Switchback Fair

The fifth anniversary of Lord Switchback’s proclamation had come and gone, and there was still no sign of a mission to Mars. But Steven “Stevezilla” Lock was back in town. His firm has been given the contract to fix the fair’s perennially leaky drains.

‘It was a beautiful dream,’ he said, to anyone who would listen at the bar of the Lucky Drover.

‘It could still happen,’ said Zak Ziyad. ‘You’ve got until the end of the year.’

‘It’s no use,’ said Lock. ‘The sewers will take three months of full time work, and I’ve got no source of rocket fuel any more. Not to mention it takes eight months to get to Mars.’

‘Oh well,’ said Zak, whose natural optimism did have limits, ‘it was a beautiful dream. And the drains are a real nuisance.’

‘I should be having this drink on Mars,’ said Lock, wistfully downing his Dogswaggler.

‘A pub on Mars,’ said Zak. ‘Now there’s a dream…’

‘Ha! You’d have to sell a lot of pork scratchings to finance that,’ said Lock. ‘One packet for me to start you off. And a pint while you’re at it.’

‘I made 500 million dollars yesterday on pork futures,’ said Zak.

Lock stared at him. ‘You’re kidding me!’

‘Would a barman ever tell a lie?’ said Zak.

‘That drink’s on you then,’ said Lock.

‘Tell you what,’ said Zak. ‘I’ll buy you one in 2020. On Mars.’

Switchback Fair’s ghost ride was reopening after the end of a prolonged period of industrial action by Neville the Ghost. The strike dated back to an unwelcome visit from Glenda Kneerot, the fair’s treasurer.

‘Woo woo!’ Neville said, leaping out from the ceiling in a special effort for the VIP. He rattled his chains diligently.

‘Ah Neville, there you are!’ said Kneerot. ‘May I have a word?’

Neville was put out by the lack of even a polite scream, but he floated down to join her.

‘Now Neville, I’m sure you know that these are difficult times for the fair,’ said Kneerot.

‘I’ve been through worse,’ said Neville. ‘Have I ever told you what happened to me in the civil war?’

‘Some other time, perhaps,’ said Kneerot.

‘Woo woo!’ said Neville desultorily.

‘Anyway,’ said Kneerot, batting away an inflatable skeleton, ‘we’ve all got to pull together to make ends meet. I myself will be forgoing my Swedish masseur for the whole of July.’

Neville mumbled approval while checking that the bats had been fed and watered for the morning.

‘We’ll need you to contribute as well, of course,’ Kneerot continued. ‘So I’ve come to ask you to accept a 20% pay cut.’

In his shock Neville let go of the cage door and the bats flew out joyfully around the ride.

‘Woo woo!’ he said. ‘Come back bats!’

‘Are you listening, Neville?’ said Kneerot.

But Neville was too busy coaxing the bats back into the cage. Kneerot’s car trundled round the corner and out of the ride, and Neville convinced himself that the conversation was just a figment of his imagination.

The strike began when he received his next pay packet. Neville angrily pulled off his chains and went outside to form a picket.

‘Woo woo!’ he said. ‘Support your hard-working ghosts!’. Next to him a baby bat was holding a placard that read: HUNGRY, PLEASE HELP.

But the crowds didn’t help. They mostly ran away, as terrified as usual. Neville eventually accepted that he would never be able to truly withhold his labour. He reluctantly went inside and put his chains back on.

The next day, Glenda Kneerot was given the fright of her life when she discovered an inflatable skeleton in her wardrobe.

Tea was being taken at the 95th annual cricketing showdown with Barnaby Fair. Switchback’s record was not good: their last victory had been in 1955, and that was only because someone had spotted Denis Compton at the cake stall and persuaded him to open the batting in return for a lemon slice.

It was a source of great regret to Lord Switchback that he had not led a team to victory since succeeding his father. Indeed, he had been instrumental in many of their defeats, starting with a disastrous spell of captaincy in the 1970’s, followed by a further period of decline as coach, and continuing to his present day role of selecting the wrong team every year. Today, with his side eight wickets down and a hundred and twenty runs behind, was apparently no different. But as he sat in a deckchair in front of the pavilion, sporting the famous red and yellow striped Switchback tie, he looked remarkably serene.

Zak Ziyad was padded up as the last man to bat. He attempted to sit down in the adjacent chair, but as soon as he did so realised that he would not be able to get up again without help.

‘Zak, my lad!’ said Lord Switchback. ‘Thank you so much again for filling in.’

Zak nodded grimly. Lord Switchback had turned up at the Lucky Drover the night before. He was searching for a last minute replacement after an injury, and Zak had been foolish enough to admit that he came from the home of cricket^*. He protested that he had no idea how to play the game, but was persuaded to take part at the modern going rate of two lemon slices.

‘Fancy yourself for a century today?’ said Lord Switchback.

‘What’s a century?’ said Zak.

‘Never mind,’ said Lord Switchback cheerfully. ‘You won’t be needed today. Sit back and enjoy the display.’

Up in the sky, Max Bayernfels was piloting a cherished biplane from the Tent of Wonders. A fly-pass had been arranged for the crowd at the tea break.

‘SCC Pavilion, this is Wonderwing six seven four six,’ he said into his radio.

Back on the ground, Lord Switchback groped for the microphone in the picnic hamper by his side.

‘Wonderwing six seven four six, standby,’ he said. He put the mike down and poured himself another glass of wine.

‘Wine for you, Zak?’

‘No thanks,’ said Zak.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Lord Switchback, and finished off the bottle. He picked up the mike again. ‘Wonderwing six seven four six, start the display.’

‘Wonderwing six seven four six starting the display,’ repeated Bayernfels over the radio.

A coloured trail came out from the back of the plane. Bayernfels flew over the field and looped-the-loop. An ‘oooh’ from the crowd greeted the display, but then the plane disappeared into a cloud and it turned into an ‘oh’. By the time it re-emerged, the trail had stopped.

‘Shame about that cloud,’ said Zak.

Lord Switchback said nothing, but took another gulp of wine. Zak looked up at the sky again. It was a puzzling sight.

‘I’ll never get used to this British weather,’ he said. ‘I’d no idea clouds could go black so fast.’

Lord Switchback took out an umbrella from his picnic basket.

‘That’s one of life’s little miracles,’ he said.

[*] Dubai

‘Mr Fip! Mr Fip!’

Charlie Fip ignored the calls and tried to up his pace through the main line of stalls. But his attempts only increased the inertia of the crowds, and at last he gave up and turned round.

‘What do you want, Digsby?’

Digsby Troutwhistle shoved a dictaphone in Fip’s face.

‘Can I ask you your opinion on the Caracas rumours?’

Fip had perfected the art of looking unflappable many years ago, and Troutwhistle’s words passed through him like particularly meek neutrinos.

‘What opinion would you like me to have, Digsby?’

‘Have you authorised a £1m approach from Feria Muy Cerrada of Madrid?’

‘Jack Caracas is not for sale,’ said Fip. ‘He’s still under contract and I think we’re all looking forward to enjoying his unique brand of performance comedy for many years to come.’

‘So it’s not true that you think he’s a talentless moron?’

Fip sighed.

‘Digsby, if Jack Caracas isn’t talented, why would Feria Muy Cerrada of Madrid offer £1m for him?’

‘According to my source in the senate, you suspect it’s because they’re shameless megalomaniacs with all the entertainment taste of a flock of lobotomised seagulls.’

‘Is your source Brother Greenbeard?’

‘I never reveal my sources, Mr Fip.’

‘Because if it is, I’ll be sending him on a one-way mission to our outpost fair in Ulan Bator.’

Flashback!

Deep underground in an abandoned salt mine, Agent Sapphire took her place behind a perfect replica of a Switchback Fair stall. The cavern was otherwise empty. She waited.

A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision…

‘Nice day today, isn’t it?’

A customer had dropped from the ceiling. Agent Sapphire was ready. Months of training would see her through.

‘Oh, it’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she replied.

‘I might go down to the stream later, have a little paddle,’ said the customer.

Agent Sapphire executed a perfect double somersault over the stall and pinned the customer to the ground.

‘What do you know about the stream?‘ she barked, slapping the customer repeatedly about the face.

Another figure rushed out of the shadows to intervene.

‘No no no!’ he said. ‘That’s not the way you deal with customers! Cadet Sapphire, report back to barracks. You’re going back to basic training.’

End of flashback!

Deep in the heart of Switchback Fair, Agent Sapphire was setting out a real stall for the first time. She felt calm. Her training had not prepared her for light drizzle, but she felt calm. Deep breaths.

‘That’s summer over for this year then!’

Burt von Jam had wandered over from his own stall.

‘Oh, it’s – I mean, yes, typical, isn’t it?’ said Agent Sapphire, her heart racing.

‘Burt von Jam, pleased to meet you.’

Agent Sapphire gave her false name and they shook hands.

‘I trust you’re settling in without too much trouble,’ said Burt von Jam. ‘Any problems, you call me, OK? And we hold a meeting of the Stall Holders’ Association every Wednesday lunchtime. When it’s nicer weather than today we go down to the stream and have a picnic. Do join us, won’t you – er – are you all right?’

Agent Sapphire was bracing herself against the stall, gasping for air.

‘Picnic – lovely,’ she managed.

‘You look like you could do with a nice bit of jam,’ said Burt von Jam.

‘I’m fully trained to eat jam,’ murmured Agent Sapphire.

‘That’s marvellous!’ said Burt von Jam. ‘I was thinking of instituting a training programme myself. The way the younger generation eat their jam today, with their hoodies on, typing out “I’m eating jam” on Twitter at the same time, I just don’t know what to make of it – ‘

Frank Ashizukai, ninja postman, surveyed the scene. He was charged with a seemingly simple task: deliver a parcel to Dr M. Bayernfels at the Tent of Wonders. But Ashizukai knew better than to take any delivery for granted.

A pigeon landed in front of the tent and started pecking the ground. Was it an ordinary pigeon? Or was it a highly-trained samurai pigeon, in the pay of the local warlord, just waiting for its chance to strike with a blade concealed under its wings? Ashizukai shuddered at the thought of how many times he had faced death in pigeon form.

He continued to watch patiently, hidden behind a stall that sold quality wooden knick knacks for mantelpieces. His hand poised above a replica bird of paradise, carefully chosen for its suitability as a close combat weapon.

Eventually, the pigeon flew off again. Ashizukai kept his eyes on it as it circled over the fair and then turned away towards the village. When it returned, he would be ready.

The coast now clear, he headed stealthily to the entrance of the Tent of Wonders.

‘Dr M. Bayernfels?’ he called.

A small man emerged from the tent.

‘That’s me!’ said Bayernfels cheerfully, but his face dropped when he saw how Ashizukai was dressed. ‘Have you come to kill me?’ he said, resigned.

‘Not today,’ said Ashizukai, handing him his parcel.

‘Oh right,’ said Bayernfels. ‘You’re the new postman! Thanks a lot, I’ve been waiting for weeks for this. Do you want to see what’s inside?’

‘That’s up to you,’ said Ashizukai.

‘You’re not the tiniest bit curious?’ said Bayernfels. ‘This is the Tent of Wonders, after all.’

Ashizukai assessed the potential threat level of the box.

‘Very well,’ he said.

Bayernfels opened the box and beamed with pride.

‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ he said. ‘It’s come all the way from Papua New Guinea. Handmade by a tribe considered lost until three months ago. The crowds are going to go wild for it.’

Ashizukai took a closer look at the Wonder. It was a wooden bird of paradise.

‘Erm … you do know you can get these over at the knick knack stall, don’t you?’ he said. They’ve got a two for a tenner deal on at the moment.’

Charlie Fip and the Duck of Wednesday were discussing which colour to repaint the senate meeting room when a young scamp rushed in.

‘Breaking news, sir!’ he said, waving his arms about in an attempt to look like a histrionic TV graphic. ‘Barnaby Fair has got the bomb!’

Fip shared an alarmed look with Wednesday, who was desperately suppressing an urge to fly out of danger.

‘Is that right, my lad?’ said Fip. ‘Do you know anything about the mix?’

‘It knocked my sister right out and she said she was miles away!’ said the scamp. ‘She ain’t said much since, but she says it was a summer punch.’

‘Dammit!’ said Fip. ‘We thought they were years away from summer punch.’ He handed the scamp some money. ‘Well done, son. Go and buy yourself some pear drops.’

‘Mother says I can’t have sweets, they’re bad for my teeth,’ said the scamp.

‘Did she now?’ said Fip. ‘What kind of a scamp are you, going around listening to your mother like that? All right then, get someone to buy you some smokes instead, OK?’

‘Yes sir!’ said the scamp. He ran away gleefully, leaving Fip and Wednesday to consider the repercussions of his news.

‘I think it’s time to consult the colonel,’ said Fip.

‘Quack!’ said Wednesday vehemently.

‘Yes, I know. But they’re not real, are they? I don’t think we have a choice any more.’

* * *

Colonel Seager (Retired) looked up at Fip and Wednesday as they approached his stall.

‘Well here’s a pair of gunslingers,’ said Seager. ‘Fancy your chances today, gentlemen? Pound for five shots, five on target gets you this fine quartz watch-’

‘Quack!’ spat Wednesday.

‘Wednesday!’ said Fip, horrified.

‘What did he say?’ said Seager.

‘Er … he’d love to try his luck, but we have other issues to discuss,’ said Fip.

‘QUACK!’ said Wednesday.

‘He doesn’t seem to agree with your translation,’ said Seager.

‘Well … you know, it’s a duck shoot,’ said Fip. ‘He’s sensitive about it.’

‘Oh!’ said Seager, turning red. ‘I hadn’t realised! They’re only cardboard, honest!’

‘I think it’s the principle,’ said Fip. ‘Anyway, we’ve come to see you on another matter. Barnaby Fair have successfully developed a punch bomb and we’re wondering how to respond.’

‘Have they now?’ said Seager. He stroked his retired colonel’s moustache thoughtfully. ‘Well, you’ve got two options. You can go in for a first strike. Couple of our own punch bombs should put them out of action.’

‘Won’t that make us the aggressors?’ said Fip.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Seager. ‘We’re the good guys, remember? There’ll be an exchange, of course, but there’ll be no more than two to three thousand made drunk as a skunk, tops.’

Fip looked aghast. ‘And the other option?’

‘Years of hard negotiations with no guarantee of any breakthrough. It’ll be terribly frustrating for you, all the while knowing that a couple of punch bombs could sort it out in a flash-’

‘That’s OK, I’ll get someone else to handle the negotiations,’ said Fip. ‘That’s settled then. Off we go, Wednesday.’

‘Quack,’ said Wednesday.

‘Oh yes, one other thing,’ said Fip. He handed Seager some swatches. ‘Which would you say is more militaristic: Raspberry Bellini or Overtly Olive?’

Poppy Stubbs gazed wistfully at the people eating in the Michelin-starred “Cirque de Manger” food tent. It was her tragedy in life to possess both a creative spirit and a love of fine dining. So far today her busking had only earned her enough for a bag of curly fries at the neighbouring “Greasemaster” food tent, which was still waiting for its first Michelin star.

She was about to burst into tears at the smell of foamed asparagus when a sign on the tent caught her eye.

WAITRESS WANTED

MINIMUM WAGE + TIPS

APPLY WITHIN.

Her heart leapt!

PS. NO PROTEST SINGERS

And sank again. But the sound of expertly poured Chateau Frou-Frou drove her on. She found a quiet area around the back of the tent and laid her guitar gently against a tree.

‘Back soon, baby, I promise,’ she whispered.

She felt strangely naked as she walked back to the entrance, but pressed on and was on the verge of applying within when she had further reservations. She rushed back to where she had left the guitar and added her collection of badges, a copy of the I Ching, a ‘PEACE NOW’ shawl and a large placard denouncing globalisation. For a moment she considered a further level of misdirection by putting on the fake moustache she used for imitating The Man, but on balance decided that it would count against her chances of securing the waitress job. Typical fascist employers.

As she walked inside the tent she felt a hitherto unknown level of super-nakedness, and was therefore very uncomfortable as the manager sniffily looked her up and down.

‘How good are you at catching knives?’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ said Poppy.

‘You do know what happened to the last waitress, don’t you?’ said the manager.

‘Er… did she retire to a pretty little cottage in the lake district?’ said Poppy hopefully.

‘That was her dream, poor girl,’ said the manager. ‘Well, you’ve got the job if you want it. Nobody else has been crazy enough to apply.’

‘Do I get a staff discount?’ said Poppy.

‘Oh, you’ll get to try all the new dishes,’ said the manager. ‘Just be careful when you give feedback. And whatever you do, don’t set it to music.’