fat kids thing again.' We rolled our eyes in unison. Mr Strong continued.

'Ok, there used to be one or two of them, you'd see them waddling about being hopeless at football and the like, but now there's thousands of them. What happened? Battalions of big-boned bastards, all wearing tracksuits and running pumps. Why?

Silence.

'I saw some on my estate the other day, a whole family of them, no right to be there. I opened an upstairs window and shouted 'Clear off!' Nothing. No reaction, so I thought I'd speak their language, 'There are no scratch cards here!' I shouted, and at that they just sort of ambled off.'

This may have gone down a treat at the WI, but it was playing very differently here. More silence, if it could get more silent, that is. Mr Strong's inner sat nav had led him up a blind alley, and automatic pilot had taken control. He reached down behind the lectern and produced a box. Colin the Cat? It was locked. Mr Strong searched himself for a key. Unsuccessfully.

'Let gnee out of the gox.' He gargled, trying not to move his lips. He repeated the phrase and attempted to open the box. He couldn't.

'Kung on, let gnee out of the gox'. But it looked like Colin the Cat was staying firmly in the gox. Mr Strong began to use force. Kicking, hammering with his fists, bashing the box against the lectern. The Young Farmers were starting to enjoy this. The box was clearly winning on points, until Mr Strong raised it above his head and smashed it to the floor. It finally opened.

'Now,' said Mr Strong, 'meet Colin the Cat!' He stared into the box, then around the box, then behind the lectern, then he scanned the stage. Nothing. He held the box upside down. No Colin the Cat. Mrs Strong joined him onstage and they disappeared behind the curtain, in search of Colin, cheers and laughter ringing in their ears. No Colin the Cat.

Geoff the landlord took the microphone.

'Ladies and Gents, give it up for Cuthbert Strong and Colin the Cat.'

I have never heard such a reception in the Dog and Duck. Mr Strong had gone down a storm.

At last night's meeting Mrs Strong was jubilant once more, and informed us that she had secured a further seven bookings for Mr Strong. Mr Strong appeared to be traumatised, staring blankly at his grim future, like a fly hovering on the M4, waiting for an inevitable windscreen. Out of nowhere, Mr Malinga said that Prime Minister's Questions should be renamed Prime Minister's Ad Hominem Responses. Now everyone was staring blankly, and the meeting was closed.
5

We have had some inquiries regarding the statue of Elton John on the village green. The story is that John Major once visited our Summer Fete, by mistake, we subsequently found, and he was wearing a panama hat to protect his eyes from the sun. Everyone remarked that he was a very nice chap, and that he seemed much nicer with his hat on. So the Society decided to have a statue of him - wearing a hat. When it came back it looked like Elton John. We complained but the statue person showed us the photograph we gave him and, to be fair, it did look like Elton John. Or that Elton John lookalike who is supposed to look like Elton John but doesn't look like him when you look at him properly. Except it isn't, it's John Major with a hat on.

This week's meeting revolved around the idea of another statue. Mr Harrington advised caution after our commissioned statue of John Major With a Hat On. He reminded us that nearby Hexmondeley had commissioned a statue of Alexei Sayle at the height of his popularity in 1992, but what they got was a statue of Mussolini. Mrs Strong said maybe we should buy it, to save on having one commissioned, Mr Harrington asked her if she knew who Mussolini was. Mrs Strong thought he was an Italian Charles Atlas. Mr Malinga said that Mussolini was a gobshite, and the rest of us said aye to that.

Should we have a statue of Mr Easterby's cat? The poor beast had been electrocuted by Mr Dainty's electrified fence, flying through Dr Glossop's surgery window and killing Mr Collinson, who had a suspected heart condition. It had survived, only to be shot by Dr Glossop round a corner. Dr Glossop had bought, as part of his Nazi memorabilia collection, a prototype of a gun that shoots round corners. A brilliant idea, except you couldn't tell who or what you were shooting at until you peeped round whatever corner it was. Mr Easterby's cat was only winged, and survived. Mr Strong said we could have a statue of the cat as a talking point. Mr Harrington pointed out that Mr Easterby's cat was called Lenin, and that a statue of a cat, with the inscription Lenin, might just confuse people. It would also confuse Mr Easterby's cat. Mr Strong said we could put it next to the statue of Mussolini, then we could have Mussolini and Lenin on the village green, although it would only be Alexei Sayle and a cat after all. Mr Malinga said he couldn't emphasise strongly enough that Mussolini was a gobshite.

Mrs Dainty thought we should have a statue of Mr Dainty's psychedelic rock group which he can't remember the name of. I reminded her that we had covered this at a previous meeting. A statue of a psychedelic group that may or may not have existed, whose name we didn't know, would just be a statue of some blokes. Mrs Dainty turned to Mr Dainty, who hadn't said a thing up until this point. He seemed preoccupied while we waited to hear him put forward the case for the psychedelic group statue.

He spoke.

'It's just past Ye Olde Toffee Shoppe, left at the chocolate lamp-post, carry on past the electric custard fountain and you'll see a giant blueberry triangle tree.'

Mrs Dainty explained that Mr Dainty was giving directions to where psychedelia lives, which he did from time to time. I'm beginning to think these acid flashbacks aren't flashbacks at all. Mrs Dainty apologised and led him out of the building, still banging on about expanding pandemonium aeroplanes.

Mr Strong said we could have a giant clock that counts down to the Millennium. Mr Harrington pointed out that the Millennium had been and gone. Mr Strong said okay, we could have one that counts down to the next Millennium. Mr Harrington said all clocks do that, and we already had one at the town hall. Mrs Strong said we could have a speaking clock - you put 10 pence in and Mussolini tells you the time. Mr Malinga said it would be the wrong time if it was Mussolini. Mr Harrington said Mussolini made the trains run on time. Mr Malinga said he didn't, he just said he did, the gobshite. Mr Strong said what if Mr Easterby's cat told you the time? But by now I'd had enough of it and the meeting was closed. It would remain a subject for another time. Permanently, with a bit of luck.
6

Mrs Dainty has taken to saying 'hashtag'. Finishing sentences with hashtag - hashtag radical, hashtag mental, hashtag duh! I asked her if she was on Twitter. She said 'What's Twitter?' She's prone to this sort of thing. She went through a phase of saying 'take that to the bank' without giving anyone anything to take to the bank. We also had 'wazzup', 'it does what it says on the tin', 'dot com', 'omg', 'lol', on and on it went, always a mile behind the times. Recently we thought she had come to her senses but no, hashtag is the latest thing.

This week's meeting ground to a halt early on when we had to discuss what this year's fundraiser would be, and who would benefit from it. After three consecutive years of collecting for the church roof had merely resulted in the Vicar swelling the coffers of Ladbrokes and every pub in the High Street, we weren't predisposed to send further cash in that direction. (Hashtag waster)

Putting the matter of the beneficiary aside for the moment, we began to wonder what we could do in order to raise funds. The usual bring and buy, raffles, bingo, sponsored this and that were mentioned, (hashtag boring, naturally) when Mrs Strong said why didn't we take a leaf from the WI's book and produce a naked calendar? All of the naughty bits would be covered by teapots and aspidistras. At this, Mr Malinga turned his chair 180 degrees, Christine Keeler style, and asked if this was the sort of thing? Mrs Strong grimaced and said no, it would be more like everyday poses - mowing the lawn, making a cuppa, vacuuming, with strategically placed melons and bananas. Mr Harrington pointed out that, even with the naughty bits covered, it could still be deemed offensive. Mrs Strong bridled but the rest had to agree that this was true. (Hashtag revolting).

Mrs Dainty suggested a charity gig by her performance group, Transcending Modern Perception. TMP. 'You know modern perceptions? Well we transcend them', it says on their posters. A generous offer, but I threw my mind back in time to a previous outing. Mrs Dainty had formed TMP and had chosen Easter for their first performance, since the Daintys had friends visiting from America for the holiday. The church hall was hired for a performance of From Greer To Gaga, a 'radical concept piece' written by Mrs Dainty.

I took my seat towards the rear of the hall, next to Mr Malinga, and we waited for curtain up. A woman in a boiler suit came onstage with a microphone, and proceeded to contort herself into various shapes. Once in position, she held the microphone near her bottom and broke wind. Not spectacularly, or tunefully, nothing like that. Some only lasted a split second, others were slightly alarming, but nothing extraordinary. There was sporadic applause from some quarters, but the majority seemed as bemused as we were. Suddenly, the fire door burst open, and PCs Hesketh and Chinn appeared.

'There she is!' shouted Chinn, and they raced towards the stage. The woman gave one last trump and took to her heels, with Hesketh and Chinn in hot pursuit. We never saw her again.

A minute later the Vicar appeared and made a bee-line for the seat next to me. He asked if it had started and we said we weren't sure, but no, we didn't think it had.

'I've had a rotten day,' he breathed boozily, 'Lingfield and Wolverhampton, I hate all-weather racing. Never back a winner on the all-weather.' He cracked open a can of strong lager from a carrier bag. He pointed to the polo neck hiding his dog collar, 'Civvy Street', and surveyed his surroundings.

'Bet this is bollocks,' He said, gesturing at the empty stage, 'but I have to show willing, church hall and all that.' At that the lights dimmed and Mrs Dainty appeared onstage.

A menacing timpani began to pound and she was joined by three women, each shackled to a ball and chain.

'In the 1960s' Mrs Dainty informed us 'it was, like, so uncool to be a woman. Hashtag chauvinists.'

'Chauvinists!' chorused the women in chains.

Mrs Dainty continued, 'The only role models we had were the likes of Fanny Craddock'

'Fanny!'

'Sheila Hancock.'

'Hancock!'

'And Hylda Baker, whoever that is.'

'Who?'

'Exactly.' said Mrs Dainty. 'The idea of equality for women was, like, so totally and utterly a complete anathema to the prevailing cultural hegemony.'

'Eh? Has anybody got a dictionary?' Shouted the Vicar, prompting shushing from the rest of the paying customers.

Mrs Dainty continued, 'A woman's place was not in the workplace, or any other place of work, but in the home.'

The vicar took another long slurp of his lager.

'Quite right, too!' He was enjoying himself now.

'And then along she came,' continued Mrs Dainty, 'like some really random radical new broom, Germaine Greer. But she wasn't just a broom, she was a Dyson to sweep away the scattered debris of the male bastion of manliness before they were invented. Hashtag Dysons that is.'

But the Vicar was on a roll.

'Here, make us a cup of tea will you darlin'?'

'Hey, keep the noise down back there.' An American voice from the front of the hall. Obviously one of Mrs Dainty's visiting group.

'Who's that?' Said the Vicar, peering through the crowd.

Mrs Dainty again,

'And Germaine said 'cast off thy bras, and burn them in the fiery furnace of man's indifference', and so we did burn them, and what happened?'

'Did the Council put a stop to it?' The Vicar was in mid-season form.

A large man was now approaching us, 'Hey buddy!' he growled.

'Ooh!' exclaimed the Vicar, 'The Yanks are coming. Overpaid, overweight, and over here.'

This was getting a bit thick.

'Oh,' said the American, 'I see, the famous British Bulldog fighting spirit, eh?'

The Vicar stood up and pointed at his adversary, 'That's how my Grandad got his war wound,' he announced, 'he fell over a Yank in Hyde Park.'

The American gent was grinning.

'Say,' he countered, 'how do you guys over here celebrate Independence Day?'

The Vicar seemed to lose track for a second.

'You what?' was all he could muster.

'I was just wondering what you folks do on the fourth of July.'

'I'll tell you what we do,' the Vicar was back on song, 'the same thing you lot did for the first two years of the war - fuck all!' And he launched himself at the Yank. More people quickly joined in until a mass brawl broke out. Mr Malinga and I headed for the exit on all fours, discretion and valour and all that.

Once in the safety of the Dog and Duck we ordered two large brandies and wondered what the upshot of all this might be. Suddenly the door burst open and in came PCs Hesketh and Chinn. Had we seen the trumping woman? Not since her performance, we assured them, and advised them that it was all kicking off in the church hall. They turned on their heels and left to sort it out.

Having reminded the Society of the Easter debacle it was agreed that TMP were not the solution after all. Mrs Strong nudged her husband and he spoke up.

'The auction house at Hexmondeley' was all he said.

Yes? What about the auction house at Hexmondeley?

'I have in my possession a pipe that belonged to Field Marshal Montgomery, you can auction that.'

'Hashtag fantastic!' said Mr Malinga, and the meeting was closed.
7

Hexmondeley Council has decided we should honour the sons and daughters of the Hexmondeley Triangle (incorporating Chobbingham and Claxham) who went on to fame, fortune, glory, or just plain made good. A celebration to coincide with the centennial of something or other, we weren't sure, since Mrs Dainty had taken the phone call. We do our best to keep on the good side of Hexmondeley Council since they give us funding, and basically allow carte blanche as far as ideas for Chobbingham are concerned. Ever since Mrs Strong paid them a visit.

Therefore, at the meeting of the Society on Wednesday night, first on the list was pondering what the centennial was for. Mr Harrington thought it could be World War One. Mr Malinga pointed out that we had already had a centennial for that. A one hundred and two years celebration would just seem like rubbing it in. Mr Strong agreed, we had done the World War One centennial thing, with the church service and tap dancing competition and everything. Then Mr Dainty spoke.

'Half Arthur.'

Mr Dainty is a firm believer in 'alternative' medication, and is constantly on it.

'Arthur who?' Asked Mr Strong.

'Arthur Negus?' Mr Harrington thought it was worth a shot in the dark.

'No, Half Arthur. Up until I was seven I thought that was how the Lord's Prayer started. Half Arthur, which art in Heaven.'

Everyone else stared at each other in disbelief.

'Oh, for fuck's sake.' It was Mrs Strong. 'Fucking Half Arthur.'

'No need to blaspheme.' Mr Dainty seemed to be offended.

I held up a sheet of paper from Peter Hoover, manager of Chobbingham Academicals football team, informing the Society that it was 100 years since the formation of Chobbingham Academicals. A major landmark, which was followed by 100 years of mediocrity stroke humiliation, apart from promotion to the Mr With It Fashion Boutique Division 4 in 1987. Swiftly followed by relegation to the Mr With It Fashion Boutique Division 5 in 1988. It's not called that anymore. It's called something else. We weren't even sure this was the centennial Hexmondeley Council were on about. Whatever it was about, what we needed to do was come up with a few of the Hexmondeley Triangle's (incorporating Chobbingham and Claxham) finest. It may take a while, but if we could come up with enough local heroes and heroines this one could run and run.

We had various suggestions, local comedian Bernie Boyce, of questionable humour, was an obvious choice. We also came up with Frankie Fontana, a 1950's crooner, long dead now, so it would prove difficult to get him to the Dog and Duck on a Sunday evening, or any evening, come to that. Rex Thubron, a TV quiz show host, until the demon drink got the better of him, who now has a local radio show. Jet Silvers, racing driver. Make that hopeless racing driver. Trevor Tambling, ex-football manager. They all seemed to have one thing in common, they were all a disaster at their chosen profession.

Geoff from the Dog and Duck had set the ball rolling by booking local politician turned organist, Jim Spickett. Jim had been the first Labour MP of Hexmondeley and, on his election, he commissioned a statue of Che Guevara to stand in Hexmondeley High Street. Except it didn't look like Che Guevara, it looked like Bill Oddie With A Beret On. We could only sympathise, after our Elton John/John Major With A Hat On fiasco. Although theirs was before ours, so we had made hay while the sun shone and organised a bus trip to laugh at it.

Mr Harrington was unenthused.

'He's the most boring man I've ever met.' Was his verdict. This, coming from such a joyless companion as Mr Harrington, was high praise indeed. Jim would be turning up at the Dog and Duck on Sunday night to regale us with a few showbiz tales and songs, and to answer any questions. Hexmondeley council decreed that tickets would be £2.50 a pop, £1.00 of which would be donated to the Society, provided we sold enough tickets, and could be bothered to turn up. We have had better meetings, and this one ended rapidly, with each member muttering and clutching a wad of tickets to be sold before kick-off, at 8pm on Sunday.

On Sunday night the Dog and Duck was full to bursting. Choc-a-blockery. The stage was set up like an episode of Parkinson, two chairs, a table, microphones, and the ever present keyboard and drums. The show was to be broadcast on Radio Hexmondeley as part of their 100 years of Hexmondeley Council. So that's what it was.

Geoff the landlord (dressed as Geoff the landlord) leapt on to the stage and began.

'The keyboard superstars of yesteryear, will we ever see their like again? Winifred Atwell, Bobby Crush, Beethoven.' He paused 'Oh, there'll be others as well.' Another pause. 'And one such one of the others would be organ-playing ex-Member of Parliament, Jim Spickett. Alan Price, that'd be another one. And what do you call that bloke who used to come up from under the floorboards, playing Oh I Do Like To Be Beside the Seaside? Andre Previn? No, that's not right. Anyway, Jim Spickett. He was an organist as well as those other organists. Was it Reginald something. Bosanquet? No, he read the news. What I'm saying is this, please say hello, and welcome, to Jim Spickett.

Generous applause, and Jim appeared from behind the curtain at the back of the stage. He milked the applause and settled into his chair. Geoff began again.

'In 1973, Jim Spickett, Labour MP for Hexmondeley, was admitted to Claxham General Hospital to have his tonsils looked at. While he was there, Jim had an experience that would change his life forever. Jim, what on earth happened?'

'Well, they looked at the tonsils and decided to operate. Of course, I immediately panicked and rang my wife, who was out, so I rang my mother, who was also out. I don't know if they were out together, but I wouldn't put it past them.'

Geoff tried again. 'But what happened to you in the hospital?'

'I'd had an injection to calm me down, I was a little bit hysterical, as you can imagine, and they began to wheel me down to the operating theatre. As we passed by ward 16 I heard a radio, and on it was Russ Conway, playing Side Saddle. As I went under the anaesthetic, crying and desperately groping at the surgeon's gown, I suddenly thought; 'I could do that, only on the organ'.

'Could you actually play the organ at that point?

Jim shook his head again. 'No, but immediately after I came round, I had an ice cream and booked some lessons. I thought at last, after years of being a Member of Parliament, here was something really worth doing.'

Geoff turned to the audience. 'A mere six weeks later Jim had left the Government, got divorced, and mastered his organ to the extent that he was now ready to gig. Jim, how did those early gigs go?'

'I was on tour, at Pontefract Jazz Club, supporting Brian Poole and the Tremeloes. I was billed as; 'Jim Spickett, The Organ Playing Ex-Labour M.P. For Hexmondeley.' Which wasn't very catchy, but I'd had to think on my feet, you know. Anyway, on I went, I was playing Tulips From Amsterdam, samba style. Well, it was on the samba setting, but they all sounded the same to me, and I didn't actually see the bottle that knocked me out. I'd noticed one or two flying through the air, but you have to understand that I had to concentrate on what I was doing, since I couldn't really play it properly. Anyway, as they wheeled me down to the operating theatre to have the glass removed, it suddenly hit me - I'd have to form a band. As soon as I came round and stopped shaking, I rang my old mate George Fletcher, who played the drums in the Army, he brought along Percy King the expert bass player, and there we were.'

'The Jim Spickett Trio.'

'The Jim Spickett Trio. Unless we'd already played there. If we'd already played somewhere, the second time we played we were called Jim Plus Two. So they wouldn't realise who it was until we were on. We'd been The Jim Spickett Trio, Jim Plus Two, Jimmy Romantic and the Lovey-Doveys, The Ford Cortinas, that was one of George's, and Bob Marvellous and the Bing Crosbies, that was Percy's idea, but I didn't much care for that. Whatever we were called, as soon as they saw it was us, they started to throw stuff.

'One night Jim was attacked by a drunken thug wielding a broken chair leg.'

'Oh yes, and on the way to the operating theatre to have it removed, I suddenly realised - what we needed was a girl singer.'

'And the girl singer you recruited was none other than former Forces sweetheart, Norma Joyce.'

'Big woman. She'd been the Forces sweetheart from November 1961 till January of the following year. Then the Forces went off her for some reason. She used to put the bongos between her legs, stand up, and sing and bash them at the same time.

'Didn't it affect her singing?'

'Yes, and her bongo playing. But people loved it and off we went to Belgium.'

'By that time you were The Jimmy Spickett Experiment, and you toured Belgium with Pat Boone.'

'I remember, it was when we reached Brussels that we heard the tremendous news. We'd been booked to appear on the Moira Anderson Hogmanay Special. Fantastic. Big break for us. That night, when we were on stage, Norma was singing and playing the bongos, bending over as usual, when suddenly her back locked and she was stuck like that. We couldn't get the bongos from between her knees, very powerful thighs, so we had to lead her off the stage, bent double, with the bongos still in place. They had a surgeon standing by to remove them, but we said leave her like that, 'cos we had to film the Moira Anderson Show the next night and if we got the bongos out, we weren't sure that we could get them back in again.

Geoff continued.

'After the Moira Anderson show things really began to take off. Val Doonican, Roger Whitaker, that woman with the hair who used to sing like a foghorn, they all wanted Jim Spickett on their show. There was even a special appearance on the celebrated late night satire show 'Oh How We Smirked'.'

Jim laughed.

'Oh yes, I was on 'Oh How We Smirked', yes. The camera zoomed in on me and I forgot to smirk, but apart from that it went alright.'

'Pete Townshend smashed his guitar. Keith Emerson knifed his organ, and some bastard vandalised the Blue Peter garden. Did you ever go down that route, Jim?

Jim gazed at the back wall of the pub.

'Well, I decided that, at the end of the gig, I'd climb onto the organ, jump off on to a trampoline, do a somersault, wave, and then George would catch me. So I did. Later on, as they were wheeling me around the hospital, it came to me in a flash. We would put wheels on everything, with little engines that would move us round the stage. So the drums moved one way, the organ moved another, and Percy had roller skates on himself and his bass, and he would dodge in between us. We'd call ourselves The Jimmy Spickett Movement. See? Movement. Right.

'We mastered it just in time for our biggest gig yet, the Royal Command Performance. We were in the middle of Last Train To San Fernando, in a Bossa Nova style, when George's drums went haywire and knocked me and Percy into the orchestra pit, before crashing through the back of the set and running over Sandie Shaw's foot. I was quite badly injured, and on the way to the operating theatre I began to realise that the game was probably up.'

'That's a shame.'

But Jim wasn't finished.

'Suddenly, it was 1976, I remember it vividly. I was lying on the beach at Scarborough, wondering whether to take my jacket off. It got a bit hotter so off it came, and I folded it up and put it beside me. Then I started wondering whether I should have an ice-cream, or whether it would spoil my tea. It was half past two so it was getting on a bit, and I'd been looking forward to that bit of plaice that I'd bought from the fishmongery. In all the excitement I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew I had a lungful of salt water and two paramedics were thumping the living daylights out of me. I saw a light at the end of a long tunnel, and as I was getting nearer, on comes that record by Terry Dactyl and the Dinosaurs.'

'We've got that on the juke box.'

'Should I put it on?' asked Jim.

'No.'

'Oh, okay then. Well, as I was saying, I came round in a flash, jumped up and ran to the phone to ring Percy. He was out so I rang George. I said 'We're reforming the band, and this time we're going to be called The Jim 'Oompah' Spickett Jugband Explosion'. He didn't care for that and asked if we could be called the Austin Allegros, but I knocked that on the head straightaway.'

'Quite right. Terrible cars'

'We managed to get Percy out of the nursing home for one last farewell gig, The Old Grey Whistle Test.'

'The Whistle Test?' Geoff seemed taken aback.

'Not the Old Grey Whistle Test. Seaside Special with Anita Harris. And the idea was that we'd all get into a speedboat with Anita Harris, and sing 'Slow Boat To China', only like Terry Dactyl and the Dinosaurs might have done it. You know, oompah oompah oompah. Of course it was a mistake to let Percy drive, he still had his bandage on from the Royal Command Performance.

'That was a terrible tragedy.'

'I dunno,' mused Jim, 'the Queen Mother laughed. Anyway, when Anita saw Percy she ran screaming into an ice cream parlour cum rock emporium. So we set off without her. It seemed alright at first, and we were halfway through the second verse when Percy put his foot down and drove head on into a party of shoe salesmen from Newton Abbot. They were on some sort of beano and hired a big boat, I dunno. Anyway, George and Percy rowed ashore on the double bass, while I went down with my organ. Later, as they were wheeling me down to the operating theatre, I thought that the best thing to do was forget all this pop music mallarkey, and go back to being a Member of Parliament.

'And did you?'

'No.'

Geoff began to wind up.

'Jim Spickett had turned his back on politics. He had also turned his back on popular music. If he'd turned his back on two other things he would have been back facing politics again. But he didn't. It was all over. In 1977 a proposed concept album about Ramsey Macdonald, with Kathy Kirby on lead vocals, was abandoned after a day and a half, when their record company found out what they were up to. In hindsight, Jim Spickett and his band did well to get as far as they did, and they got as far as Antwerp, with Pat Boone. Then they came back.'

'Yep.'

'Jim, I wonder if you would take us back in time, and give us one of the tunes from your heyday?'

'I'd love to.' Said Jim. And he walked off the stage. Geoff disappeared and, after two minutes, led Jim back on to the stage and pointed at the organ.

'Ah, right!' Jim suddenly got the gist. 'Okay. Right. Well.' He paused for a few seconds. 'Do you know, I was one of the first people in the country to own a Vauxhall Chevette. I'd seen it at the Motor Show, tiny little thing it was. They still managed to squeeze all of Showaddywaddy into it. At least we thought it was Showaddywaddy, but it turned out to be just some blokes. Anyway, I'd set my heart on one. I went to the garage, gave the man the money, no, tell a lie, I wrote him a cheque. I'm almost sure of it. Yes, I did, I wrote him a cheque. And then I drove it home. Green one, it was. I brought it home, parked it in the drive, and went and got my wife. You know, I can't recall which wife now. It must have been the first one. Yes, so I went and got my first wife. 'Come on love,' I said 'let's go for a spin in our new Vauxhall Chevette.' So she came out and looked at it for a while, walked round it, kicked the tyres, pulled a couple of faces, then she said,

'It's no good Jim, you'll never get your organ in that.'

So I said 'Ooh dear.' Then I said 'You know what, you're right.' And I took it back and got a Bedford van instead.'

He paused.

'I wrote a song about it, it was called 'The Day I Owned a Vauxhall Chevette' It went ... er ...' he played a couple of notes on the organ. 'Ner ner ner, er, what was it?' More random notes. 'Something about a green one. Now ... how did it start?'

The following day I stopped off at the Dog and Duck and was given a pint of Old Buggery on the house. The Jim Spickett show had been a huge success, and Radio Hexmondeley wanted Geoff to come up with more local celebrities, for a monthly series. I explained our problems with finding suitable cases for treatment, but Geoff waved this aside, he had drawn up a list for our perusal. I assured him we would peruse, but asked him not to hold his breath.
8

As usual on Wednesday night, and sometimes Monday, or another night if not everyone can make a Monday, I chaired the weekly, sometimes twice weekly, meeting of the Chobbingham Green Preservation Society. The beneficiary of this year's fundraiser, and how the funds would be raised, remained unresolved. Last year's efforts for the Church Restoration Fund had only managed to raise £67.50, and this after three weeks of bullying and cajoling, followed by a pantomime horse race. We had presented the cheque to the Vicar in a solemn ceremony on the village green, near the statue of John Major With A Hat On. The Vicar looked at the cheque, said 'Yeah, thanks.' and headed off in the direction of the Dog and Duck. After visiting every pub in the High Street he staggered into Ladbrokes and put what he had left on a greyhound. No restoration work was done last year.

The church would again be the beneficiary this year, this was the consensus, although Mr Harrington said the Vicar was a bloody disgrace and ought to be defrocked. Mr Malinga said he could donate 27 jars of home-made bergamot marmalade, which hadn't sold as well as he had hoped in the Post Office. Mrs Strong said 'Ugh!', but Mr Dainty said he liked it and to put him down for six jars. Mr Malinga thanked Mr Dainty and added that he didn't want to see the Vicar walking around without a frock on. Mr Dainty then said hang on, better make it two jars, there was no point in getting carried away.

Mr Dainty then said he had a plectrum that had belonged to Jimi Hendrix, and maybe we could auction it. He had seen Hendrix somewhere or other in 1969, and Jimi had thrown the plectrum at him. Mr Harrington asked Mr Dainty if he had any provenance. Mr Dainty said he had some valium and some Yeast Vite, but no provenance, although he added that he may be able to get some if Mr Harrington explained what it was he was after. Mr Harrington asked if Mr Dainty had proof, and Mr Dainty said yes, he had a scar under his eye where the plectrum had hit him. Mr Strong said that was good enough for him, how else could he have got such a scar? But Mrs Strong said Mr Dainty could barely stand up half the time, and that anything could have caused it. She was of the opinion that Mr Dainty was lucky to turn up with all limbs still intact. Mr Dainty said better make it three jars and Mr Malinga said three jars it is.

Mr Dainty asked if he should bring in the plectrum but Mrs Strong said bollocks to the plectrum. I had to confirm to Mr Dainty that without proof that it was Jimi Hendrix's plectrum, it was just a plectrum. Mr Dainty said he could always write 'Jimi Hendrix's plectrum' on it, and Mrs Dainty said that that might work, but it was pretty clear by now that the plectrum idea was on its last legs.

Mr Strong said never mind, and produced a wooden box from a carrier bag.

'As promised,' he announced, 'this is a pipe that once belonged to Field Marshal Montgomery.' He opened the box and held the pipe aloft. 'Ladies and gentlemen, Monty's pipe!' There was a general intake of breath as we stared in awe at this relic of El Alamein.

However, Mr Harrington was yet to be convinced. Had Mr Strong any provenance? Yes, he had - a letter from his uncle which states quite clearly that it was Monty's pipe. He produced the letter,

'In the letter my uncle says that Monty gave him the pipe after Sicily, and there's a photograph.' He passed the snapshot around, which showed Monty with his uncle, who was holding the pipe aloft like he'd won the FA Cup. The letter said that this was the very pipe that Monty used to use to point at maps and things, and that, using a prodding motion, he had taunted Rommel with it. Monty was also in the habit of tapping it out on Auchinleck's head, like, the letter said, Benny Hill might have done. He had also used it to entertain the troops by getting completely bladdered and pretending to be Popeye.

Mr Harrington was tapping away at his phone.

'It says here that Monty was a non-smoking teetotaler.' He had Googled it.

'Wikipedia is never wrong.'

'What about the letter?' asked Mr Strong, pointing at the letter. Mrs Strong nodded, and also pointed at it. But Mr Harrington said if it was on the internet it must be true.

So we had a plectrum that may have belonged to Jimi Hendrix, or anybody else, and a pipe which almost certainly didn't belong to Field Marshal Montgomery. This reminded me of Mrs Strong's legendary appearance on the Antiques Roadshow. She had taken along her father's grandfather clock, believing it to have been a family heirloom, and had contentedly sat back, waiting for the inevitable astronomical evaluation. It turned out to have been bought from Littlewoods catalogue in 1973, and the years had not been kind. It was valued at £6.75. A furious Mrs Strong picked up a nearby cricket bat and destroyed the clock. However, the cricket bat, also destroyed, had belonged to Sir Garfield Sobers and was valued at £400. An expensive day out for the Strongs, and I was beginning to wonder if the drama would be replayed at the Hexmondeley auction house. Perhaps I could say I have a cold and can't come. Something like that.
9

The Society made their way to Hexmondeley auction house on Friday with little hope of success. The Vicar, who was to be the beneficiary of the funds, which would go towards the restoration of the church, insisted that he should attend, and proceeded to get paralytic as soon as the mini bus (generously supplied by Chobbingham Academicals FC - played 12, won 0, drawn 1, lost 11) set off.

At last week's meeting we had two contributions. From Mr Dainty, a plectrum which probably didn't belong to Jimi Hendrix, and from Mr Strong, a pipe which almost certainly didn't belong to Field Marshal Montgomery. However, in the meantime, Mr Harrington had offered a reproduction china bowl, which had belonged to his wife, who was a huge fan of The Kinks and had thrown herself off a bridge. Fatally.

Of our objects, Jimi Hendrix's plectrum was first off the blocks. The auctioneer did his level best.

'£20? £10? A fiver? No bids? Come on ladies and gents, this period plectrum in a sort of reddy orange that might have belonged to the great Jimi Hendrix. £1? The gentleman at the back, £2 from the lady at the back. Do I see £3?' This was promising, and going better than any of us had dared hope.

On and on it went, up to £9, when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mr and Mrs Dainty bidding against each other. I approached them and asked what they thought they were doing. Mrs Dainty was trying to bump up the price. Mr Dainty said he had a plectrum just like that one and thought a pair of them would add more credence, and fetch more at auction. I explained to him that this _was_ his Jimi Hendrix plectrum. After a couple of seconds he said

'Oh', then he shouted to the auctioneer 'I don't want it now.'

And Mrs Dainty added 'Neither do I, mate.'

A voice near the front said 'I'll take it off your hands for a quid.'

It was the Vicar. The auctioneer banged his gavel, or whatever it is, and the Vicar handed over £1, which was then given to Mr Dainty, who then handed it back to the Vicar for the fund. No fee was charged, since we had explained the charity aspect, but the auctioneer gave us a frosty stare. This didn't stop the Vicar dancing around and playing air guitar with his Jimi Hendrix plectrum, singing that he'd stand up next to a mountain and chop it down with the edge of his hand. We had to take him outside, along with Mr Dainty, who had joined in.

Leaving Mr Dainty and the Vicar swigging whisky from the Vicar's vacuum flask we went back inside to find the bidding for our next item, Mr Harrington's reproduction china bowl, up to £400. We would have gladly settled for that, but the bidding continued. Now it was £575, £600, finally selling for £625. This was much more than we had ever raised previously. We thanked Mr Harrington who said he couldn't stand the thing and had thought it might fetch about fifteen quid.

The next lot was our final item, Monty's pipe. The auctioneer held it aloft, saying that the pipe may have belonged to Monty, in the same way that a mop and bucket in the corner may have belonged to Monty. The pipe was even less likely since Montgomery was a non-smoker, but had probably done a bit of spring cleaning in his time. Mrs Strong was becoming agitated. Was her heavy medication wearing off? We were too far from Chobbingham to call for Dr Glossop and his big syringe. There were no bids. Mrs Strong rose to her feet - how dare they question the genuine, genuity, genuineness? Mr Strong had a go,

'Realness. Reality. Real estate?' After a brief conflab they settled on validity but I'm not convinced that that was the word they were grasping for. Mrs Strong just seemed to become more incensed by this detour.

'Of course it's Monty's pipe, you thieving bastards! You want it for nothing so you can flog it for a fortune next week when we've pissed off!'

She approached the auction room staff menacingly. The crowd began to scatter for the exits, chairs flying.

'Vicar!' shouted Mrs Strong. The Vicar was still outside smoking and drinking.

'Trouble!'

The Vicar flicked his cigarette at a passing cyclist and marched purposefully into the hall, taking off his coat and throwing it at Mr Harrington.

I already had Mrs Strong down as favourite for this particular contest. Now the Vicar had joined in they were odds-on certainties, a shoo-in. And so it proved. Most sensible folk had taken to their heels, those who didn't retreat were left bloodied and sprawling. Then I spotted Mrs Strong pick up the china bowl (the one that had made us £625 only minutes earlier), with the intention of hurling it at the auctioneers head. Which she did.

The world slowed down for a few dreadful seconds as it left her hands and flew through the air. The rest of us gasped in horror. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Mr Malinga appeared, also flying through the air. Salmon-like? Peter Shilton-like? I couldn't say, but he grasped the bowl just before the point of impact with the auctioneer's head, and the day was saved, literally. This incident brought everyone to their senses and we quickly grabbed the £625 and scarpered.

There was no sign of the Vicar on Saturday afternoon. Not in the bookies or any pub in the High Street. Was he ill? Had he had some sort of epiphany and mended his ways? Was the church restoration underway? He had £625, what was going on? The Society aren't regular visitors but we all attended church on Sunday in order to see if there was indeed a new, improved Vicar.

For his sermon the Vicar took to the pulpit and rambled on, trying to imagine the twelve disciples as a football team. Except he could only remember half of them, so he decided he would play St Peter up front alongside Carlton Cole.

'He's finished!' It was Mrs Pemberton.

'All right then, Harry Kane.'

'That's more like it.'

'Hang on, St Harry, is that one of them? The Apostles?'

'No.' It was Mrs Pemberton again.

'Okay, so it's St Peter and Harry Kane up front." He was writing all this down.

'There we are. 4-4-2.'

'No one plays 4-4-2 anymore.' Mrs Pemberton was taking all of this very seriously.

'Well, maybe they should.' Mr Harrington chose this point to join in. The Vicar looked at Mrs Pemberton while pointing at Mr Harrington.

'There you are. Anyway, never mind all that. I think it was Saint Paul in a letter to the Corinthians who said you've got to speculate to accumulate. Not sure which letter it was. It may have been one that got lost in the post. I mean, God knows what the Royal Mail was like in those days. Anyway, that's what I've done. I've speculated to accumulate. And with that in mind, meet Chobbingham Flyer.'

Then, right on cue, a greyhound popped up from behind the pulpit and went

'Woof!'

'He's a flying machine,' the Vicar explained, 'watch this!'

At that, Mr Easterby burst out of the vestry trailing a teddy bear on a bit of string. Mr Easterby is 68, and not as swift as he once was, but he set off on a circuit of the church, heading for the west aisle. The Vicar waited, then slipped the leash.

'Go on my son!' he cried, and Chobbingham Flyer was off in pursuit. Mr Easterby still held the lead at the first bend but halfway down the west aisle, or back straight for the purposes of this exercise, the Flyer collared him and he went careering into a stand of lit candles and an arrangement of flowers which were hiding Dr Glossop's trike. When the dust settled Mr Easterby got up gingerly and asked the Vicar if that was all right.

'All right?' Said the Vicar, 'It was bloody greased lightning! 600 notes! We're gonna be quids in!'
10

The Vicar attended last week's meeting in order to ask us if we would go 50/50 with him on the training fees for his new greyhound, Chobbingham Flyer. Mr Harrington gruffly pointed out that the late Mrs Harrington, by dint of her china pot, had in fact paid for the hound. The Vicar said it was no good to her now, was it, and offered us half of all winnings and a nod and a wink when the dog was 'trying its bollocks off'. The argument raged until Mrs Dainty said that a friend of hers, who runs a dog sanctuary, could kennel and train the Flyer and do it at a reasonable fee. She agreed to bring said friend along to the next meeting, to be vetted by the Society and the Vicar. This was agreed and then the Police arrived.

It was Inspector Drake from Hexmondeley. One of Hexmondeley's big guns. He was calling about the fracas at the auction house where the Vicar and Mrs Strong had gone haywire. Inspector Drake wanted to hear our version of events. It was at that moment that the Vicar transformed himself from Johnny Rotten into the Archbishop of Canterbury. He had acted in self defence, how dared they attack a man of the cloth, he had prayed for them in church on Sunday, especially the auctioneer who was a complete fucking knobhead, pardon his French. The Inspector then turned to Mrs Strong who said the auction room staff were all bleeding wrong 'uns.

One could see that Inspector Drake was taking a very dim view of all this. He asked Mrs Strong and the Vicar to accompany him to the police station. Mrs Strong stood up and took the Inspector by the arm, leading him to a private corner. I could not make all of it out but the Policeman's Ball, which is held in the grounds of the Strongs' estate, was mentioned, as well as the Chief Commissioner, some photographs, a balloon, a pair of handcuffs, Mrs Drake, and sheep worrying. The Inspector returned to address us all, saying he didn't need to detain us further and to be careful in future and all of that. Mrs Strong retook her seat shaking her head. Time had beaten us and the meeting was closed.

As promised at last week's meeting, Mrs Dainty turned up with her friend from the dog sanctuary, Miss Phelps. The Vicar was again present in order to weigh up the proposal. He asked if we minded him interviewing Miss Phelps without any interruption from us. This was agreed.

'Miss Phelps, nice to meet you.' The Vicar began amiably enough. 'That's an unusual outfit you have on'

Miss Phelps said it was purely practical. The Vicar then asked if she had been fixing a car. Miss Phelps said no, she hadn't.

'Oh sorry,' said the Vicar, 'you looked like you might have been. No oil, funnily enough.'

'That's because I haven't been fixing a car, I run the Claxham Dog Sanctuary'

'Quite right too.' Said the Vicar, 'No job for a woman, fixing a car.'

'Why not?' Asked Miss Phelps.

'So you can fix a car? Would you have a look at mine? It's making a sort of rattling sound.'

'I can't fix cars,' said Miss Phelps, 'I'm just wearing dungarees.'

But the Vicar wouldn't be deterred,

'It's going derderderder. That's more of a knocking, isn't it?'

'I don't know,' said Miss Phelps, 'I'm not a mechanic.'

'You look like one. Have you ever tried to fix a car?'

Miss Phelps hadn't.

'You ought to give it a go.' The Vicar grinned, 'You might be good at it, then you wouldn't need to run that dog thing.'

Miss Phelps said that she devoted her life to the dog's home, and thought of it as a calling.

'Well done.' said the Vicar, 'As I say, no job for a woman, fixing cars. So how did you get started with dogs?'

Miss Phelps explained that, when she was 12 years old, her pet dog Snuffy was hit by a train. Not full on, just a glancing blow, but he was in a bad way. The Vicar asked how fast the train was going. Miss Phelps said about 100 miles per hour. Very fast.

'That is fast, yeah.' Agreed the Vicar, taking a swig of whisky from his vacuum flask.

'Bugger." He mused, 'Old Snuffy there, woof woof, arf, arf, next minute, bang! 100 miles an hour.'

'Yes, anyway,' continued Miss Phelps, 'I nursed him for three weeks but in the end it was no use and we had to have him put to sleep. It was at that moment that I decided to devote my life to animal welfare.'

'What, when the train hit it or when you had it destroyed?' The Vicar asked.

'When I lost him.' Miss Phelps seemed a little upset, 'I was devastated.'

'At least he didn't suffer.'

'He did suffer,' Miss Phelps raised her voice, 'he suffered terribly!'

'Ah well,' said the Vicar, 'it was only a dog.'

Miss Phelps voice became even louder,

'He was my dog, he was the family pet, we all loved him.'

'Well then,' the Vicar countered, 'maybe you should have had him put down a bit sooner.' He moved quickly to change the subject.

'Are you the greyhound trainer, or does your husband do it?'

Miss Phelps said she wasn't married.

'Well, maybe if you smartened yourself up a bit.' The Vicar was now giving advice on romance.

'Pardon?' Miss Phelps patience was being tried to the limit here.

'You know,' the Vicar continued helpfully, 'maybe it's all the hairs and the smell and the dungarees. The right man will come along, but put some effort into it. Wear a nice frock now and again'

Miss Phelps explained that she was gay. It appeared to have no effect at all. The Vicar went on along the same lines until Miss Phelps stood up, banged her fist on the table and shouted

'I'm a lesbian, you bloody dinosaur effin' moron!'

'I know, you said.' said the Vicar, 'But there's no need to be. There's no need for anyone to be a lesbian in this day and age.'

'But I am!' Miss Phelps was on the point of exasperation.

'Don't let it get to you, you're letting it rule your life. Chin up!' Said the Vicar cheerfully.

'I work in animal welfare. That rules my life. And I find your attitude very offensive.'

Miss Phelps got up to leave.

'What?' The Vicar was holding out his hands in an innocent gesture. 'You brought it up. You were the one banging on about being a .......'

'I came here because I thought an animal's welfare was at stake.' Miss Phelps had interrupted a Vicar in full flow.

'Yeah, well we've done that now, love.' This was more like the Vicar we all knew.

'Anything else to admit?'

'No, and I'm leaving.' And Miss Phelps left.

'Good luck with that,' the Vicar called after her, 'and keep your pecker up!' The Vicar chuckled at his own joke, then turned to us all and said 'I think that went rather well.'

Mr Strong agreed,

'Not right for training the Flyer though.'

'Nah,' said the Vicar, 'she was a dead loss.' and he sloped off towards the door, lighting a cigarette as he went. 'Dog and Duck?'

We all agreed that, taking the whole episode into consideration, the Dog and Duck was indeed the only course of action.
11

Jack Walker is still, officially, a member of our Society, but he hasn't attended a meeting since July 2011. On Saturday night myself and Mr Malinga were having our usual drink in the Dog and Duck when Jack walked in. Mr Malinga is a recent member of the Society and unaware of Jack Walker, so I explained.

Jack was in MI6, a secret agent, and a Geordie. He had an accident in Bolivia, something fell on his head. Mr Malinga asked what had fallen on his head. A Bolivian, I informed him. Two Bolivians, actually. On two separate occasions.

'So four Bolivians fell on him?' I assured him that it was one Bolivian, not the same Bolivian, but one Bolivian on two separate occasions. Mr Malinga said it was still unlucky. I agreed and explained that Jack had never been the same since. Not the full shilling. Not completely barmy, but pensioned off. He joined the Society but never attends now. The one thing he cannot abide is people who think he has a screw loose. It is a dangerous thing to suggest that he is, as he himself so eloquently puts it, bastard mental.

Jack had spotted me in the Dog and Duck and came to join us. I asked him how he was feeling.

'I'm alright, me. I'm not bastard mental if that's what you was thinking.' His Geordie twang pressing home the point. He turned to Mr Malinga

'I can name every Grand National winner since the war, in order. Now, could I do that if I was mental?'

Mr Malinga seemed very impressed and suggested that Jack should go on the telly, he could win some money doing that. Jack said it was on his list of things to do, and he produced a tatty piece of paper. Mr Malinga studied it.

'Oh, yes' he said, 'there it is, number 4, win money on the telly.' He continued to scan the document. 'Learn to tap dance, paint something pink, reap the wild wind.'

'Hang on, hang on, I've done that' Jack interrupted.

'Have you?' Mr Malinga was astonished.

'Aye, I went back to Newcastle and painted me mam's house pink. And the garden. All of it. She went bastard mental so I got the next train back here. Do you want a game of dominoes?' We didn't.

'I've got me own calypso band as well. Calypso Kenneth and the Calypso Kenneth Allstars. I'm Calypso Kenneth. We do a bit of ska an'all.' But that wasn't the only news, Jack was actually going to appear on a TV quiz. Treasure Quest on cable channel UKOK, live on Wednesday night. Unfortunately none of us have UKOK, but Jack said not to worry, Geoff has it, so we could watch it here in the Dog and Duck.

Wednesday's meeting was concluded fairly rapidly. The only subject being the jukebox at the Dog and Duck, a vinyl one, which hadn't seen a new record since 1974. When asked why this was, Geoff the landlord would simply tap his nose and say,

'Pour encourager les autres'.

One day I finally asked him what the jukebox had to do with Voltaire, or Admiral Byng, and he replied that he had no idea, when he took the pub over he had made a similar remark and the previous landlord had tapped his nose and said the same thing to him. So he just continued the tradition. But we didn't have time for all that now, and we closed the meeting and headed for the Dog and Duck. We had missed the first half of the show but were informed that Jack had beaten off his opponents and was in the final. We settled down to watch.

The host appeared.

'Hello, and welcome back to our live TV quiz, Treasure Quest. Three contestants started, now only one remains. Let's meet our finalist once again - Jack Walker!' Applause. Jack was sitting in a Perspex bowl, wearing headphones. 'As we already know, Jack is a tap dancer and hot air balloonist who has never been to Poland.'

'Liar!' It was Mrs Strong. 'He's mental, everyone knows that!'

The host continued,

'Now Jack, you've already won a toasted sandwich maker, three pairs of trousers and a spacehopper. Those are safe. And you are three questions away from our super jackpot prize of £1000!'

'Is that all?' Asked Mrs Strong. We tried to explain that it was a small show on a cable channel but she harrumphed all the same.

'Are you ready?' Jack was.

'Are you nervous?' Jack wasn't.

'First question. Which horse won the Grand National in 1961?'

Mr Malinga turned to me,

'He'll know this, for sure.'

Jack paused.

'Nicolaus Silver.'

'Correct!' A cheer echoed around the Dog and Duck.

'Second question, Jack, take your time. Geography. What is the capital of Bolivia?'

'He must know this.' Mr Malinga and I agreed.

No messing this time, Jack steamed in.

'The capital of Bolivia is La Paz.'

'Correct!' More cheering in the Dog and Duck.

'One more question, Jack, ready?'

'Aye.'

'Music. Who was the composer of the Blue Danube?'

There was a lengthy pause. Too lengthy.

'The Blue Danube.' Jack mused, 'is it an instrumental?' A collective groan from the Dog and Duck regulars.

The host tried to help,

'Er, yeah, sort of, yeah.'

Jack asked if it was reggae. It wasn't.

'Blimey.' Jack was struggling. 'It's not reggae.' Another long pause. Suddenly inspiration struck and Jack perked up in his chair.

'Eric Clapton!'

The host wanted to make sure,

'You're saying the composer of the Blue Danube was Eric Clapton?'

'Aye.'

'I'm sorry Jack, it was Johann Strauss.'

Jack wasn't happy.

'Who?'

'Johann Strauss. We can hear a bit of it now.' On it came. 'There, do you recognise it?'

Jack bridled.

'What the hell's that? How am I supposed to know about bollocks like that? I wouldn't listen to that bollocks, do you think I'm bastard mental?'

'Jack.' The host was backing off now.

'If you listen to bollocks like that it's you who's bastard mental, not me!' At that, Jack got out of the chair, threw away the headphones, kicked the Perspex bowl until it smashed and he was out and heading for the terrified presenter. 'Asking us mental questions like that, you bastard!' The screen went blank.

The Dog and Duck fell silent.

'You know,' said Mr Strong, 'I thought he knew it when he said Clapton.'
12

On Monday morning I turned on the TV for the local news. It was the usual gallimaufry of cats up trees, lorries stuck in Claxham one way system, drunken OAPs hitting lamp posts. Then there was an article about a local man who had been abducted by aliens. I glanced at the screen and up popped Mr Dainty, looking as confused as ever. The reporter asked him what had happened.

'I was walking home along the path next to the woods, when a space ship came down and abducted me, just like that.'

The reporter asked what the space ship was like.

'Well, there was a lot of purple, everything was purple. Purple everywhere. Very purple. A bit too purple if you ask me, and I like purple.'

'What did the aliens look like?'

'Well, one looked like Zoe Ball, and another one looked like Claudia Winkelman, but they didn't all look like TV presenters, one looked like my Aunty Irene, I think that one was the leader. But it was okay, they gave me cups of tea and that. And space biscuits, they had space biscuits, they didn't have any Penguins or custard creams, 'cos I asked.'

'And did they probe you?'

'I'm not sure, what would a probe look like? If it's purple then they could have done. At one point I was running down the street in World War One with no pyjamas on.'

'And how has it affected you?'

'When I got back I realised I had all these powers. I've been doing horoscopes and gazing into balls and playing cards and that.

With that the interview ended. At Wednesday's meeting we asked Mr Dainty about the episode.

'Yes,' he said. 'I was coming home after a night at the Vicarage.'

'Hang on.' it was Mr Malinga, 'You spent the evening with the Vicar?'

'Yeah. After the pub, me and Mr Glover went there. We'd been listening to White Noise. Delia Derbyshire who did the Daleks, or wrote all their songs, something like that. The Vicar had a hip flask of something and he put it in the beer. It went down a treat.'

This was all starting to make sense. Mr Harrington joined in.

'So you spent the evening with the Vicar, drinking God knows what, and listening to white noise?'

'Yeah.'

'You were hallucinating, you daft bugger.'

'Well, it all seemed real enough.'

Mrs Dainty joined in.

'My husband is a bright and perceptive man. I remember, years ago, when my sister had twins, she was worried she wouldn't be able to tell them apart so she came to us for advice.'

'And what pearls of wisdom sprang forth?'

'Dave (Mrs Dainty calls Mr Dainty 'Dave', which is fair enough I suppose) said don't dress them up in the same clothes, they need separate identities.'

'Separate identities.' Confirmed Mr Dainty.

'So he said she should call one Elvis, and the other Adolf, and dress them up. So Elvis had a quiff and a white jump suit, and Adolf had his hair plastered down and wore a Nazi uniform, and swastikas.'

'Good grief.' Even Mr Harrington was appalled at the idea.

'And a little moustache on Adolf.' Mr Dainty, realising the Devil is in the detail.

'And she drew a little 'tache on Adolf.' Mrs Dainty confirmed. 'And it worked. Adolf had to take off the swastika before they would let him into school but, apart from that, it was fine.'

Mr Dainty turned to Mrs Dainty.

'There was the Tesco's incident.'

'Ah yes, but that was a one off. She got them mixed up one day and they ended up wearing the wrong outfits. She took them to Tesco's and they wandered off. The manager had to find her, Elvis was goose-stepping up the toiletries aisle, and Adolf was singing Love Me Tender by the cooked meats.'

'But she kept it up.' Mr Dainty added.

'Where are they now?' Mr Harrington asked.

'Let's see . . .' Mrs Dainty gazed at the ceiling. 'Elvis is a Shakin' Stevens tribute act, and Adolf . . .' She looked at Mr Dainty for support.

'I think he went to Poland.'

'Ah, yes.' Mrs Dainty nodded. 'He did, he went to Poland.'

We decided to drop the subject of alien abduction. Suddenly, Mrs Strong's booming voice broke the silence.

'I'm thinking of buying a megaphone.'

We were all curious to know why.

'So I can wind down the car window and shout instructions at people.'

'That's not a bad idea.' Mr Harrington was on board.

Mr Malinga begged to differ.

'It's a terrible idea. You could cause an accident.'

'Rubbish.' Shouted Mrs Strong. 'More likely prevent one.'

'Anyway, you don't need a megaphone.' Said Mr Dainty, 'You've got a voice like a foghorn.'

There was a collective intake of breath. Mrs Strong's medication had been working effectively for a while, but something like this may result in a call to Dr Glossop and his big syringe.

'No, I don't need one do I?' Mrs Strong seemed quite pleased with Mr Dainty's observation. Very odd. Had she paid a visit to the Vicarage? No, she's not the type.

Mr Harrington's political manifesto had branched off in a new direction, he informed us.

'Keep Britain Left!' He said.

Mr Strong asked what he meant.

'We must keep driving on the left.' Mr Harrington was emphatic. 'And I think I can quote me on that.'

'Okay.' Said Mr Strong. 'I didn't know we were planning to change.'

'Don't be so naïve.' Snorted Mr Harrington. 'With these Brussels Bureaucrats running the country, that'll be next. I've written to Nigel. I only trust countries who drive on the left. Apart from Australia.'

'Ooh, yes, Australia.' Mrs Strong sucked a thoughtful tooth.

Suddenly, Mr Dainty said if we asked him the time of day, at any time of day, he would be accurate to within thirteen minutes. So Mr Harrington did the honours.

'What time is it now?

Mr Dainty looked at his watch and said, 'It's about half past eight.'

Mr Malinga looked at me despairingly and mimed a drinking motion, so I declared the meeting closed.
13

At this week's meeting Mr Harrington was bemoaning the defeat of our ping pong team to Claxham. He complained that we couldn't beat them at anything, but Mrs Strong pointed out we had soundly thrashed them at go karting. Mr Malinga said that was because Ken, Mr Goode's Zen monkey, had electrocuted the Claxham team. Justifiable genocide, huffed Mr Harrington, but Mr Malinga said it wasn't on that scale, and you couldn't imprison a dumb animal, especially a Zen one.

I thought we had better move on from this pointless conversation to another one - the wreath for Mr Blowman, who had breathed his last at a celebration of his 92nd birthday in the Dog and Duck. He blew out his candles, sat back in his chair, then he himself expired. Nobody noticed for half an hour, or thereabouts, and we had entrusted Mrs Strong with the task of coming up with a suitable wreath to commemorate his passing.

'Ta-daaaa!' Mrs Strong unveiled it. A wreath in the shape of some cricket stumps, with the message 'A Good Innings' underneath. We stared at it.

'Mr Blowman hated cricket.' It was Mr Malinga.

'No he didn't.' Countered Mrs Strong.

'He did.' Confirmed Mr Harrington. 'He used to say all cricketers are bastards.'

'No.' Said Mr Strong, 'he used to say all jockeys are bastards.'

'Oh yes,' said Mr Malinga, 'he used to say that too.'

'And all photographers.' Mr Harrington again.

'Well, he's not going to know, is he?' said Mrs Strong. 'Anyway, we're stuck with it now.'

'He died with a party hat on.' Mr Dainty appeared to be on another planet. 'Not a very dignified way to go.'

'Sat with it on for half an hour.' Mrs Dainty shook her head, 'At a jaunty angle. And heaven knows at what point someone put the party blower in his mouth.'

With that I called a halt to proceedings and Mr Malinga and I adjourned to the Dog and Duck, where Geoff the landlord (dressed as Geoff the landlord) was in a foul mood. The darts team of the Queen's hotel in Claxham had thumped the Oddfellows arms six nil, and had then gone on a tour of every other pub in Chobbingham, crowing about it.

'We don't even have a darts team.' Observed Mr Malinga.

'I know.' Moaned Geoff, 'That just made it worse. I could beat the lot of them, I'm a county player, but no one else in here plays darts apart from you two.'

'And I'm hopeless.' I admitted.

'At least you can hit the board, the rest of them can't. If we could find six who could do that, we could take them on.'

'I'll play.' Volunteered Mr Malinga, a brilliant player and the only one in the pub who could run Geoff close. 'And the Vicar is a very good player.'

Geoff wasn't so sure. 'He's great when he's sober. But when was the last time he was sober?'

Geoff had a point. Two good players, a not-so-good player and the Vicar still didn't make a six. Geoff asked if the Society had any decent players. Mr Malinga and I laughed, which just seemed to darken Geoff's mood even more, so we drank up and went home, thinking no more about it.

On Saturday night I met Mr Malinga at the Dog and Duck for our usual convivial evening. We had just taken our seats when the Vicar came over to join us. What did we think of the new Dog and Duck darts team? We asked what team?

'Me, Geoff, and you two.' He grinned.

'Have they agreed to cut their team down to four?' Asked Mr Malinga.

'No.' the Vicar's grin was even wider.

'So how are we going to get around that?' I wondered, fearing the worst.

The Vicar moved his chair closer to us and began to explain the plan.

Monday night was the big showdown, the Queen's Hotel, Claxham, at home to the Dog and Duck, Chobbingham. Mr Goode drove us to the venue in the Zen Buddhism Bus cum Mobile Library, but had declined an invitation to join the team, reasoning that it may upset his Chakra, and that his aura had turned purple the last time he threw a dart. The Vicar laughed and said there was a lot of it about.

We were welcomed with jeers to the effect that we were lambs to the slaughter, and it would be all over the Claxham Clarion sports pages, as was every other drubbing of a Chobbingham darts team. After a snifter or two to steady the nerves we were ready, and Geoff was up first. He made short work of their opening bat, or whatever it is, which quietened the Claxhamites, and Mr Malinga followed. Also on top form, he slammed their number two, and the Vicar did some sort of break dance and knocked over Teetonka, the full size wooden Native American cigar dispenser statue thing. This just upset the locals even more.

While the Queen's darts team rushed to help Teetonka to his feet, I spotted the Vicar pouring something into their drinks. When he joined me I asked what he was doing.

'Just to be on the safe side.' He winked.

'What is it?' I asked, unsure if I wanted to know the answer.

'I've got a small laboratory at the Vicarage, nothing grand. I'm what you might call an enthusiastic amateur.'

I wasn't too sure about all this. 'Don't you think that's going a bit too far?'

'It's not poison.' He laughed. 'Look.' And he took a sizeable swig.

'What is it?' Again, I wasn't sure I wanted an answer.

'Well, the nearest thing to this would be . . .' He gazed at the ceiling. 'Mescaline. Not a bad drop, although I've made better.

Teetonka was back upright and in place. I looked around, Geoff and Mr Malinga had left the building. It was my turn next. I'm no dart player, but I did my best. All I can say is that this team are local champions, and I didn't win. In my defence, I played a lot better than the Vicar, who took to the oche after me, clearly sozzled on alcohol and pseudo mescaline, and was crushed by Percy Marsden the hairdresser. It was as if the Vicar was a non-trier, he was that bad, and I believe he deliberately hit Teetonka between the eyes with one wayward dart.

The Queen's team were bouncing now, chanting the Claxham Is Better Than Chobbingham song, barking like dogs, swatting imaginary flies and pointing at things that weren't there. This, of course, was all part of the Vicar's plan, so that what happened next wouldn't set any alarm bells ringing.

Shortly after playing, Geoff and Mr Malinga had left the pub but, amidst the mayhem caused by the Vicar, no one had noticed. But the fifth rubber was about to start.

'Where's the rest of your team?' The Queen's captain asked. At that, in walked Geoffina Jones, and Mary Malinga. This had been Geoff's idea. He had been dressing up as Geoffina, his 'sister', for years, and no one had noticed until that fateful night in the Dog and Duck with the port and lemons and pints of lager. Mr Malinga, under duress, had been coerced into borrowing some of Geoffina's clothes, and here they both were.

The jeers were ribald, there was no other word for it.

'Hello boys!' Geoffina waved at us and he and Mary Malinga tottered over to us.

'I don't know about this.' Said Mr Malinga, looking sheepish. At that, one of the Queen's team pinched his bottom. The Vicar guffawed.

'Cheer up.' He said. 'I got you a Babycham. And look, they've put on a buffet.'

He paused.

'Eat, drink and be Mary.' He added, and cackled and wheezed in time-honoured Vicar style.

Geoff and Mr Malinga had proved too strong for the Queen's players before the Vicar had done his bit. Now, after their team had imbibed the deadly concoction, it was a foregone conclusion. 4-2 to us. The Claxham team didn't seem unduly bothered, and apologised for not having a trophy to present to us.

'That's okay.' Said the Vicar. 'I bet the landlord we could have Teetonka if we won.' He then grabbed the life size wooden Native American cigar man statue and we headed for Mr Goode's bus, happy with our evening's work.

On the way home, Mr Malinga asked what our forfeit would have been, had we lost. The Vicar was very reluctant, and said there was never any fear of our losing, so what difference did it make now? This sounded suspicious. Eventually our Vicar explained.

'I said he could have Mr Goode's bus. But when he saw Mary here, he said forget the bus, could he have a night out with her?' He looked at Mr Malinga. 'So I said I'd give him your phone number if they won.'

Mr Malinga said nothing. Mr Goode said nothing. That's Zen for you.
14

Mr Strong has become a Justice of the Peace. He's not supposed to tell us about the cases he hears, but try stopping him. This week Mrs Crabtree was up before him for feeding shrapnel to a Labrador. Mrs Crabtree's eyesight isn't the best, and she wears bottle bottom spectacles, when she hasn't lost them. On this particular day she had lost them, and spotted a guide dog statue outside the newsagents. She put 50p in its mouth and went on her way, and it was only when the dog started to choke that Mr Glover, its owner, rushed out to see what was happening.

Mr Glover sports a full head of hair until the wind blows. Then, Mr Easterby says, he looks like Ralph Coates. Not sure who that is. Anyway, hair a-flapping, Mr Glover did some sort of Heimlich manoeuvre on poor Towser, and he coughed up the coin.

'You only had to look at the woman.' Said Mr Strong. 'She was distraught. She works for the RSPCA for goodness sake, it was clearly just a mistake. So I only gave her 240 hours community service. I mean, you have to set an example, you can't have people going hither and thither, forcing 50p down any passing canine's gullet. It's part of the Trying To Feed Metal To A Dumb Animal Act of 1892. Or something.'

'Quite right too.' Said Mr Harrington. 'Bang the lot of them up, I say. They get away with murder these days.'

'Pour encourager les autres.' Said a stern Mr Strong.

'My thoughts exactly.' Agreed Mr Harrington. Although I bet they weren't.

'Hang on.' It was Mr Malinga. 'Isn't that what Geoff says when you ask him why his jukebox hasn't had a new record since 1974?'

'Geoffina says that too.' Mr Dainty was back in the room. From goodness knows what universe.

'Wouldn't that make a good motto for our Society?' Mused Mr Strong.

'What's wrong with Totum Dependeat?' Mr Harrington had come up with Totum Dependeat. 'All Can Rely On Us.'

'Yes,' said Mr Malinga, 'but it doesn't mean All Can Rely On Us.'

'Well what does it mean, then?' Mr Harrington was bordering on irate.

'Let it all hang out.' Replied Mr Malinga.

'What?' Mrs Strong was mortified. 'You mean to say I was handing out leaflets at the W.I., instructing them to let it all hang out?'

'I like it.' Mr Dainty beamed.

'Me too.' Mrs Dainty beamed.

'Well I'm not having it.' Mrs Strong announced. 'From now on it's Pour Encourager Les Autres.'

I made a note to that effect.

'I wonder what it means.' Mrs Strong added, to no one in particular.

After the success of the radio show where Geoff the landlord had interviewed Hexmondeley MP-turned-organist Jim Spickett, another treat was on the way on Sunday. This time in the shape of Jet Silvers, another of our native sons and an ex Formula one driver. Although we had chosen him as the guest, none of us knew much about him, so Sunday night at the Dog and Duck seemed an ideal opportunity.

The stage was set as before, with another full house at the Dog and Duck, and Geoff the landlord (dressed as Geoff the landlord dressed as compere) took to the stage.

'Hi there sports fans and listeners to wonderful Radio Hexmondeley.' He began enthusiastically, 'Welcome to another local celebrity night at the Dog and Duck, on Chobbingham High Street, just next to Betfred's. The 1980s was a golden age for motor racing. Alain Prost, Nelson Piquet, Ayrton Senna, all legends in their own time and, for an impressionable young man of the time, heroes and icons to aspire to. Amongst the myriad impressionable young men of the 1980's was one particularly impressionable young man on whom it all made a particular impression. So much of a particular impression that he would become one of the big names in motor sport. Cars, girls, meditation and world record attempts would follow. As would total obscurity. That impressionable young man who ended up obscure was none other than Jet Silvers, The King of Speed. Jet Silvers, he had it all. So, as our Vicar might say, how come it all went tits up? Let's find out shall we, as we welcome Hexmondeley boy – Jet Silvers.'

At that, a little fat bloke ambled on and took a seat. Jet Silvers, I presumed. Geoff commenced the interview.

'Jet, you were one of the legendary names in motor sport in the 1980s, but I'd like to begin by taking you back to the beginning where it all began. Where did it all begin?

'Oh man, as a kid I'd always loved speed. I used to watch all these guys flying round the track, Emerson Fittipaldi, Nicki Lauda, James Hunt, and I used to think, 'Hey, those guys are cool. I wanna be one of those guys', 'how fabulous would that be?' I used to think. So I pestered my mum till she bought me a Ford Fiesta, I painted it orange and stuck silver sevens all over it, and there I was, ready. Fabulous.

Geoff seemed in awe.

'So you began at these smaller saloon car events, and not long after you were spotted by Frank Trubshaw of Trubshaw Racing.'

'Yeah, man, the top Formula One team in the business. He signed me up on the spot, fabulous. And it was all down to that little Ford Fiesta. When I became more successful I bought my mum and dad a new house. Mind you, I had a hell of a job getting them to move into it.'

'Why?'

'Well, it was nowhere near as nice as the house they already had. It was a gesture, you know, a kind of 'Hey, you guys are cool.' They weren't of course. They were old.'

At this point, Geoff introduced a new feature to the show, a recording, of Frank Trubshaw reminiscing about our Jet.

'And this,' Geoff announced 'is the voice of Frank Trubshaw'

From nowhere, well, the speakers in the Dog and Duck, if I'm honest, came the voice of Frank Trubshaw.

'I was at some saloon car meeting or other and noticed this young chap trying to chat up the women. Showing them his orange Ford Fiesta, and combing his hair and making them feel his muscles. He wasn't getting anywhere but I thought I'd keep an eye on him. Anyway, when the race started he shot off like a bolt of lightning, took the lead and went away. By the third bend he was well clear, then he lost it and spun into a big Fairy Liquid advert. He got out of the car and he was blubbing like a baby. Sobbing. I couldn't believe it. It was only a dent in the bumper. 'Look at it!' He's saying. 'Look at my car!' I thought he was going to faint. Then he ran at the car, kicked it, fell over, and pretended he'd broken his leg. Rolling around, screaming in agony he was. Then, when no one did anything, he just got up and sidled off. But, you know, I knew he had . . . something. Call it instinct, I don't know, but I went over and signed him up as the number one driver for Trubshaw Racing. He started blubbing again and saying 'Wait till I tell my mum'.

Geoff asked Jet if he remembered that day.

'Oh yeah, are you kidding? There I was, with the silver seven, the Fiesta. I had to fight off all the chicks just to get into it. I set off, did the fastest first three bends ever seen, and the car couldn't take it, bang, I totalled the Fairy Liquid sign. I got out of the car and they said, 'Jet, Jet, you've broken your leg.' But I said 'Leave it guys, that stuff's for losers, I'm Jet Silvers.' I think that's why Frank Trubshaw noticed me.

Geoff was loving this.

'At the start of the next Formula One season, the boy from the hard shoulder of the pit lane of life, had moved into the fast lane of life onto the starting grid of motor racing driving. Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. Jet Silvers had arrived.'

'Oh, man. I had the Trubshaw car, bright orange with a load of silver sevens on it. It was like greased lightning.'

'Like that song with John Travolta out of Grease?'

'Yeah.' Said Jet, then he paused thoughtfully. 'No, no, faster than that, faster than that.'

Geoff pointed at the speakers.

'Frank Trubshaw takes up the story.'

'The first Grand Prix was in Brazil. Jet was in pole position because he'd managed to get round one practice lap before he ploughed into an ice cream van. When the ice cream man came back from the pub there was half his van missing and raspberry ripple everywhere, most of it on Jet. Anyway, we cleaned him up and got him onto the starting grid. Off they went and whoosh! He was gone, like a rocket, and by the third bend he was well clear, then he lost it. He went flying through a hedge, bounced off a tractor and landed upside down in a duck pond. Then, for some reason, he got out and waved. Portugal, San Marino, Monaco, Canada, he never got past the fourth bend. He was hitting adverts, hay bales, giant inflatable Gordon's Gin bottles, you name it. And then he'd get out and wave. I was beginning to have second thoughts, I can tell you.'

Jet seemed oblivious to all of this.

'Yeah, I was the King of Speed. Could I help it if I was too much for the car? I was making serious bread, I was a hit with the chicks, and I was on the telly advertising Nifty Noodles. Remember them? They were all the rage at the time. The idea was that I would come down on a parachute into the grounds of a stately home. I have a quick look around, then I shin up a drainpipe into Britt Ekland's boudoir, and leave a silver seven and a packet of Nifty Noodles by her bed. And of course when Britt wakes up she's over the moon. All she has to do is add water.'

'Fabulous.' Said Geoff.

'Fantastic. Fabulous. Chicks aplenty, if you know what I'm saying. Or is it akimbo?'

'Chicks akimbo?

'Yeah, man. Chicks akimbo. And with all the money from the driving and the adverts I bought my own bachelor pad. I had it fitted out with all these gadgets, you know, like James Bond or something. Goldfinger. It was fabulous. Press a button, the TV comes up out of the floor, press a button, the curtains close, press another button, the wardrobe door opens, press another button and the fish tank lights up and plays Be-bop A-Lula, press another button, all the windows and doors are bolted.

'It sounds fantastic.'

'It was fabulous.'

'Fabulous, I mean.' Geoff continued to point at the speakers.

'Frank Trubshaw remembers it.'

Frank took up the story.

'The James Bond flat? Oh God, yes. I remember we had to go to the BBC Sports Personality of the Year bash. He'd been hopeless all season, but for some reason millions had voted for him. As some sort of joke, I suppose. Anyway, he was right in the running, and we had to go, so I rang him and told him to be there by 7.30, and he said 'Okay, relax, don't be square, man' or something like that. Anyway, I'm at the BBC, and it gets to half past eight. Still no sign of him. The word was that Barry McGuigan was going to walk it, so I sloped off to ring Jet to find out what was going on. The phone rang about ten times and then I heard this whimpering voice on the other end. When he calmed down it turns out he'd let the electricity meter run out, and he couldn't get out of the flat. Nothing worked unless you pressed a button, so he was stuck. I rang the Fire Brigade and went round to see what I could do, and here he is being carried down a ladder, clutching a blanket and blubbing. I might have known.'

Frank chuckled, then his voice became more serious.

'But I had a problem. He was so popular, he brought in so much sponsorship and media attention, that I had to keep him on as our number one driver for the following season. Even though he never actually finished a race. Three seasons this went on for.'

Jet laughed. 'Fabulous, yeah. The King of Speed – he always leads. That was me.'

It was Geoff's turn to turn serious. 'But none of us knows what lurks round the corner. Unless you've got one of those mirror things that people use when they're reversing out of a drive onto a country lane. And in real life we can't all have a mirror. Well, we can, but it won't tell us the future, that's what I'm trying to say. And Jet certainly didn't, did you?'

'It was going fantastic. Then, all of a sudden, I decided to learn karate. I'd seen Bruce Lee at the pictures beating all these blokes up and I just thought I'd have a go. After about a month of doing it, the little instructor feller, Japanese bloke, or Chinese, I don't know, he comes up to me and he says 'Jet', he says, 'Jet my son, why do you want to learn karate?' So I said, 'So if anyone gives me any lip, I can go over and beat the living daylights out of them.' And he says 'You what?' I said, 'So I can beat the living daylights out of them. O wise one.' You know, 'cause it was karate and that. And he threw me out. I tell you what, before he did, he gave me a right good hiding. Oh, he was good, gave me a proper pasting. At the end, I'm lying there in agony, and I looked up at him, and I said 'That's it, that's the sort of thing I'm on about.' And he threw me out.

'The karate calamity incident proved to be the turning point that was round the corner of Jet's life. His injuries meant that he couldn't drive the Trubshaw car, and he was dropped as number one driver. Frank Trubshaw had to break the news.'

'He turned up bandaged from head to toe, on crutches, with his bottom lip quivering. When I told him we'd got a replacement for him he started blubbing again. He said 'You can't replace me! Who's good enough to replace me?' When I said Andrea de Cesaris he shouted 'What? A bloody woman!' Then he became hysterical and I had to get four mechanics to hold him down while I poured a bottle of vodka down his throat. After a while he started singing the greatest hits of Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Titch. It was a terrible tragedy.'

'His Formula One career over, it was left to girlfriend Melanie Ashcroft to pick up the pieces.' Geoff, pointing at the speakers again. The voice of Jet's girlfriend, actress and model Melanie Ashcroft, filled the room.

'I met Jet at the British Grand Prix, he'd crashed out on the second lap, and as he was walking back to the pits I asked for his autograph. He stopped crying long enough to sign my book, and then he said, 'Do you want to come back to my pad?' Of course I said yes, I mean, he was the King of Speed. Plus, he looked like he might start blubbing again if I said no. So we went back to his flat, and he was pushing all these buttons and the windows were opening and closing and the telly was going up and down. Then the cupboard doors would start slamming and he kept saying 'Bugger' all the time, pressing more buttons. He kept saying he had an LP by Emerson, Lake and Palmer, and how great Emerson, Lake and Palmer were, and how he was really into all that sort of thing. Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Eventually he found the right button and the record player popped up from behind a lava lamp. He gave me a big red sticky drink with umbrellas in it and said, 'Listen to this, this is Emerson, Lake and Palmer.' He put it on and then he took it off again after about thirty seconds and said, 'And then it goes on like that for about an hour and a half.' Then he put on Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, and Titch. Bend It Bend It.'

Geoff continued. 'Melanie, at that time, had become a devotee of the Eastern wise man Swami Sammy Shibboleth and, in light of Jet's problems, persuaded him to join her on a transcendental weekend in Keswick.' He turned to Jet, who spoke with enthusiasm.

'Oh yeah, Melanie told me about this meditation guy. I was near the edge, man. I was looking into the abyss. And it's not very nice, looking into an abyss. So I went, and he was fabulous. He started talking, and I said to Melanie, 'Is he really from the East?' and she said 'Yeah', so I said 'What part of the East is he from?' and she said 'Hartlepool'. Anyway, after the induction he trots over and I start telling him about myself, and he was nodding and then he says 'You should never put all your eggs in one basket'.'

'That's true.' Geoff nodded.

'Yeah. Then he said 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush', and he just walked off. Over the next few days he'd pass us cards while we were meditating. They'd have messages on them like 'A watched pot never boils' or 'Every cloud has a silver lining' or 'Go to the shop and get me twenty fags and a pint of milk'. It really opened my eyes. I was happy there, then he came up to me one day while I was trying to stand on my head, and he said 'Jet, why don't you have a go at the world water speed record?' I said I didn't know if I could afford it and he said I could, and he should know 'cos I'd handed all my finances over to him. I said 'Isn't it a bit dangerous?' and he said 'Well, the early bird catches the worm' and 'There's many a mickle maks a muckle.' And I thought right, I'm going to do it.'

'And you contacted your old mentor, Frank Trubshaw'

'Yeah, and we built the Silver Seven Nine, 'cos we'd had eight sevens before so it seemed the obvious name. It was bright orange, with silver sevens all over, and a big advert for Swami Sammy and his meditation weekends. When we got to Lake Windermere, the Swami said he would walk on the water from one side of the lake to the other, to show there was nothing to fear. But when the time came he said, 'I don't think I'll bother now, too many cooks spoil the broth.' And he just stood there smoking a fag instead.'

'But Frank Trubshaw was unsure about the wise man.' This time Geoff didn't point, but merely gestured at the speakers.

'That Swami feller, yes, he kept hanging around the boat, polishing his advert with his sleeve. When I told him to clear off he said 'You have to make hay while the sun shines.' Then he tried to sell me a watch.'

Jet defended the Swami. 'He tried to sell everyone a watch, that was just his thing, or one of them. Anyway, finally the big day arrived, all the press and media were there. I was going to do it at midnight, when no boats were about and the water would be nice and still. I had all day to prepare, so the mechanics took me for a drink, just to relax. Anyway, I got a bit too relaxed and they had to carry me to the boat on a chair. Frank went off it.'

Frank's voice filled the room again, we were starting to get the hang of this.

'He was plastered. He appeared in a chair, singing Bend It Bend It with sick all down his shirt. I wanted to call it off, but the Swami feller says 'Procrastination is the Mother of Invention' and Jet shouts 'Frank Zappa!' and jumps into the boat and off he goes.'

Jet laughed. 'Yeah, man. I got out onto the lake. It was pitch black and I couldn't see the dials or anything. I'm pressing buttons, click, click, click, nothing, then, hang on a minute, zoom, we're off! I thought I was flying, man, it felt fabulous. I pulled up and I was cheering and punching the air, then Frank came on the radio, I'd only been doing 32 miles an hour. Anyway, I rev up for the second run, and I'm off again. This time I'm going a bit faster, I think, I still couldn't see a thing. Suddenly I shoot out of the lake and up a bank. It kept going, well, it had wheels on it. Up and up, faster and faster, smash, straight through the window into the bar of a hotel. They seemed surprised to see me. I couldn't move. I was in shock.

'Did they give you a brandy?' Geoff with his landlord stroke St John's Ambulance hat on. Two hats, if you like.

'I think I'd had enough, don't you?

Geoff began to wind up. 'The water speed attempt a disaster, Jet returned from hospital to find his bank account in the red, and a note from the Swami which said simply 'It's easier for a rich man to buy a camel, than to get into Heaven in a nice coat, or something'. Nobody knew what he meant. Jet settled down and married Melanie, and started his own driving school.'

'Yeah. The Silver Seven Driving School. I'm doing fabulous.' And he got up and started handing out business cards. 'First lesson free!'

Has anyone taken him up on his offer? I hope not.
15

Mr Harrington is a Special Constable. He is also a man of strong political views. At the last election he decided he would stand as the UKIP candidate for Hexmondeley South, but was turned down for being too right-wing. This hasn't blunted his ambition, and he booked the church hall on Sunday night to deliver a talk entitled 'Let's Stop Immigration Before It Starts'. A less than appealing title, and no one bothered to turn up, except two Romanian electricians who had done some work for Geoff at the Dog and Duck (excellent work at reasonable prices, according to Geoffina). No one knows exactly what went on at the meeting, but the upshot was that the two Romanians were now rewiring Mr Harrington's bungalow.

There was no meeting of the society on Wednesday evening. Instead, Mr Goode picked us up in the Zen Buddhism Bus Cum Mobile Library in order to take us all to Boxmouth dog track, where Chobbingham Flyer was having his first outing in public.

Mr Strong, who is now training the beast, had earlier taken the Vicar and the Flyer to Boxmouth in his shooting brake. At least that's what he calls it. It's a Renault Kangoo, or it was when it was new. Mr Harrington, who was still overseeing Romanians, wasn't with the party, but the rest of us were, and we jumped aboard. From nowhere, Mrs Strong produced a crate of Old Crafty Bastard and off we went.

When we got there we headed for the kennels and saw Mr Strong standing outside one of them, apparently having a heated debate with its inhabitant. None of us expressed surprise until we peered into the kennel, and there was the Vicar, sitting next to the Flyer, smoking one of his outsize spliffs.

'Don't do that!' It was Mr Malinga. 'He's got to run in fifteen minutes.'

'He's alright.' As usual, the Vicar was adopting a very cavalier attitude to the whole thing. 'He likes the smell.'

Mr Strong was taking a dim view of all this.

'I've been telling him that for half an hour'

'Half an hour?' Mrs Strong had joined in. 'How many have you smoked?

'I don't know.' The Vicar shrugged.

'He can't run in that state.' Mr Strong again.

'Maybe not,' said the Vicar, 'but we've had an idea for a concept album.' And he let rip with an hysterical wheezy chuckle, and the Flyer barked his approval. 'He'll get the munchies, he normally has a bag of crisps after a smoke, he'll catch the hare in no time. Track record tonight.' And they laughed and barked again. No one else was laughing.

'What's the album called?' Mr Dainty hadn't grasped the situation at all.

Ten minutes later the dogs were parading for the Flyer's race. Somewhat misguidedly the Society had, collectively, placed £400 on him to win earlier in the day. Online. Trap 2. After seeing the Vicar and the Flyer in their cups, we had attempted to cash out. Twenty-seven times. But no, we were stuck with it. As the dogs paraded past, the Flyer, in the blue jacket, led by Mr Strong, seemed slightly dozy. No, more than that, comatose. He lay down in front of the stands and, after a huge sigh of satisfaction, dozed off.

Mr Strong gently shoved and prodded, to no avail, eventually picking up the hound and carrying him to the traps, to the cheers of the Boxmouth regulars. Once there, the dog came round, placed his front paws on top of the traps, then wagged his tail and gave a loud 'woof!' as he was placed in trap 2.

'See, I told you he'd be all right.' It was the Vicar. 'Remember when he caught Mr Easterby down the back straight of the church? He was off his head then too. He'll have the munchies now. No bother, this.'

The lights dimmed and the hare began to whirr. Louder and louder, faster and faster, hurtling and rattling round towards the traps. The dogs barking and baying, demanding to be released and do what hundreds of years of breeding had prepared them for.

Bang! The traps opened and these magnificent specimens burst out and gave chase at blinding speed. All but one of them. I looked back down the track and zoomed in on trap 2, to see a tail wagging.

'He's facing the wrong way.' Mrs Dainty - as Lieutenant Columbo.

Not for long. He backed out and shot off the track, into the crowd and behind the stand. We hurried through the throng, wondering what had taken his fancy. We found him on his hind legs at the hot dog van, with the hot dog man feeding him one long sausage after another.

'He loves these.' Grinned the hot dog man, and the Flyer gave another 'woof!' and wagged his tail.

'Let's get him home.' Said Mr Strong. And he slipped the lead on to the Flyer and led him away.

'Oi!' It was the hot dog man, 'That'll be £41.86.'

'What the fuck for?' Mrs Strong was becoming agitated, and not a big syringe or a Dr Glossop in sight.

'Fourteen hot dogs.'

'Are you charging us for fourteen buns?' Mr Malinga has a mind for business.

'It's not the buns you pay for, he ate fourteen sausages, and a Wagon Wheel. I'll let you off with the Wagon Wheel.' He looked behind him at a very tatty box of Wagon Wheels. 'Fourteen hot dogs, £41.86, and I'll throw in the box of Wagon Wheels, gratis.'

'How many Wagon Wheels are there?' Mr Dainty asked.

'Nine.'

Mrs Strong was becoming more incensed. 'We don't want your fucking Wagon Wheels and you can whistle for your £41.86.'

'Your dog ate fourteen of my hot dogs. Cough up.'

'But no fucking buns!' Mrs Strong had a point. And she pointed it at the hot dog man.

'Pay up, you frosty faced old cow.' This was a Boxmouth man, obviously, a Chobbingham man would have had more sense.

Mrs Strong grabbed the bottom of the van and began to rock it back and forth.

'No fucking buns, no fucking buns.' She howled, the van rocking in time to rhythm of her atonal screeching. 'No fucking buns!' She gave a final heave and over went the van with the hot dog man still in it.

We drove back to Chobbingham in silence.

Mr Goode dropped myself and Mr Malinga at the Dog and Duck, after instructing us to be at peace with it and accept it for what it was. Mr Malinga, a devotee of Mr Goode's Zen Buddhism teachings, said he might accept it for what it was if he knew what it was, so what was it, what it was? Mr Goode said it was all part of the plan. Mr Malinga pointed out that, if Mr Goode had found himself fifty quid short because of a stoned mutt, he might take a different view of events. Mr Goode said it was ok for Mr Malinga to think that, but Mr Malinga said he was going off the idea of Mr Goode and his Zen Buddhism pamphlets. To which Mr Goode replied 'Fuck you, then.' And drove off.

Waiting for us at the bar of the Dog and Duck was Mr Harrington. He looked at us expectantly.

'Well? How did it go?'

The colour drained from him slightly as the whole sorry tale unfolded. But he quickly cheered up after another double whisky, and said he had saved more than he'd lost by hiring Ovidiu and Vergiliu. They had rewired his bungalow at half the price George Smailes had quoted, and in half the time.

Geoff joined in. 'Yeah, look at this place now. Like a fairy grotto. Dimmer switches, multi-coloured fairy lights. It's like a Hawkwind concert in here.'

This led myself and Mr Malinga to ponder what a Hawkwind concert might be like. Quite dimly lit, if this was anything to go by. Geoff was about to continue waxing lyrical about Romanian tradesman when the jukebox ground to a halt, mid Suzi Quatro inviting us to come alive at Devil Gate Drive, and the whole pub was plunged into darkness. Mr Harrington was silent for a second or two, but only for a second or two.

'Bloody Ovidiu and the other one!' he boomed, 'No wonder Nigel Farage is up in arms!'

The following day there was no sign of Ovidiu and Vergiliu, and George Smailes discovered he had a busy couple of weeks ahead. He also called most of the good folk of Chobbingham, asking them not to let on to Mr Harrington about the power cut on Wednesday night. At least until he'd clattered about in Mr Harrington's bungalow for a few days.

Geoff at the Dog and Duck was in the loop, and would remain unscathed and uncharged. Being the good humoured and kind hearted sorts we are, and seeing as how it was Mr Harrington, we were more than happy to oblige. Don't give me that disapproving look, you have to admit he had it coming.
16

After the debacle at Boxmouth dogs, the Strongs invited the rest of the Society to Chobbingham Grange on Saturday night, in order to discuss future plans for the Flyer, and have a bit of a knees up afterwards, time permitting. The Vicar wasn't invited since he is seen as something of a bad influence on the greyhound, who had become very fond of his enormous spliffs. We couldn't let that sort of thing go on any longer. Not after Boxmouth.

By 8 O'clock we were all assembled, apart from Mr Strong, who was collecting something in Hexmondeley. It was all very secretive and the rest of us felt that, since Mr Strong was in permanent loco parentis of the Flyer, we couldn't really start without him.

Everyone was sitting nursing their drinks, and smiling wanly, when Mr Harrington spoke.

'Am I the only one who thinks Apple Tango was a bridge too far?'

Here was a curve ball if ever I saw one. We all silently studied the implications of Apple Tango, then Mr Harrington expanded.

'I mean, Orange Tango, yes, even Lemon Tango, very acceptable, but Apple . . .' He gazed into the distance. 'Horrific.'

'What about Blackcurrant Tango?' Mr Dainty attempted to get into the spirit of the thing.

'Frivolous, decadent and unnecessary.' Was Mr Harrington's conclusion.

Local Post Office owner, and purveyor or soft drinks to Chobbingham for over twenty years, Mr Malinga, had some interesting information.

'Apple Tango was the thin end of the wedge. When they brought out Cherry Tango I ordered a couple of cases, thinking it was a winner. After two weeks of sitting on the shelf they began to explode. Mrs Butcher was bending over to get a Daily Mail, and was hospitalised with bruised buttocks, and Mr Easterby's cat was knocked unconscious when a tin of the stuff flew out of Mrs Pemberton's shopping bag, went thirty feet into the air, and landed on his bonce. The remainder of the cans were recalled, and I was financially recompensed, but it was Armageddon for a limited period, while stocks last.'

There was no topping that particular Tango anecdote. Luckily, it was at that point that Mr Strong returned home. He was clutching a package, and Mrs Strong exclaimed

'You've got it!'

'Yes, they located it.' Beamed Mr Strong. And they began to tell us about Mr Strong's Great Aunt Dotty, who had been something of a celebrity in her youth. In 1975, local radio station Radio Hexmondeley had interviewed her for posterity, and a series they were doing about local characters, which sounded familiar. Apparently it had been the stuff of legend at Chobbingham Grange, but no one, apart from a youthful Mr Strong, had ever heard it.

Mrs Strong, the new money in the Chobbingham Grange family, was all for it. Anything that separated her from the Hoi Polloi and confirmed her landed status was welcomed with vigour. In the same way that any mention of her father's knicker business was brought to a grinding halt, even though that was where all the money had come from. Mr Malinga had brought it up one night in the Dog and Duck and was met with a curt 'Drop the knickers.' from Mrs Strong.

Mr Strong produced a CD from the package and placed it on the tray, which slid smoothly into the machine. He paused before playing it.

'My Great Aunt Dotty was a legend in these parts, and beyond. I heard this interview when it was broadcast, in 1975, and I haven't heard it since. I thought it had gone forever but Radio Hexmondeley found it in their archives, and were kind enough to contact me.'

He plied us all with more drinks, and pressed play.

The narrator, 1970's local radio hotshot Nick Stevens, began.

'Come with me now, back in time, back, back, further back than that, back, right back. Remember, the past is another country. It's like . . . Finland, only warmer. It's a country we've all been to, but can never return back to. Unless we build a Tardis. But that's quite a long way off. The Roaring Twenties, the Jazz Age, a revolution in fashion and morals. The young ladies of this social whirl, the bright young things, were known as flappers, and the Queen of the British Flappers was Dorothea Grey. Dorothea, or Dotty as she was more usually known, was the star of all the important social gatherings, and regularly appeared in the gossip columns of the newspapers, and the pages of the society magazines. Permanently accompanied by her invisible friend, Binky Boffington, she was the toast of London, the Home Counties, and most of the Hexmondeley area. But what became of her? Where is she today? 'Dead!' I can hear you all saying, and that's what we thought, but no. Now living in a nursing home in Hexmondeley, Dotty Grey is 75 years young. This is her story.'

The dialogue then shifted to a live interview with Dotty herself. The interviewer started proceedings.

'I'm here in the Hexmondeley nursing home with Dotty Grey, and . .' he was soon interrupted by Dotty screaming at some poor nursing home assistant.

'Was that the rabbit? Because it tasted like chicken. What? Fish, you say? Well it tasted of chicken. The ice cream tastes of chicken too. And the banana.'

Nick attempted to plough on.

'Right, Dotty.'

But she wasn't having any of it.

'The only thing that doesn't taste of chicken is the chicken.' She lowered her voice conspiratorially. 'And we don't get that. Only on Thursdays. And that tastes of a sort of spam. Can you still get spam?'

Nick said he thought you could, so Dotty asked what it tasted of. He paused for a second.

'Ah, er, chicken?'

'I thought so! I'm 108, you know.'

Just for a second Nick Stevens appeared to be ready to engage her in an argument about how old she was, but thought better of it.

'Ok. Dotty, you come from quite a wealthy family, don't you?'

'Oh yes, yes. Father used to say 'Girls, don't worry about money, we're up to our arses in it.' Now, I'm not sure how much that would amount to, but if it comes up to your arse, you would imagine it's substantial.'

'Yes. But nonetheless your mother was politically active, she got herself involved in the Suffragette movement.'

'Oh yes. Mother, yes. In 1903 she went to the Derby to throw herself under the King's horse. She got onto the track at Tattenham Corner, but when she saw the horses coming she lifted her skirts and ran like hell. Ended up finishing fourth. It didn't count, of course, but what a splendid effort.'

'But you yourself weren't interested in politics?'

'Not really, I was more interested in having a good time. Binky and I.'

'Binky Boffington? Your invisible friend?'

'He wasn't invisible, people just had great difficulty in spotting him. What a shame. Now Binky, he was a lifelong socialist. I can picture him now, standing by the fireplace in his orange underpants, smoking a pipe and saying that he would not cease until the workers owned the means of production. Although where that would have left Binky, Lord only knows.' She paused. 'Have you brought me a Twix?'

Nick hadn't. He moved on.

'And in those days you were on the covers of magazines, in the papers.'

'Oh yes. I'd begun in 1923 as a chorus girl in the Ramsey Macdonald Scandals. Of course it wasn't really scandalous, and Ramsey Macdonald knew nothing about it. That was just the name of it. Then I got a starring role in the Stanley Baldwin Follies, which was the first time I ever slid down a bannister and did the Charleston. Then one night, I had a dream about a giant chicken that was out to get me. It was driving a big blue charabanc. Frightened the life out of me, I can tell you.' She cackled. 'I told Binky, and he said 'Let's go to the Henley Regatta', and off we went. When we got there I had a few drinks and I thought I saw the giant chicken again. Only not in the charabanc this time. Just standing on a bridge, laughing its head off. Well, I ran towards it and heaved it off the bridge into the Thames. Only it wasn't a giant chicken, it was the Prime Minister's wife. Luckily, everyone saw the funny side. Apart from the Prime Minister's wife, of course.'

Nick was struggling to get a word in.

'Right.' He offered, but Dotty was just getting into her stride.

'And the balls. It was all balls in those days. You know, I must have held some of the biggest balls in England. Everyone was there. And Archie Templeton, he was always there, so young and handsome. He didn't seem interested in me. Probably thought me and Binky were an item.'

At this point we leave the nursing home, and a new character is introduced. Archie Templeton. A long-time admirer of Dotty's.

'Ah yes, Dotty's parties. We had the Prime Minister there on a couple of occasions. I remember his wife, great fat bint, huge arse, great feathered hats and frocks. Looked like a huge chicken. She used to put her finger in her mouth, wet it, stick it in the air, and then nod. As if that was that sorted. Unless she was trying to stay upwind of Binky Boffington. Apparently he absolutely stank.'

Nick intervened.

'But Binky didn't really exist, did he? He was just Dotty's invisible friend.'

'No, no one actually saw him, but we were assured. . . Dotty, you see. But the story was that he honked to high heaven, reeked. He was a first rate chap, mind. Lifebuoy! That's the feller. That would have done the trick.'

Nick asked what those parties were like.

'Well, it's a long time ago, you know. History tends to get re-written in one's own mind as well as in the history books. For example, in 300 years' time, people will look and think that we believed in the Guy Fawkes the Firework Man. You'll open up a book, and it will say, 'The Beatles, for all their bravado, still believed Guy Fawkes the Firework Man.' So you can never be sure about anything.'

That seemed to be the end of Archie, for now, and Nick Stevens continued with his voice over.

'By the end of the decade, the Twenties were coming to a close. Soon, the depression would hit Britain, and decadence and frivolity and rich people arsing about would no longer hold any fascination for the working classes. On New Years' Eve 1929, Archie held a lavish party at his country retreat, and waved goodbye to the decade with a bang.'

Dotty took up the story.

'Ah yes, Archie called it the Ball To End All Balls. It was wonderful. Binky had lovingly prepared the buffet, correct down to the last detail. Then, at the last minute, must have mislaid it because it didn't appear. Archie was furious, and went looking for him, but he couldn't find him anywhere. As usual, I entertained the crowd, I played the ukulele and kicked a chest of drawers repeatedly until they were demolished, then I screamed 'Sorry Mother!' and threw the ukulele at Lloyd George.' She cackled again. Nick asked what Lloyd George was doing there.

'As usual, he was wandering around denying all knowledge of anyone's father. Then Archie reappeared, sniffing the air. He went and had a word with the Prime Minister's wife and then came over to me. I'll never forget that night. It was the last time we'd all be together.'

This was turning into a romance. Archie took up the story.

'I'd been in love with Dotty for years. Besotted. But she only seemed to have eyes for Binky, her invisible friend. I went over to her, and asked if she would like to take a walk in the garden. We managed to give Binky the slip, I think, and we went outside. I remember it was quite cold, so I gave her my jacket. We walked and talked about this and that, and the sounds of the party grew more faint. Eventually we reached the clearing, near the minaret, and stopped and drank in the last few dregs of the decade. She looked so lovely, staring up at the stars, smoking her pipe, her hair bright orange from the new shampoo I'd bought her for Christmas. She took a pork pie from her handbag and offered it to me. I took one from my pocket and said 'Snap!' And we laughed. For about three quarters of an hour. The she playfully kicked an acorn, which flew into a tree and bounced off a sleeping squirrel's head. It dropped from the branch like a stone. Luckily it was only stunned, and it staggered off into the blackness. We laughed again, but this time only for about twenty-five minutes. Suddenly a gust of wind blew up and she shivered, and I knew the clock was ticking. I turned. I wanted to tell her. But I didn't say it. I didn't say it. We walked back to the house and later, as their chauffeur pulled away, I stood at the window and watched as Dotty, and Binky, her invisible friend, disappeared down the driveway. As they pulled away it began to snow. Very romantic. For them.'

Suddenly, Archie shouted.

'Arsenal two Norwich Nil! Two-Nil! Or was it 2-1? I'm not sure it was even Norwich now. Dreadful business. Never went again.'

Nick wondered if Dotty remembered any of this. He attempted to jog her memory.

'Then he was in the garden with a pork pie, then he went down the Arsenal, but he couldn't remember if it was Norwich or 2-nil.'

Dotty didn't appear to be listening.

'Do you know, I got a phone call the other day. The nurse came in and said 'There's a telephone call for you'.'

Nick asked who it was, Napoleon?

'No, it was a young man from the radio. They're coming to interview me.'

Nick explained that it was him. Dotty seemed surprised.

'Really? You sound taller on the phone.'

'Do I?'

'Yes. Are you? Because a lot of people are.'

Nick swatted that one away and carried on.

'As the 30's began you decided to publish your own magazine.'

'Yes, it was for the older woman, middle aged, but still out for a good time. Middle-aged Flappers. It was called 'Everything's Flapping'. There were articles on how to slide down bannisters, how to do the Charleston, how to steal a Policeman's helmet on Boat Race night and, on Binky's insistence, a political column.'

'Written by Binky?'

'Well, it was supposed to be, but something always cropped up, and I ended up doing it myself. That was alright, since I had become, under Binky's tutelage, quite the political animal.'

'Labour or Conservative?'

'Well, I began as a Communist, then became a Liberal, then a Tory, then a Liberal again, then a Socialist.' She paused. 'Then a Communist again. Then a Liberal.'

'You must have thought long and hard about it.'

'Yes, it was quite an afternoon.'

Mrs Strong was shifting uncomfortably in her seat. She asked Mr Strong why he hadn't told her what this interview was like. Mr Strong said he had forgotten most of it, and didn't the old girl have spirit? The rest of us tried not to laugh by sticking our glasses to our mouths and holding our breath.

Nick again.

'Unfortunately 'Everything's Flapping' had hit financial difficulties. After twelve years and one issue, or one year and twelve issues, if you like, that's more likely, not one copy had been sold in twelve months. Dotty had given Binky the task of distribution and, owing to the fact that he was invisible, or, let's face it, didn't actually exist, no shop in the country took delivery of a single copy.'

'I was furious with Binky, but what could I do? Anyway, by then World War II had started so I was rather busy.'

'Doing what?'

'Moving to Brazil. I decided to become a professional poker player.'

'Had you ever played poker before?'

'Oh, no. But Binky used to stand behind the other players and tell me what they had in their hand. I won thousands. After the war, I returned to England, and moved into a cottage near Chobbingham. I was very happy there for twenty years, then one night there was a knock at the door, and two young men bundled me into their van and brought me here, and I've been here ever since.'

Nick continued his narration.

'We asked Archie Templeton whether he had visited Dotty. Had he ever tried to tell her how he really felt?'

'Yes, once. In 1967 I invited her out to dinner. I was about to get down to it when she took out a compass, stood up, pointed at the door and shouted 'North!', then she banged it on the table and said 'No it isn't, it's frigging East!', and threw it at a waiter. It bounced of his head and he dropped like a stone. Mulligatawny soup everywhere. Luckily he was only stunned. Then she stood on the table, lifted up her skirt, and shouted 'Look at my knickers!' and 'Oi! My mother came fourth in the Derby!' This only ended when she jumped from the table and screamed, 'Where's Lloyd George, I'm going to chin the bastard!' I had to carry her from the restaurant in a fireman's lift, and all the while she was shouting 'It's alright everyone, I'm a Socialist!'

Nick told Archie they had taken her to the nursing home after that.

'I know. I was the one who rang them.'

Thankfully for Mrs Strong, the interview appeared to be coming to a close. Nick asked, in his voice over guise, is Dotty happy?

'Oh yes. Except Binky told me there was a large chicken called Steve going round finishing everyone's crosswords, and for three days now I haven't seen Binky or Steve or the chicken. Do you know, they gave us vegetable soup, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, followed by strawberry yoghurt, and the whole thing, all of it, tasted of spam. Elsie next door thinks they might be getting us ready for the Olympic Games.

'I'm sure that's not the case.'

'Why all the spam, then? Jesse Owens ate nothing else for a year, and Emile Zatopek had his picture on the tin, pointing at his gold medals and laughing his head off.' She cackled for a final time.

Nick said his goodbyes and the interview ended.

Mrs Strong attempted to make the best of it.

'What a fine example to us all!'

Mr Strong informed us that Dotty had died peacefully in 1991. After listening to that interview I couldn't imagine her doing anything peacefully.

'What about this dog?' Mr Harrington tried to get us back on track.

'I went to see Fred Rogers over at Hexmondeley but, after Boxmouth, he wants nothing to do with it.'

Having spoken to Fred on several occasions, this news surprised me. No one can understand a word the man says.
17

There is no meeting of the society on Christmas Eve or New Year's Eve, and there was no meeting last week. Mr Malinga and I had turned up as usual only to find a note saying everyone else had gone Christmas shopping, so we immediately adjourned to the Dog and Duck. The rest of the Society were in there, not shopping, and they were already plastered. There was no point in an argument by that stage so Mr Malinga suggested we catch up with pints and whisky chasers, which we did.

Mr Strong had taken charge of our greyhound, Chobbingham Flyer, since the Vicar couldn't be bothered looking after it, and was training the beast in the grounds of the Strong's estate, Chobbingham Grange. Getting the dog to face the right way and leave the traps quick sticks was on the agenda, and they had made some traps and built a makeshift dog track. Mrs Strong rode around the track on a moped, trailing the Mr Strong's teddy bear on a piece of string, with the Flyer in hot pursuit. We asked how it was going and Mrs Strong raised her left arm, which was in plaster, and gave her usual harrumph.

'Really well.' said Mr Strong, but there was something odd about his manner. It would appear all was not tickety-boo at Chobbingham Grange.

Mr Strong now had the floor and proceeded to tell the tale of a man who had drunkenly fallen into a well, in the 18th Century. Mr Malinga asked if they'd managed to get him out yet, but Mr Strong carried on regardless. It had been a freezing December night and the poor man had not survived. He was found the following day when Mr Strong's great-great-great-grandfather's gardener (or something like that, I lost count of how many greats) had attempted to get water to clean his tools. Since then, Chobbingham Grange had been haunted by the drunken man. Not many sightings, but a lot of drunken crashing about had echoed through the empty rooms, according to reports, although Mr and Mrs Strong had not heard anything until recently.

'There has been crashing.' Mr Strong said fearfully.

'And banging.' Said Mrs Strong.

'Well,' said Mr Strong, 'not so much banging.'

He then winced as Mrs Strong elbowed him.

They had heard this recently and discovered damaged furniture and clothes in the bedrooms. It can't have been the staff, they said, as the staff lived in the North wing, and the noise was in the South wing.

'Mice.' Said Mr Harrington in a matter of fact way. Mr Strong said it must be a mouse that could rip furniture and overturn tables and chairs.

'Dangermouse.' Suggested Mr Malinga, who wasn't taking this very seriously.

I was assuring the Strongs that there are no such thing as ghosts when Mrs Dainty, a white witch who smells of patchouli and runs a new age shop, said oh yes there are. She added that the Strongs could be in mortal danger and suggested a medium to contact the dead drunk. And luckily she knew exactly how to lay her hands on one. Mystic Herbert.

At that the Vicar staggered in and shouted 'Fuck Christmas!' He looked around and then headed for the bar. 'Sod Christmas, give me a pint of Old Fuckface or whatever it is, and a double whisky.' (Single malt, and he would pray for Geoff the landlord, if he remembered, in church on Sunday.) He took a seat in our circle.

'Fucking hate Christmas, me.' He said, and necked the single malt in one.

Mrs Dainty said that Mystic Herbert would perform a séance for £50, and discover why the malevolent spirit had not yet left this earthly plane. The Vicar said he could get rid for fifty. Mr Strong said £100 was starting to sound like a dear do, but Mrs Strong said they could afford it and it would be worth it to exorcise the ghost, and return to a life without fear. The Vicar said amen to that and could he have his fifty now?

On Monday night the society, along with the Vicar, assembled at Chobbingham Grange. A convivial atmosphere, drinks being taken and Chobbingham Flyer snoozing in front of a roaring fire. The doorbell rang and Ambrose the butler introduced Mystic Herbert. He was a man of about 65, with a pleasant, albeit furtive demeanour.

'He looks a right shifty bastard.' the Vicar whispered, and I agreed that that interpretation could be made, but give the chap a chance. We took our places at a large, round table in the centre of the room and the lights were dimmed. Convivial had been traded in for spooky, which I think was the desired effect.

Mystic Herbert began.

'Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to converse with the spirit world, so I would ask that you remain completely silent until contact is made.'

'That's complete silence, everyone.' said Mrs Dainty.

'Shush.' Said Mystic Herbert. 'I am about to go into my trance. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.'

Mr Dainty decided to attempt a harmony 'Nnnnnnnnnnnnnn'. But Mrs Strong told him to pipe down, this wasn't Glastonbury.

Herbert continued.

'Mmmmmmmmm, aaaaaaaahh, I'm getting something now'

'He's getting something now.' said Mrs Dainty.

'Spirit, are you there? Are you there, spirit?' Asked Herbert.

'Yes', Herbert replied (he was doing both parts).

'Who are you?'

'The late Arthur Askey'

'Oh Christ, I can't stand him.' Hissed the Vicar.

But Arthur was unperturbed.

'Hello playmates!' he cried. 'Just to say that I'm a busy little bee up here in Heaven. I thangyooo!'

'Is there anyone else there?' Asked Mrs Strong.

'Ooh, yes,' said Herbert, 'I'm Kenneth Williams, stop mucking about. Ooh matron, here's Frankie Howerd. Ooh, don't mock, no, it's bitter out, titter ye not.'

'Who else is there?' Herbert asked, still entranced. 'Russ Abbot! See you Jimmy.'

Mr Malinga interrupted.

'Russ Abbot isn't dead, is he?'

'Oh, what an atmosphere.' Sang Herbert.

'Well it's definitely him' Said Mrs Dainty.

Then Herbert found another guest.

'And here comes Frank Spencer, oooh Betty!'

'Hang on a minute,' it was the Vicar, 'these are just crap impressions'. And everyone, even Mrs Dainty, nodded and admitted that it did indeed look that way.

Suddenly there was a large bang and a crash from upstairs. Chobbingham Flyer barked and hid under the grand piano and Mystic Herbert shrieked in terror and sprinted out through the French windows. Never to be seen again.

'That's it.' Said Mr Strong, 'Does that sound like Dangermouse to you?'

It didn't. Had the Vicar brought his exorcism kit? Sort of, it was a crucifix, a water pistol (holy water), and a copy of the Racing Post, in case something needed swatting.

'Right!' He said, 'Who's coming with me?'

No volunteers, so I said I would give it a go, and we set off up the theatrical staircase of Chobbingham Grange onto the second floor landing. Once there we waited and listened. Nothing. Just the wind howling through the old place. We crept past several bedrooms as the passage got darker. Suddenly, an almighty crash bang wallop came from the room at the end.

'Did you hear that?' The Vicar asked. I was sure most of Chobbingham had heard it. We reached the door and the Vicar took out his Crucifix and began to chant like a monk, monotone and mournful.

'Six doubles, four trebles, and an accumulator.' He was waving the crucifix about.

'What are you doing?' I asked.

'It's a Yankee, a bet, four horses.'

'I know what a Yankee is. Why are you saying it now?'

'I don't know any Latin.' He said, 'I didn't do exorcism, just fire and brimstone and volleyball, and I wasn't much good at either of them. There aren't any ghosts anyway, so I thought what's the bloody point?'

We would find out in a minute. We counted to three and burst into the room. Immediately something sprang at us and the Vicar batted it away with his Racing Post. But whatever it was didn't give up, and it came at us again. Out came the water pistol and things seemed to calm down. We found the light switch and there, in the middle of the room, stood Mr Easterby's cat, covered in soot, and dripping with holy water. The Vicar picked it up and calmed it down, a side of him I hadn't seen before, and he carried it downstairs.

Mr Easterby's cat was notorious in the village, having used up its allotted nine lives on several occasions it must now be on borrowed time. So far this year it had been electrocuted on the green and had flown through Dr Glossop's surgery window, killing Mr Collinson who had a dicky ticker. Prior to this it had been rendered unconscious by an exploding can of Cherry Tango. It had also been shot from round a corner by Dr Glossop and his Nazi shooting-round-corners gun (which had never caught on in wartime Germany). And now this.

Downstairs, Mr Strong said the cat was a regular visitor, despite being continually chased by Chobbingham Flyer. The poor sod must have got in through a window and shinned up the chimney to the second floor bedroom. As soon as the Flyer caught sight of the cat he growled and leapt at it from under the grand piano, but this time Mr Easterby's cat didn't budge. He had seen a lot worse than this in his short life, he was covered in soot, soaking wet, and it had been a long day. This time he would stand his ground. The greyhound stopped in its tracks with a confused look on its face.

'Does he ever catch the cat?' Asked the Vicar.

'No.' Said Mr Strong.

'I bet he would if it was selling hot dogs.' The Vicar was vexed. 'And why is he getting so fat?'

Mr Strong said that the whole village gave him treats when he took him walkies. The Vicar wasn't impressed,

'I paid 600 quid for that fat fucker, and it hasn't won a race yet.' He bent down and stroked the Flyer's head and ears affectionately.

'Fat fucker aren't you? Yes, he's a good boy. Little fat fucker.' The Flyer was enjoying the attention enormously.

Mr Strong assured the Vicar that from now on the training regime would be stricter.

'I should bloody well think so.' Said the Vicar, collecting his £50 exorcism money from the table and finishing everyone's drinks. 'Anyway, I'm off.' And off he went.

On arriving home I picked up the local paper, the Claxham Clarion, to see a picture of Mr Easterby looking perplexed on the front page, with the headline

'Why is my cat always covered in soot, asks perplexed local man'

I was going to call him to explain but, really, I'd had more than enough of the whole shebang by then.
18

New Year's Eve in the Dog and Duck was billed a go-as-you-please free-for-all. We wondered if it was a how-many-hyphens-can-you-get-on-a-poster competition, but Mr Harrington said there had been twice as many on Claxham's come-as-you-are-over-60s-bring-and-buy-sale flyer. Mr Malinga pointed out that it wasn't quite double the hyphens, but Mrs Strong said New Year's Eve wasn't the time for mathematics, and everyone started drinking.

Mr Easterby, who was a magician on the radio in his youth, took to the stage and began to produce budgerigars from a top hat. Four of them. He then fumbled around inside the top hat and announced that one was missing. He asked us to look for it. Under chairs, in the Gents and the Ladies, behind the bar, anywhere we could think of. After 25 minutes he said 'actually, there might just be four', and left the stage.

Mr Strong, back once more in ventriloquist mode, gave us Colin the Cat, who appeared, on cue this time, from a box, along with two of Mr Easterby's budgies. Mr Easterby said one of them definitely wasn't his but, after being taken to one side by Mrs Strong, he said he may have been mistaken and left with seven of them, another having escaped from his handkerchief pocket while he was drawing the raffle.

Our experimental music group surpassed itself, with Mr Dainty once again up front as Genesis-era Peter Gabriel. We managed to get through all 23 minutes of Supper's Ready when, just at the point where he was banging on about the new Jerusalem, he tripped over Mrs Strong's bassoon, and fell headlong off the stage onto the jukebox, which kicked into life and on came Alvin Stardust. We actually got a round of applause. For once.

The Vicar effed and blinded his way through a stand up set which was curtailed after three of the Women's Institute threatened to call the Police. PCs Hesketh and Chinn were already there anyway, three sheets to the wind and enjoying the Vicar immensely. In the uproar Hesketh attempted to arrest two of the Women's Institute for being 'bastard killjoys', but Mrs Strong threw a bread roll at him and shouted 'Leave it!' This, along with the bun bouncing off his head and into Mr Harrington's pint of Old Growler, brought him to his senses.

After the Dog and Duck there was to be a party at the Dainty's but, as we made our way on foot, the Vicar took me to one side. He said we should see in the New Year appropriately, not listening to 'Rick Wakeman's Seven Dwarves of Windsor'. I pointed out it was six wives and Henry VIII.

'Oh, Christ, yeah.' he winced, 'All that bollocks. I asked him if he'd heard of David Vorhaus, and he said of course he had, he was there when he broke the 5000 metres world record. I mean. . .' He trailed off despairingly. I was about to ask who David Vorhaus was but thought better of it.

'I've got a bottle of single malt indoors. Give it an hour or so, Mr Malinga might have put Kraftwerk on by then'. At this he tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially, and we tiptoed away from the main group and into the vicarage.

Once seated in the large drawing room, lit by a roaring artificial fire, the Vicar handed me a generous glass and produced a multi-coloured bong from behind a statue of St Paul Writing One Of His Letters. After a long minute of sucking, blowing and coughing it appeared to be all systems go.

'Have a bang on that.' He spluttered. So I did. And we began to talk. I discovered that the Vicar had been married.

'Before I came here.' He shook his head, 'It didn't last long. I mean, would you want to live with a drinker, a gambler, lazy, untrustworthy and prone to physical violence?'

I had to say I wouldn't.

'No,' said the Vicar, 'neither would I, so I divorced her. I'm not cut out for co-habiting, I don't really like people that much.'

He then said he wanted to run something past me, an idea he had for a TV series. Ray Winstone goes back in time to shoot Adolf Hitler. I was intrigued, as well as pissed, and what have you, and I plumped up a cushion and poured myself another generous helping of scotch. The Vicar took another bang on his bong, and continued.

'Ray Winstone goes back in time to shoot Adolf Hitler. He gets into Hitler's office and there he is at his desk, doing the crossword or drawing swastikas or whatever he did, and Ray says 'Stand up you slag!', and Hitler goes 'Oh mein kampf!', or something like that, and Ray says 'Muppet!' and fires. But nothing happens, the gun jams, and Ray's got to get out of there before the Nazis get him.'

I asked where Ray was going to go.

'Back to the Tardis.'

'He's got a Tardis?'

'Yeah, except it's not a police box, it's a Ford Cortina. When it gets to 37 miles an hour it comes back to the present.'

I liked it, although it did seem slightly derivative. Of about half a dozen other things. But I did like it. Would Ray escape?

'Oh, yeah. You know what Ray's like. Anyway, there wouldn't be any point otherwise.'

The smoke and the drink had taken their grip of me, and I asked if I could be in it.

'Yes. You could be . . . you could be General von Klinkerhoffen.'

'Wasn't that 'Allo 'Allo?'

The Vicar confirmed that it was, but there must have been an actual General von Klinkerhoffen. Law of averages.

'My cousin works at the BBC, he said I could send him ideas. Mind you, he wasn't keen on the last one I had.'

'What was that?' I asked, hoping it was as brilliant as the other idea. Which I'd forgotten by now.

'Chris Tarrant's Psychedelic Magic Bus. Chris Tarrant goes round the world, pissed, and looks at mountains and stuff. He pulls up in, say, the Himalayas, gets out, points at a mountain and goes 'Look at the fucking size of that.' Then he gets back on the bus and starts drinking again'.

It sounded familiar. 'I think he's already done that.' I said, 'It sounds familiar.'

'Yeah, that's what my cousin said. Except I don't think Chris Tarrant was pissed on that one. He just looked it.'

There was something I had meant to ask the Vicar for a while now, and this seemed approximately like an opportunity. How, I wondered, he had become so proficient at violence?

'Well, I'm from a rough area for a start.' He said. 'I used to box for St Paul's Altar Boys Fighting Tigers youth club, that's where I found out about all the letters he wrote. Big letter writer, St Paul. Nothing about boxing though. When I became a vicar I joined the Vicar's Self Defence class. Much tougher school. No rules there, anything went.'

I'm beginning to think I can't believe a word the Vicar says. At that, he sat bolt upright.

'I've had another idea.' He is certainly an ideas man, our Vicar. 'Carey Mulligan.'

'Carey Mulligan?' I was completely lost now.

'She can drive the Cortina.'

'What Cortina? We haven't got a Cortina.'

'No, Ray Winstone's Cortina. The Tardis. You need a bit of glamour, and she could help out if Ray got in a pickle. Do karate and that. This is coming along nicely.' He took another swig of whisky, then fumbled around searching his pockets.

'I've got a hip flask with Absinthe in it somewhere.'

And we proceeded to get even more hammered. And sure enough, when we arrived at the Dainty's, Mrs Strong was cheerfully attempting to frug along to Europe Endless.

The Chobbingham Green Preservation Society

First Kindle Edition, November 2015

Copyright 2015 by Leonard Sime

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.
