All's Fayre in Middlethorpe

In the village in which I live there is an annual tradition.

Every year in June or July there is a Festival Week. A whole
heterogeneous conglomeration of events are staged from coffee mornings
through exhibitions to quizzes and antiques fairs. The whole thing
culminates in the Annual Fete complete with carnival parade.

Far from criticising any of the events, indeed those to which I have
been have been both well attended and incredibly well organised, I have
only one comment on the whole proceedings which to me seems somewhat
absurd.

Around the district the Scouts, the Brownies, the local Playgroups and
Uncle Tom Cobbley and all, spend, one assumes, hour upon hour
decorating lorries and transforming them into beautiful floats for the
grand parade. The smiles on the faces of the little ones bear witness
to the unstinting devotion of group leaders, scouters and arkalas
various to making their particular contribution the best there
is....

Why Oh Why, therefore, literally within minutes of the parade ending do
those same organisers spend the next hours taking the floats to bits in
front of the assembled Company rather than leave them to be admired for
a while and enjoy the sideshows...?

It just seems such a waste of effort!

In Middlethorpe there is a similar tradition, none the less effort
but...things sometimes go very wrong..hence...

ALL'S FAYRE IN MIDDLETHORPE

P
icture if you will the following scenes.

One.....Nestling in its own unique brand of congenial obscurity amidst
the county boundaries of Toddlesworth on the Pee, lies the picturesque
mini town of Middlethorpe in the Mire, a place almost untouched by the
twentieth century and noteworthy solely for its un-noteworthyness as
mentioned (vaguely) by William the Conqueror in the minutes of the
pre&;#64979; publication meeting of the Domesday Book, sandwiched on
the agenda somewhere between "Any Other Business?" and "Date, Time and
Venue of next Norman Invasion."

Two....It is mid July. Custom and tradition abounds. The population is
galvanised into action. This is the day of the Town Fayre. It is THE
day of the year when OLDE and WORLDE can have "E's" on the end and
FAYRE can have five letters instead of the traditional four without
some bright spark tut tutting in your ear, sticking a copy of the
Concise Oxford Dictionary under your nose complete with a syllabus and
telephone number to enrol for private language lessons.

'Tis said that the last wit to make such a suggestion was politely told
to "go and visit a lexicographer" which one supposes is somewhat more
polite than being pointed in the direction of a taxidermist.

Three..'Tis a time for improvisation. On this day Brian Belcher's horse
drawn milk float ceases and desists from being the purveyor of dairy
products various and doubles as "Big Brian's British Beef Burger Bar."
Similarly the local undertaker, Horace Snoad's open bier becomes the
toffee apple and candy floss stall.

Four...At the precise moment that we join the scene, Councillor Albert
Stoic, Worshipful Mayor of Middlethorpe in The Mire is up to his
unmentionables in alligators in the deep end of lady Celia
Price-Fletchers duck pond....We shall explain said gentleman's
predicament...eventually.

It is a well documented fact that for the three years since Mrs Freda
Stoic, the Lady Mayoress, had retired as chairperson of the Ladies
Elderly Residents Cello and French Horn Ensemble to devote her
attentions fully to the organisation of the Middlethorpe Olde Worlde
Fayre, that this annual extravaganza went off with a bang and without a
hitch. Such expressions were to have more sinister interpretations upon
this years proceedings.

With the intense competition for prizes in the flower show and home
made consumables classes there was a need for tight security before the
grand opening. Security WAS tight, and, if security, in the person of
constable Arthur Floggit, had anything to do with it, there was about
as much chance of nobblin' the judge in the "Best Lemon Curd" class as
there was of slipping the favourite for the Area Ferret Race Final a
Mickey Finn.

Arthur was a judge himself, specialising in the "Beers, Wines and
Spirits" categories. Starting his deliberations at half past ten that
morning it had taken him two and a half hours and all of three gallons
of the Lady Mayoress's Dandelion and Burdock and similar quantities of
farmer Percy Golightly's apple scrumpy to finally decide upon first and
second prizes. Interspersed with these were the odd quarts of his
brother Fred's apricot lager, which, to avoid any suggestion of
favouritism was finally adjudged a respectable third. It was now two in
the afternoon and, like I said, Security was tight...(as a
duck's!)

It is said that it only takes one spark to start a fire. The spark in
this case was young Freddy Prittstock (brother of Ivor, the reluctant
captain/hero of the Toddlesworth Football Club) who decided as a prank
to liven up proceedings to drop sneezing powder into Brian Belcher's
horse's nosebag. The poor creature exhaled with such violence that the
nosebag blew up like a balloon, exceeded the limit whereby the bag
itself could sustain the pressure, and exploded with more noise than
the combined effects of two tins of baked beans and a vindaloo curry.
Horse nuts flew everywhere and more oats were sown in that instant than
had been planted in Lovers Lane in a decade.

The poor horse, scared witless, did an impression of the opening
credits of "The Lone Ranger", unhitched itself, and careered off at
full gallop with the milk float in tow towards the flower show tent,
demolishing in its wake the roll a penny stall, coconut shy and a table
covered in raffle prizes. His Worship the Mayor was catapulted onto the
runaway steed's back by the effect of two dirty great hooves descending
upon one end of the bouncy castle just as he was attempting to become
district trampoline champion on the other.

Fred Sumner, seconded from his usual publican role to supervise the
exhibits in the marquee, saw the horse coming, but, despite a brave and
desperate dive for part of the horse's harness succeeded only in
slipping on an over ripe tomato, flattening Percy Golightly's prize
marrow into the shape of a pancake and subsequently lying dazed and
comatose until a large dollop of Delia Duxbury's pungent home made
apple chutney dripped from an overturned jar on the table and smacked
him in the left ear.

In a flash, Horace Snoad junior had jumped on the other horse and given
chase. The bier lost one wheel, candy floss fell like confetti
resulting in a mad scramble for free supplies of said confection from
every member of the population under the age of ten. A volley of toffee
apples fell amongst the Toddlesworth Majorettes, which, despite the
efforts of their leader Claudia Shutlybottom to keep them in step,
resulted in a baton twirling free for all.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (so to speak), both Horace Snoad, and
Brian Belcher were giving chase to the frenzied fillies closely
followed by nearly a hundred visitors and exhibitors varying in states
of shock and disbelief plus the majority of the biggest, fastest and
strongest contestants in the exemption dog show who suddenly discovered
themselves with no leads and no supervision and with quarry to
pursue.

It should be noted that the older and wiser dogs, Lavinia
Price-Fletcher's poodle, and, (with no apparent thought for his
master's safety) Albert's golden retriever thought that a more
satisfactory and profitable idea was to avail themselves of the fringe
benefits of the continuing disaster by swiping the many and various
burgers and bangers which had fallen off Brian's float and onto the
ground in the first instance.

At this point in the proceedings there were in fact two separate chases
in progress. The wheel, which readers may remember had come off the
bier had gained momentum and skirted the parade ring of the fancy dress
competition. Thus, as Fred Sumner, now rudely returned to semi
consciousness and deciding whether to wipe the chutney off his ear or
stick a spring onion and a chunk of cucumber in it, rose somewhat
shakily to his feet, he was just in time to witness the aforementioned
wheel being hotly pursued down Middlethorpe Hill by a witch, a bride,
Batman, Robin, The Wizard of Oz and two separate halves of a single
humped fluffy camel from the junior school, plus, bringing up the rear
from the infants, a minuscule lookalike of the Milky Bar Kid.

As a little aside, let us now consider one of the peculiarities of our
great English language. Given differing prefixes and differing,
particularly stressful, circumstances the combination of the letters R,
S, and E can mean different things to different people. Take the
scenario described above. There's His Worship the Mayor bouncing up and
down and clinging for dear life onto the harness of the frenzied mare.
There's Brian, owner of the single horsepower in question, anxious for
the animals continued wellbeing. Finally there's Horace, temporarily
paranoid about the fate of his coffin carriage, and watching his young
son gallop off into the sunset like the Seventh Cavalry. It is not
wholly unexpected then that, respectively, plaintive cries filled the
air of "Oh me arse".."Catch me blinkin' 'orse"...and "Mind me flippin'
'earse."

At this point, just as the reluctant participants thought things
couldn't get any worse...things got worse.

Somewhere amidst the general melee irresistible destructive forces had
ripped Madam Zara's fortune telling tent from its guy ropes. Madam
Zara, in the person of Mrs Claythorpe in a blonde wig and dark glasses,
was not amused. She'd already suffered the indignity of having her
crystal ball covered in a large dollop of horrible sticky stuff...and
it wasn't candy floss or the coating off a toffee apple. The wig had
blown off and landed to the right of the ferret racing track. George
Pymm, the starter, thinking it to be the hare, opened the traps to
start the race, much to the chagrin of Fred Floggit who at that precise
moment was trying to sober himself up with repeated mugfulls of hot
black coffee whilst engaged in giving last minute pre-race game plan
instructions to his prize chasing rodent in the dressing rooms.

The tent, in the meanwhile, had caught in the wind, taken a south
westerly flight path and descended upon the nose and harness of poor
Brian's horse, temporarily blindfolding the poor thing. One horsepower
singular rapidly dropped anchor going from thirty miles and hour to a
complete stop in three seconds flat. His Worshipfulness, Albert Stoic,
who sympathetic readers will recall was on the horse's back, despite
strenuous efforts, was simply unable to overcome the combined forces of
velocity, aerodynamics and gravity in the same instant and was thus
hurled through the air the remaining few feet into the duck pond where
we found him on page one scene four.

As eager helping hands were assisting Albert to extricate himself from
the pond, whilst others distracted the attention of a swan, high on
civil liberties and somewhat angered by the sudden territorial
intrusion, Brian's horse, free from the encumbrance of it's passenger
appeared to have somewhat calmed down, and, apparently oblivious to the
scenes of abject destruction, had trotted back to the marquee and was
now happily engaged in making a tasty snack out of Alistair Tatum's
prize winning celery.

Harold Snoad junior had managed to pull up his steed just short of the
pond and was now examining the remains of his father's bier which by
this time had only two wheels having failed to successfully negotiate a
path either around or through the cricket pavilion. Whilst the two
remaining wheels were still spinning on the upturned bier, it appeared
the third had somehow punctured the bouncy castle whose towers were
drooping in a slow deflating collapse towards the base whilst the
compressor, sensitive to the loss of pressure and fighting a losing
battle to inflate it again, ran out of fuel and phutted to a
standstill.

In the midst of the general carnage stood an anguish stricken Reverend
Mablethorpe who's hand clasp and gaze to the Heavens in search, one
supposes, of instantaneous divine intervention, merely succeeded in
conjuring up an almighty clap of thunder followed by a torrential
downpour.

The Lady Mayoress was the picture of embarrassment as she stood
surveying the carnage with the Guest of Honour Lady Soames Egrevold.
Suddenly a face saving plan sprung to mind.

Grabbing her megaphone she announced at the top of her voice..."Ladies
and gentlemen. I think you'll agree that that was a truly sterling re
enactment of the Battle of Toddlesworth Common...Now if you'll all
gather round we'll ask Her Ladyship to draw the raffle....."

The Middlethorpe Chronicle had a field day. For years Penn's press had
looked for a means to exact revenge on what it saw as the pomposity of
some of the local residents...and the Stoics in particular.

They spelt the name of the event with five letters as well...FARCE was
included in the headline.

Perhaps, however, in a gesture of goodwill, the paper, in an oblique
but none the less obvious reference to the Lady Mayoress
quoted..."Sources close to the Organising Committee" as saying
that..."The bill for reparations would be in the region of ten thousand
pounds. Whilst a small proportion of the damage could be recovered from
insurance claims, the Committee had been unsuccessful in pursuing what
at one time had been considered a promising avenue to recoup the
losses. Despite personal implorations to a National Television Company
it had not been possible to claim prize monies in their home video
competition unless the events had been recorded on a camcorder. Anyone
who has the vaguest idea what a camcorder might be is invited to
enlighten the committee. Fund raising suggestions would be welcome as
would the services of anyone capable of returning a number of somewhat
battered and bent trophies and cups into their original pristine
condition."