Of Turnipps &; Brussels

Now whether we like it or not, ever since the Right Honourable (now
Sir) Edward Heath was invited to append the British thumbprint to the
Treaty of Rome back in nineteen somewhen or other, we Brits have been
Europeans.

Gradually over the last three decades most of us have become accustomed
to this or that Euro-rule or Euro-regulation...with
or without the occasional mention of Strasbourg.

Some, including the inhabitants of Middlethorpe to name just
295 (or 297 if Nanette Claythorpe has her twins before we go
to press) have not.

Perhaps the British vision of the European is best summed up
By a quote from a gentleman who shall remain nameless,
but who epitomises the main character in our next chronicle.

In his words.."A great divide still exists"..".Them there folks over
there."..(presumably meaning all countries and their respective
populations east of the Straits of Dover) "well they be yer European
Europeans...whilst us folks this side of t'Channel...war.ll..we're
BRITISH Europeans aint we?"

Now Middlethorpe had never really embraced the concept of being part of
Europe...To be fair it had seldom embraced the rest of England...But
Europe was about to embrace Middlethorpe. Sinister rumblings were
afoot..(or in European European terms) were three hundred and four
point eight millimetres.....

OF TURNIPS AND BRUSSELS

N
estling serenely in its own brand of congenial squalor, deep within the
Shire boundaries of Toddlesworth on the Pee lies the small townlet of
Middlethorpe in the Mire.

Just to the South West and itself nestling serenely in its own
unmistakeable pungent aroma of natural fertiliser, partly fermented
apple scrumpy and the remnants of last years hay, lies Middlethorpe
Acres, a term of endearment for old Percy Golightly's farm.

Percy Golightly was a man of ruddy complexion...due some would say to
his spending half his time labouring with his fruits. Others, more
knowledgeable, would venture to suggest that the scarlet hue of his
countenance was due to spending the other half of his time supping the
fruits of his labour.

Tonight, however, was different in two ways. Firstly the quart of apple
scrumpy in the back yard had been forsaken for a pint of ale in the
Wise Owl. That was most uncommon. Secondly because he'd actually bought
his Worshipfulness Albert Stoic a drink. That, hitherto, was unheard
of.

Readers should not take this to mean that Percy was tight fisted, but
suffice it to say that in the instant a crisp five pound note left his
wallet, a family of moths which had claimed squatters rights therein
for generations were suddenly and unceremoniously evicted...the younger
generation experiencing a new phenomenon in that
instant...daylight.

Albert Stoic was suspicious. Percy would be after a big favour for this
level of extravagance.

"Albert. I need a big favour" opened Percy.

Suspicion confirmed.

Without awaiting confirmation that his premier generous gesture would
ensure His Worshipfulnesses unswerving loyalty and undivided attention,
he went on...
"I've 'ad this 'ere communikk...correseses....I've 'ad this 'ere
letter."

With that he pulled a tatty brown envelope out of his pocket. The moths
were now destitute.

"I fought it were a wrong 'un cos it 'ad one of 'em uropee..
europin..foreign bleedin' stamps on it.....'Tweren't the Queen anyways
up. It's from belgum or bubble gum or some place like that from a bloke
who reckons he represents the Eec, whatever the hell that is.... an' 'e
wants 'is commission. I dunt under stan' it...Whadaya make o'
it?"

This favour's worth another pint thought Albert, deliberately draining
his glass. There was no reaction from Percy. The momentary reaction
from the moths was paranoia at the thought of being made homeless again
should the wallet flash a second time.

"It's from the office of the European Commissioner of the EEC in
Brussels." began. Albert. It's a questionnaire about the farm. They
want to know about yields, crop rotation, and quotas. It's a kind of
census."

"Don' make no sensus at all to me. 'S damned bloody daft" replied
Percy. "For a start I only grow turnips and not Brussels..Fact is and
truth to tell, I don't grow any brassek...burassic.."

"Brassicas." Prompted Albert

"'S what I said I don't grow no types of cabbage at all. They don't
like the soil y'know..They don't like the soil."

Albert didn't know but assumed that this was probably one of only two
subjects about which Percy could legitimately claim better
knowledge.

"As fer blinkin' crop rotation..well that's even darf-ter baint it? You
can hardly turn the damned things round when they's arf growed can
yer?..it'd break they's bloody roots off...Any ways they grows alright
the way they is...Leastways they does on my place. My father grew 'em
like that...So did my Grandfather before 'im. Muck an' manure. That's
the secret."

That was also the second subject referred to in the previous
paragraph.

"I don't think you quite understand." was what Albert replied. And
frankly I don't think you ever will, was what he thought.

"'Tween you and me and these two pint pots."..continued our
neighbourhood farmer.

Empty pint pots thought His Worshipfulness ruefully...

"...they sent me this dirty great forum to fill in. 't 'ad more
blinkin' pages than t' Ferret Racers Gazette. Anyway I wrote back and
told 'em I couldn't fill it in an' I told 'em I couldn't pay no
commission on Brussels cos I didn't grow none and all I gets fer me
turnips is fourpence a pound..and that's in a good season."

"But all this information was needed about three weeks ago. Why on
earth didn't you mention this sooner?" asked Albert, re-examining the
letter. "I know this seems like bureaucracy gone mad, but I suppose
they're wanting a reply. "

"Warl I di'n't think 'twere that important. Truth to tell I thought
they 'ad a downright bloody cheek" answered Percy ...."and I didn't
like to trouble you."

Couldn't summon up the Dutch courage to actually pay for a drink more
like, thought Albert...Although, under the circumstances Belgian
courage might be more appropriate.

"Well then I got this 'ere other correpen...commoni..other letter. They
wanted to know what my quotas were like. I told 'em in don' even knows
what theys is leave alone grows any. 'S' 'ard enough growin' turnips in
this neck o' the woods cos there's never enough blinkin' rain during
the third week in August.

The significance of that particular timeframe within the agricultural
growing cycle of the common field turnip was lost on Albert.

I got the bloomin' form 'ere look. Lookie see some o' they daft
questions."

His Worshipfulness studied the form..and read out loud.

"What proportion of gross yield is utilised for home
consumption?"

"That's the only blinkin' question I could answer." interupted
Percy.

Albert looked at Percy's pencil scrawled answer, read "Doris put a
biggun in't stew last Sunday week."...grimaced, and read on.....

"What in ECUs per hectare is the expected GP for the fiscal?"

"What do you know of CAP?"

"Well.." began the Mayor...but he was interrupted.

"W'as an ECU when its at 'ome?"

"A Eurpean Currency Unit." REPLIED Albert.

European Currency you (stupid) nit THOUGHT Albert

"That's a lotta WHATS. What I don' understand is why the 'eck they
don't talk in flippin English pounds like the rest o' us,......All dis
rubbish 'bout kilo whatsits an' thingy litters."

Whether Percy was refering to pounds sterling or pounds weight or both
Albert wasn't sure and dared not ask. He thought the better of
correcting litters to litres as well.

"....'N any blinkin' case warreye wanna know is who 's these blokes
Hectare and Fiscal, what right have they got to expect commission cos
's'none o' their damned business...and.. what the Hell's me flippin'
doctor got to do with it.?.."

The Mayor tried to explain again....

"It's....." But he was interrupted again. Percy was on his soap box now
and in full flow....

"As fer what I knows about CAP...Well how bloomin' daft can they
get...All you need to know is yer head size and make sure the peak's at
t'front!"

"No..Percy..Just listen...CAP stands for Common Agricultural
Policy...It's a standard common policy throughout the European Economic
Community....which is what E.E.C. stands for....."

"Blinkin' bureaucrats." came a voice from behind. Arthur Floggit had
been trunking in on the conversation. In fact he nodded so much in
agreement his Common Agricultural Policy (or in this individuals
particular case, policemans helmet) nearly fell off.

"It's downright damned stupid..that's what it is...Look 'ere Albert, I
might not know much about joggra..Geograf..well them there foreign
parts but I do know me 'istory. Yer can't 'ave no agricultural policy
on Toddlesworth Common......"

"Can't even 'ave an insurance policy." This from Percy again but
totally irrelevent.

"....That land were gived to the folks of this town donkey's years
ago...It goes right back to the time of King Henry the wunth, and a
Deed of Convent back in the days of that there Magna Chapter..."

His Worshipfulness was gobsmacked.

Fred, the landlord, who up till now had not listened to much of the
conversation because he was still checking to see if Percy's fiver was
genuine and still legal tender, caught the last snatches of the
exchanges and was about to say that Percy was as thick as the original
two short planks. He kept his peace however, thinking the two short
planks might be offended. In any case perhaps these days they should be
referred to as Eurothick Europlanks.

The tirade continued...

"Well anyways I didn't 'ear nuthin' more till dis mornin' They's
beginin' to make frets now. They says I gotta comply with their
regulachins and derict..diric.."

"Directives" prompted Albert.

"Tha's warreye said. I's gotta do what they tells me. 'T wouldn't
suprise me knowin' the ways them damned foreigners work if they's aint
got pictures of my farm from one of them there satter...saterrly...spy
cameras. An' if they's got pictures what proves that I aint followin'
they's derict...dirict..".

"Directives" prompted Albert a second time.

"Tha's warreye said. S'gettin compillicated now Albert..Whatya think I
should do? I've already told my Doris to keep the curtains closed all
day particularly when she's got no brass..brasi.."

"Brassicas?" prompted the Mayor for a second time

"Underwear" corrected Percy "I really am at me wits end. They might get
a notion to come nosyin' around t'place next."

Readers who stayed with us thus far might be tempted to share the
authors view that Percy could well be described as a wit with a "T" at
BOTH ends.

His Worshipfulness thought. He might suggest that Percy saw a solicitor
and/or applied to the Ministry of Agriculture, or spoke to the National
Farmers Union for some guidance as to current legislation surrounding
current EEC farming directives. Then he thought again.

"Simple, Percy." he said. "Buy us both another pint and I'll help you
fill the form in."

Percy was visibly relieved. Then suddenly anxious.

The moths in Percy's wallet also became anxious again.

"But what 'appens if these blokes Hectare and Fiscal does come?" he
asked nervously.

"I reckon that's highly unlikely Perce. But if they do show up....I'll
lend you me flippin' shotgun !!"

"Damned good idea Albert. I'm right glad I asked yer now." The wallet
flashed again.

"Another pint for Albert, Fred, and have one yerself...."

Fred suddenly went very pale.

Albert fell off his bar stool.

Fred's wife Elsie came to the rescue. Three glasses of 0.368 litres of
Stiffes Best Bitter arrived on the bar.

The moths decided to emigrate.