Clopton Mandrill Village Fayre

Good evening, my little pogo sticks! I trust you are hale and hearty (both of you). Today has been a grand occasion. Since moving to my hedge in Gloucestershire, I am now accepted as a local within the village of Clopton Mandrill. Today was the Village Fayre, we all attended in our best finery (I wore my best sack dress which I nicked from the docks, and wore cow parsley in my beard). Aunt Gourd visited for the day, and brought stories to read to the cattle and sheep. I just let her crack on with that….

It was a marvellous sight by the canal, men and women flocked to the waterside and pointed at things. Some people stood on the bridge and pointed at the people pointing at things. The spotty youth in the foreground became fractious about the woollen bathing suit he was wearing (the Wool Rash has only just gone). He dispersed the crowd by shouting. He’s a frightful boy, with breath like a boar’s arse.

On a high note, we gained entry into the fayre in the big manor house by handing over our worldly possessions and the monetary equivalent of a black market kidney, in exchange for very little information on the event timings, and no social graces. This pleased me no end. It seems this yearly extravaganza is popular with folks (not local) who are as thick as month old cowpats. Apparently walking straight at someone while not paying attention is a marvellous sport here, as is stopping in the middle of a thoroughfare without warning. Both sports require vacant eyes and mouth breathing. I must look into the health benefits of this.

I did encounter a problem at one of the minor arenas. Cotswold Morris Dancers. Now, please don’t misunderstand me, every man with his hanky and long socks needs an outlet for the rage and misery of working in accountancy. But we’ve just seen the demise of the worst dictator who came hotfoot from the Cotswolds to beat us into a life of morosity, and I fear their jolly dancing may be a little too soon for comfort. But there is another threat – behind this band of leaping buggers there is a far greater threat to my sanity. The Accordionist. A gentleman, in my opinion, is a man who knows how to play the accordion, but doesn’t. I shall post further about this problem, as I don’t feel it prudent to vent my spleen on an otherwise joyful day.

It is a well known fact that every single dog in the UK attends this event. Aunt Gourd was thrilled and read Hansel and Gretel to seventy-four labradors, ninety-two spaniels, two thousand and fifty one Jack Russells, and the Berkeley Hounds. I’m not convinced they were all listening, although it was nice to sit with them, as they were intellectually more stimulating than their owners. Later in the day, she tried reading The Little Match Girl to an Irish Wolfhound, who ate the book then yacked it up on the path to the beer tent.

In the Crafts area these charming children were selling jars of poisonous things and all manner of noxious plants and substances. Part of their sales patter was reeling off the efficacy of their wares by listing the number of people who’d dropped off the census since they’d begun making them and ‘disappeared’. The display was fascinating, I purchased two jars of hemlock preserve and a spike imbued with digitalis (I have an awkward neighbour). I do champion industry in the youth of today. Sardine (on the left) is of French origin, and is hoping to find a career in holistic medicine.

On another stall were the once-wonderful Quedgeley Toad Balancers, who in my opinion, have become very elitist. They now have a uniform of white suits and have an air of superiority they don’t deserve. By the time they performed in the arena, they were too far gone on pints of Matted Thatch to balance themselves, let alone toads.

After wandering for hours, taking in the marvels, we visited the refreshment tent. I wish Aunt Vom was here, she would have enjoyed the company very much. On the above left photo, is Blandula Flap, a local woman who prides herself on holding two cups full of vodka on her bosom. She can do this even when running for a tram. The dear woman is using it as vital medicine, as she has politicians boarding with her. The woman on the right is Gert Sponk, and her sole aim in life is to turn her eyes a full 360 degrees, just by staring inwardly. Curiously, she also seems to need a good deal of vodka.

At the centre arena, we found the marvellous six-headed woman. Her name is Mary-Ann-Bette-Penelope-Violet-Colin. She’s the only six-headed woman in the UK with one male head. Bizarrely, the one thing that makes her unusual, is the head called Colin who saps the living energy out of you just by talking. Colin is a traffic warden, against the girls wishes, and he is a bellend. Thus, the other five heads drank the refreshment tent out of vodka.

Next to the Tudor Catflap & Toasting Fork Society, and just in front of the Order of the Sacred Bedpan Dangerous Sports Arena, was the Duck of Philosophy Eventing. This young man typically shows what is involved in the process. The duck seized firmly but calmly, then held above the head. The duck, in a series of resonant and meaningful quacks, orates at length about the tenets the individual could embrace in order to gain a life of fruitfulness. It’s a marvel, however the only soul present that can interpret what the duck is speaking of, is another duck.

The Order of The Sacred Bedpan were not to be missed. Women from all over Clopton Mandrill flocked to the arena to take part. The notion behind it is that you make a pancake for one of the menfolk who wait at the finish line, then put the pancake in a bedpan. You dress in Victorian finery, charge toward the menfolk, and if they’re found incapable of eating the pancake in fourteen seconds, you are permitted beat them to within an inch of their lives with the bedpan. Exhilarating stuff.

This is my personal favourite – The Urchin Death Run. Men are invited to run the length of the sports field, on which several hungry and deadly sea urchins are placed. The full length of the field has to be run without being caught by an enraged urchin. If caught, one is eaten alive from the foot up, though there is a consolation prize of five guineas for the close members of the family.

We took a gentle stroll back to the refreshment tent before home. Blandula Flap was ferrying vodka to and fro upon her bosom, and the carnage that lay about her was astonishing. Most of the unmoving bodies that slept among the table legs appeared to be members of the local clergy. One was awake, Rev. Hillary Mountford-Poon, who’d just tried cheating Vom out of fifty quid in a game of shove halfpenny. Given the state of the man’s trousers, you can image where she shoved his halfpenny.

Well, after a tiring and thrilling day, I’m back in the hedge now, the bats are asleep. They’ve enjoyed hanging about at the fayre with their local friends, but I don’t like them staying out too long. There’s a local gang by the bridges, and they are quite rebellious. It’s an early start for me tomorrow, I’m going to teach Shrieking Grade 1 at Gloucester College as a trial for a new teaching position. Wish me luck, and may a local goat stare at you for many minutes.

Gloucester, here I come!

A plethora of local children bathing at the Cow’s Drink. Thank God Folly wasn’t born here……

Well, after the bizarre predictions evening, I had word from the Gloucestershire witches that my hedge is ready to move into. And not before time – the rozzers are still investigating the theft of the Library Trolley, and there is a manhunt afoot. It seems an old and buggered librarian was out walking her ball of wool, and managed to describe me perfectly, so I’ve packed up and done a runner. After a fifteen hour carriage journey with a travelling magician and the bottom half of his assistant, I am now within the confines of a sympathetic county. Thank the Lords!

The local sisterhood have found me a new hedge, with a twig router (4G), and I can get Netflix. It’s not too draughty, and it’s near the pub, which will please Aunt Vom when she visits. I now reside in Hedge 2, at the Cow’s Drink, near the smelly bit of the ditch, in a charming village named Clopton Mandrill. The bats have settled well and are fraternising with the locals quite happily, and I’ve enrolled them in the local school. Aunt Claymore is dubious about the move, she’s anxious for me to keep the toads away from the local toads, she fears they may pick up an accent. They croak with an extra ‘R’. Aunt Gourd fears the canal may bring about unwanted tendencies, such as swimming and pointing at things.

I have discovered, in two short days, that most things in this county revolve around three things: bread, cheese and beer. Not necessarily in that order. Most local witches have a romance for cheese, and people with beards are marvellously skilled at baking bread. The bigger the beard, the better the bread. Dehydration is measured locally by the lack of froth in a blood sample.

Aunt Gourd rang on the yogurt pot telephone before I left. She is alarmed by the lack of beards among women on the canal. Her stern warning came with the claim that they are either satanists or deviants. It transpires that the Canal and River Trust issue a separate license to women with beards, amounting to £2,568 per year. Moustaches on men, however, is discounted at £2 per year for life. Typical. I’ll keep ped-egging my chin.

I am most happy to live closer to the Quedgeley Toad Balancers, whom I mentioned in an earlier post. They are very clever and skilled folk, but I need to pass an initiation into their clan. I must think very carefully whether I want to embrace ‘toad’ for a night on the the village green, and eat flies. Mystical journeys are never an easy path.

I am also interested in the Saul Weasel Copiers, they are fascinating. They venture out during different hours and impersonate weasels running across the road. There is a talk on next week on how to run like a pencil on four legs. It really is the hub of excitement here. I may overlook the Berkeley Badger Feelers Group, badgers can be pretty crabby at the best of times, and if felt too much, may incur injury. A gentleman called Jonty, who runs the society, is smattered with plasters and bandages.

Thrupp Medical Society piqued my interest, until I realised it’s a society dedicated to treating people with Thrupp and raising awareness. It sounds deeply unpleasant. A local boater told me that it’s a local illness and the only cure is a change of diet and cold compress to relieve the itch and burning. Thankfully, as a chimney sweep, she is immune.

I have joined Fretherne Cowpat Club, however, as I am very interested in their annual Frisbee Day. They have a monthly meet in the local hall, and an important man comes to talk about cowpats every bi-month. The hikes through local farmland sound good, with the possibility of bringing something home for the ‘finds table’.

So, I’m sitting in my little hedge, writing these words on my wooden tablet to you. I do love Gloucestershire – it’s the most odd county of all. Anything goes here, and nobody cares. It will certainly do for me. The view is beautiful, all is quiet. I just hope the county can cope when my relatives visit……

Lazy Witches

My tiny hedge is now quiet after being invaded by these four. They are witches from Gloucestershire, the noisest witches in the land. They arrived from their home on the Gloucester/Sharpness Canal, and unannounced, walked right in with a blunder of suitcases and bats and clompy heels and battered books. I know Gloucestershire witches, my cheese, wine and freshly baked bread had to be safely locked away, along with the rest of the neighbourhoods’. A witch from these parts will sell anyone’s soul to the devil for a glass of Chilean Merlot and some Port Salut on a poppy seed cracker. Well, it’s been a traumatic week, apparently my hedge-home has a ley line running through it, so they’d come armed with dowsing rods, pendulums, charts, maps, 5 bottles of gin, 12 bottles of Cotes Du Rhone, twiglets and vodka. I’ve been moved to vent my spleen in this poem, as a move toward positivity. Axe throwing is always a good back up option.

Stop watching Netflix at once!
And get those toads off your lap!
You’ve eaten all my fresh larks tongues,
You’re angling for a jolly good slap.
Tidy your cloaks from the floor,
And wash up the cauldron I say,
There are runes all over the garden,
And you’ve barely stopped drinking all day.
That broom can be used for sweeping,
It’s not like you’re able to fly.
I’m sitting here thinking of weeping,
You’ve scoffed all my home made pork pie.
A night on the town brings forth objects,
Like policemen and the odd chanting crone,
You venture off out in your black pointy hats,
And return with a motorway cone.
The elders think I’m too modern,
The young think I’m much too square,
I find hexes engraved in my toilet,
And a moment of silence is rare.
The chanting goes on at all hours,
The discussion of magic is deep.
But I listen and pick up some things,
So I do them while you are asleep.
Banishing visitors spell, here I come,
So cease your loud drumming, and away.
I’ve brought in ingredients aplenty,
And your books have led me astray.
So take yourselves back to Gloucester,
Where noisy witches are allowed.
Leave my hedge silent, my cheese unattacked,
And get Shshshh’d all around bloody Stroud.

Lord of Darkness, that feels better. It saves one from a troublesome time, if one can enjoy a good rant, it clears the soul of frustration. And we know some folk can get awfully prickly about a spot of murder. Still, onwards and upwards, now they’ve buggered off I shall be practising the art of Primomancy. This is the ancient skill of gazing at the current Prime Minister and trying to divine truth. To my knowledge, no scholar in the last two millenia have achieved it, so I have much work to do. Pip pip!