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.’

‘I’ll be honest, it looks bad,’ said Charlie Fip, holding up a copy of the Switchback Echo.

The other members of the senate murmured in reluctant agreement.

‘Glenda Kneerot, treasurer of Switchback Fair, claimed back over twenty five pounds for a complete set of Emerson Lake & Palmer CDs.’

‘Ruddy good value, they were,’ mumbled Kneerot.

‘Dennis Jaffason, Switchback Fair secretary, was reimbursed thirty six pounds for an ornamental cake stand.’

Jaffason struck the table with his fist.

‘If we can’t display our cakes – which may I say are completely innocent and shouldn’t be dragged into this mess – if we can’t display our cakes in a sympathetic setting without bringing down a storm of hacks on us, how are we ever going to attract good people into the senate?’

‘Quite right,’ said Kneerot. ‘We’re not monks, after all.’

‘Quack!’ said the Duck of Wednesday.

‘Except for Brother Greenbeard, you’re right,’ said Kneerot. ‘He sends his apologies, by the way.’

‘Too busy drinking his twenty-two quid bottle of Burgundy wine, I expect?’ said Fip.

‘Well, what about you?’ said Jaffason. ‘You’re up for sixty pounds of silk lingerie!’

‘That was an entirely legitimate claim,’ said Fip, turning red.

‘Quack!’ said the Duck of Wednesday.

‘Quite right, Wednesday,’ said Fip. ‘The point is not whether these expenses were justifiable, because of course they were. The point is they look bad, and that’s bad PR for the fair. Now how are we going to fix this?’

‘Call the police!’ said Kneerot.

‘That’s not good PR either,’ said Fip patiently.

‘Ban the Echo!’ said Jaffason.

‘Beyond our powers, unfortunately,’ said Fip.

‘Oh, this makes me so mad!’ said Jaffason. ‘What about a distraction? Can’t we get the bank manager to do something outrageously incompetent again?’

At that moment the doors to the senate flung open.

‘Evening all!’ said Brother Greenbeard, swaying gently on the incoming air currents. He held up a bottle of wine. ‘Great stuff, this. Have you seen the papers today! What a laugh! What’s underneath that suit, eh, Fippy?’

‘Just pour me a glass, please,’ said the head of PR.

The summer residence of Jack Caracas was guarded by a pack of hounds with severe anger management issues. So vicious were they that Switchback’s village postman had been forced into early retirement, his replacement had suffered a nervous breakdown, and the latest had asked to return to his original position at the British Forces post office in Helmand province, Afghanistan.

Alarmed at the attrition rate, the Royal Mail sent in one of their elite: Frank Ashizukai, the ninja postman.

A slight rustle in the leylandii was all that indicated the presence of the new arrival and his payload of 6,128 pieces of undelivered mail. Frank balanced himself on a twig and prepared to exploit the psychological weaknesses of the hounds.

‘Fetch!’ he shouted, throwing a star shuriken over to the other side of the grounds, then disappeared back into the shadows. Thirty seconds later he was on the balcony of the master bedroom, with the hounds barking ineffectually below.

It was the work of a moment to blow up the balcony doors. As the smoke cleared, Frank saw half a dozen scantily-clad women scattering from the bedroom while a bodyguard rushed in to the aid of Caracas.

‘Who are you?’ said Jack, from the bed. ‘Paparazzi?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Frank. ‘I’m your new postman.’

‘Really?’ said Jack. ‘I do have a letterbox, you know.’

The sack of undelivered mail was thrown down on his bed.

‘Wouldn’t have fit,’ said Frank. ‘Didn’t you wonder why you hadn’t received any mail for the past year?’

‘I was a little concerned about the lack of fanmail, I suppose,’ said Jack.

‘It’s up to you,’ said Frank. ‘Either keep your dogs under control, or get your balcony doors blown up once a day. Before 9am for special deliveries.’

In the sewers beneath the fair, Agent Sapphire hunted for her prey like an unhygienic shark. Her GPS tracker indicated that the first target was near.

‘Turn – right – at the intersection, second exit,’ it said.

Agent Sapphire peered through the murk.

‘That’s not right, it’s straight on!’ she shouted at the tracker. ‘If this is another dead end, I’ll leave you here for the rats to eat.’

‘After – thirty – yards, you have reached your destination,’ said the tracker hurriedly.

‘I hope so, for your sake,’ said Agent Sapphire.

After thirty yards, she reached her destination and pulled out a state-of-the-art bugging device. She attached it to the roof of the sewer tunnel and switched it on. A green light blinked at her.

‘How refreshing not to have back chat from a gadget,’ she muttered in the tracker’s direction.

A second green light appeared on the bug.

‘Hello!’ said the bug cheerily. ‘It looks like you’re trying to bug someone. Would you like to run the espionage wizard?’

‘No!’ said Agent Sapphire. ‘Shut up, you stupid machine!’

The second light turned red, and flashed.

‘I was only offering to help,’ said the bug. ‘Was there any need to throw it back in my face like that? I get it, you’re too smart to need a hand from the likes of me. That doesn’t mean you can be rude. You’ve got a real attitude problem, young lady.’

The second light turned green again.

‘Have you finished?’ said Agent Sapphire.

‘Are you ready to say sorry?’ said the bug, both lights flashing.

‘Fine!’ said Agent Sapphire. ‘I’m sorry! OK? You’re a valued member of the team. Now start recording or I’ll fix you to the bottom of the tunnel. The reception’s just as good down there.’

A third green light hastily appeared. Agent Sapphire put on a pair of headphones, tensing at the possibility of another synthesised voice, but to her relief she heard only the sound of people above her.

‘Fancy a cuppa, Nora?’

‘Ooh, that’d be lovely, Kev. I think I’ve got some biscuits somewhere.’

‘Jim’s got ‘em, I think.’

‘Oh look, he’s asleep at the wheel again. Wake up Jim! Tea’s brewed.’

Agent Sapphire took off her headphones and pulled out a radio.

‘Aladdin, this is Sapphire, over.’

‘Sapphire, report,’ crackled the reply.

‘Security lodge objective complete, moving on.’

‘Roger that, Sapphire.’

The first light on the bug winked off.

‘You’re off, then,’ it said.

‘Not a moment too soon,’ said Agent Sapphire.

‘You … you won’t forget me, will you?’ said the bug. ‘It’s so dark in here … and cold … and the smell!’

‘Forget you?’ said Agent Sapphire. ‘I’m going to have nightmares about you. I’ll be back to get you in a few weeks, all right? Hang on in there.’

‘My cousin gets to live in a wall socket, you know. Lucky sod,’ said the bug, as Agent Sapphire disappeared along the tunnel.

At the second target, Agent Sapphire pulled out a manual and made sure the bug was in silent mode before she switched it on.

‘Jam, jam, jam,’ said the voice in her headphones. ‘Jam, jam, jam jam jam.’

‘Industrial target located,’ said Agent Sapphire into the radio. ‘Moving on.’

The final target was several hundred yards further on. Agent Sapphire, already caked with sewage from her journey, finally misstepped and fell into the stream. The last bug flew out of her hand and smashed against the side of the tunnel, where it turned itself on.

‘If you dare say anything…’ said Agent Sapphire.

She picked the bug up and stuck it on the ceiling. Grimacing, she put the sewage-covered headphones back on. The signal was as clear as ever.

‘It’s imperative that we maintain our information advantage. So what I propose is to send an agent into the sewer system at Barnaby Fair, and place these fancy new bugs under strategic locations. What do you think?’

‘Quack!’

Agent Sapphire switched the radio back on.

‘I’ve got Fip,’ she said. ‘I’m out of here. And next time, it’s Agent Emerald’s turn to get the sewer assignment, OK?’

‘These tables are really grimy,’ said Digsby Troutwhistle approvingly.

‘Good, isn’t it?’ said Zak Ziyad. ‘There was a lot of trouble over that. We had a research group spend 18 months creating a synthetic grime mix, only to find that it tasted of strawberries. This coating is the real thing. We dig it up from grime pits around the world.’

‘Is that ethical?’ said Troutwhistle.

‘It’s all fairtrade,’ said Ziyad. ‘Our grime farmers are paid above the going rate to ensure we get the pick of the grime.’

There was a commotion from outside: people were cheering, cameras were snapping, a trumpet fanfare sounded.

‘Wednesday’s here,’ said Ziyad.

A limousine pulled up outside the pub. The chauffeur opened the door and out waddled a small duck. The crowd went wild. The duck continued up the red carpet to a tape across the entrance to the bar.

‘Quack!’ it announced to the crowd. Ziyad wielded the scissors on its behalf.

‘Warmest thanks to the Duck of Wednesday for re-opening this fine pub,’ he said. ‘And now, do come in! This evening only, free pork scratchings!’

‘Let me guess, you’re worried about the swine association,’ said Troutwhistle in his ear as the guests filed in to the bar.

‘Nothing could be further from my mind,’ said Ziyad. ‘I believe in snacks for the common man, that’s all.’

‘So what have you got in store for the common man this evening?’ said Troutwhistle.

‘Just a good old singalong around the piano,’ said Ziyad. ‘Oh, and a laser display and firework show. And a fly-past by the Red Arrows. And the unveiling of a statue to the original medieval lucky drover. It’s quite a work of art: solid gold with droving sound effects on the hour. Our archaeological team did some great research on that, you’ll never guess what the lucky incident was … anyway, after that-’

‘Quack!’ interrupted Wednesday.

‘I do beg your pardon, Wednesday’ said Ziyad. ‘What would you like?’

‘Quack! Quack!’ said Wednesday.

‘And some pork scratchings?’

‘Quack!’ said Wednesday.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Ziyad. He poured a pint of Dogswaggler into a bowl for Wednesday, who downed it.

‘Quack!’ said Wednesday.

‘Can I quote you on that?’ said Digsby Troutwhistle.

At the Switchback Fair medical tent, Dr Galaxy was preparing to be engulfed with swine flu false alarms. At 8 in the morning the first patient arrived, looking anxious and mildly unwell.

‘Please take a seat,’ said Dr Galaxy.

The man looked, panicked, at the seat, but a reassuring smile from the doctor persuaded him to sit down. He couldn’t quite face the full sit-down, though, and ended up hovering about a centimetre above the seat. Then he sneezed.

‘I’m so sorry doctor!’ he said. ‘I couldn’t find a face mask anywhere in the house.’

‘Never mind,’ said Dr Galaxy. ‘You’re worried that you have swine flu, I imagine?’

‘That’s right!’ said the patient. ‘It’s the H1N1 strain, I’m sure of it!’

‘What makes you think that?’ asked Dr Galaxy.

‘Well, I was watching a travel documentary about Mexico last night, when I started to feel a bit ill. Then I realised that I’d had a bacon sandwich for lunch, and I’d been to tea with mother, and she’d just come back on a flight -’

‘From Mexico?’ said Dr Galaxy.

‘No, Tenerife. But they speak the same language, don’t they? It all adds up!’

‘You’ve got a cold,’ said Dr Galaxy. ‘Don’t worry about it. If a pandemic hits the fair you’ll be the first to know, I promise.’

The patient looked disappointed and left, muttering to himself.

Next door to the medical tent, a new stall had been hastily put up. A handwritten sign declared:

SWINE FLU EVALUATION AND TREATMENT CENTRE

The patient’s eyes lit up. He ran up to the stall.

‘I think I’ve got swine flu!’ he said.

‘Hold out your hand,’ said Old Granny Marlowe. ‘Ah yes, I see. You’re right, you do have swine flu. You’ll be dead in 24 hours without medical intervention. But you’re in luck – I’ve got just the pills you need.’

‘Tamiflu?’ said the patient.

‘Way better than that mush,’ said Old Granny Marlowe. ‘This is Marlowe’s Famous Patented Flu Remedy. Tried it on a dead pig yesterday, it was resurrected within the hour.’

‘I’ll take it!’ said the patient.

‘A very wise choice,’ said Old Granny Marlowe. ‘A dozen doses should do the trick. That’ll be two hundred and thirty pounds, please.’

For five months the Lucky Drover Inn had lain empty. The previous owner had tired of the pub game and was looking to turn the building into upmarket flats, but he was eventually dissuaded by a depressed rental market and – perhaps more decisively – a mob of enraged regulars wielding pitchforks.

Hopes were high, then, when rumours went around that the place had been bought. Wild stories grew about Russian billionaires and Middle East investment funds. Investigative reporter Digsby Troutwhistle camped out for weeks in the woods behind the inn, watching patiently for movement through a telephoto lens. But the only thing he ever saw was a badger, who found a way into the cellar one night and came out in a drunken stupor. Troutwhistle sold the shot to a badger-centric spinoff of Heat magazine for £500.

His frustration grew until one night, when he was startled by a tap on his shoulder.

‘Got a light, mate?’ said the tapper.

‘Sure,’ said Troutwhistle. ‘If you’ve got a story.’

‘Urm -’, said the tapper. ‘Not really. I’ve bought the pub here, that’s all. Need a light for my celebratory cigar.’

‘You bought the pub?’ said Troutwhistle. ‘Are you a Russian billionaire?’

‘No,’ said the tapper.

‘Middle East investment fund?’

‘Sort of,’ said the tapper. ‘My family owns one anyway. Zakiy Ziyad, pleased to meet you.’

‘I knew it!’ said Troutwhistle, shaking his hand. ‘You didn’t look Russian at all.’

‘Listen,’ said Ziyad. ‘I’m organising the gala re-opening for next week. If you agree to get the story on the front page of your paper I’ll give you one of these fine cigars.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Troutwhistle, picking out a cigar from the box offered to him. ‘Word of advice, first thing you need to do is proof the cellar against celebrity badgers.’

In a wood-panelled room deep within Switchback Castle, cigars were being smoked and whisky was being supped.

‘This is a fine one indeed,’ said Lord Switchback. ‘Give us another dash, will you?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said the butler.

‘What did you say this was again?’ said Lord Switchback.

‘Turpentiddich, sir,’ said the butler. ‘Less than a tenner at Tesco, it was.’

‘Keep it down, man!’ said Lord Switchback. ‘Not in front of the guests!’

‘My apologies, sir,’ said the butler. He proceeded to the other end of the room, where five people were hunched over a pile of papers. They all refused a top-up of Turpentiddich.

‘I say, Charlie!’ said Lord Switchback. ‘What are you up to over there anyway?’

Charlie Fip, head of PR at Switchback Fair, stood up and gathered the papers together. The others followed behind him towards the grand old armchair were Lord Switchback was sitting.

‘We’re at war, Joe,’ said Charlie, pushing some of the paper in Lord Switchback’s direction. ‘Revenues are down 50% year on year. We’ve had 10,000 fewer people visiting.’

‘Why’s that then?’ said Lord Switchback. ‘Those funny adverts of yours not working?’

‘Those adverts were very successful,’ said Charlie, curtly. Switchback Fair had been advertised on television for the first time ever a couple of months ago, with the campaign masterminded by Fip. It featured a pigeon dancing to Saturday Night Fever, with the tagline ‘Fair Enough?’. It won the bronze medal at the 2009 Wilfully Obscure Advertising Awards.

‘So what’s the matter then?’ said Lord Switchback.

‘It’s the credit crunch, Joe,’ said Charlie. ‘People are too busy selfishly saving money to visit fairs. There’s only one way to get back on track, and that’s to crush the competition.’

‘Barnaby Fair, you mean?’ said Lord Switchback.

‘Absolutely,’ said Charlie.

‘Well don’t be too mean on them, old boy,’ said Lord Switchback. ‘I went to Winchester with Basher Barnaby, wouldn’t want to make him miffed.’

‘Of course not, sir,’ said Charlie.

‘Anyway, I’m off to bed. Night all!’

After Lord Switchback had left the room, Charlie gathered round his minions again.

‘Right, ideas for the first spot. Start softly, I think, maybe just imply that visitors are mentally ill if they go to Barnaby? And let’s get in a comparison of their site to a cesspit, only with more pickpockets…’

Poppy Stubbs put down her guitar and gathered up the change from her peaked cap. It was starting to rain, and she could afford a coffee.

It was mid-afternoon and the coffee tent was already bulging when the rain refugees joined them. Poppy waited patiently in the queue, humming softly to herself.

‘Never take the trees for granted!’ she said when she reached the bartender.

‘I won’t, I promise,’ he replied, unperturbed. Poppy was a regular customer. ‘What can I get for you?’

‘An espresso,’ said Poppy. ‘Blacker than the night, hotter than the sun. And a piece of rocky road, please.’

‘Rockier than the moon?’ said the bartender.

‘Moonier than the rock,’ said Poppy.

She sat down on a bean bag and began strumming absentmindedly.

# Take the cake and leave the pie, twenty dead dogs and no one asked why #

A couple of lines later, she felt someone tap her shoulder. She turned to see the coffee shop’s manager.

‘I’m afraid you can’t play in here, miss,’ he said. ‘We don’t have a performing license.’

‘I’m composing, not playing,’ said Poppy matter-of-factly.

‘That makes no difference. I’m afraid you’ll have to stop or leave the tent,’ said the manager.

‘Fine,’ said Poppy. ‘You’re the man. Did you know that? The man!’

She drank the espresso and carefully wrapped up the uneaten rocky road in a serviette to take with her. But as she got to the entrance to the tent, her way was blocked by a mysterious shepherd. His clothes were sodden and he carried a shotgun.

‘We’re under attack!’ said the mysterious shepherd. ‘A pack of wild dogs in the fields – sheep on the run or ripped to pieces – I had to get up a tree – damn lucky I had my gun – got about a score of them, rest ran away – bloody hell!’

‘There, there,’ said Poppy. ‘Get this rocky road inside you, you’ll feel much the better for it.’

Burt von Jam looked nervously at his revenues for the last financial year.

‘Latvia’s dead,’ he muttered.

‘I told you no good would come of it!’ said Mrs von Jam.

‘The wholesale trade has collapsed, too. Chinese industrial jam demand is down 35% this year.’

He paced up and down the kitchen, financial summary in one hand, ladle in the other.

‘Is there a future in jam?’ he said.

‘How can you say that?’ said Mrs von Jam. ‘Your family have been making tolerable profits from jam for generations. Do you really want to be the last in the line?’

But before Burt could answer, another voice came from the table.

‘Jam!’

‘What was that?’ said Burt von Jam.

‘Jam! Jam!’

‘Is that you, Apricot?!’

‘Jam!’

‘She’s said her first word!’ said Mrs von Jam.

Apricot von Jam beamed to her audience, while taking the opportunity to bring forward her plans to flick a big dollop of jam onto the floor.

‘You’re right, of course,’ said Burt.

‘What do you mean?’ said Mrs von Jam.

‘I can’t fail the future. If I surrender our jam heritage over one bad year, how will I ever be able to look Apricot in the eye again?’

And with that he moved over to kiss Apricot, but slipped on the jam slick and fell flat on his back.

‘Looks like she’s a master of slapstick as well as speech,’ said Mrs von Jam.

‘This is all very symbolic, but it would be nice if you could help me up,’ said Burt.

Old Granny Marlowe prepared for Easter the same way she always did: by considering opportunities for crime.

‘Here’s the plan,’ she said. ‘We switch the eggs for the egg hunt with our own eggs, which we’ll have injected with a sleep-inducing gas, and then round up the children who find them for ransom.’

But her grandsons, Ricky and Shane Marlowe, were troubled by the plan.

‘Security will be tight around the eggs, grandma,’ said Ricky. ‘Why don’t we intercept the children on the way to the egg hunt instead?’

‘Because I’ve got five hundred decorated eggs and two hundred kilogrammes of sleep-inducing gas in my basement and I’ve got to start using them up somehow, that’s why,’ said Old Granny Marlowe.

‘Why don’t we intercept the easter bunny and ransom it?’ said Shane.

Sensing the boys were still in need of convincing, she took them down to the basement.

‘Here is an egg,’ she said, holding up an egg between her thumb and index finger. ‘You can identify it by its ovoid shape and pale colour. Now, the eggs you see here are hollowed-out, so you will have to take a small piece of chewing gum’ – she took some gum from her mouth – ‘and use it to seal the hole, before pumping the gas in.’

She pointed towards the cannister.

‘Shane, you can try the gas first. Now bef-’

‘Easy!’ said Shane. He jumped towards the cannister and before her grandmother could stop him, open the valve to full.

Old Granny Marlowe tried to tell him exactly what she thought of him, but they all fell asleep before she could start. By the time they woke up, the egg hunt had finished for another year.

From an early age, Jack Caracas had committed to a career as a prankster. He started small, burying his parents’ front door keys in the garden one day and watching with glee as they searched the house from top to bottom. Extended spells on the naughty step did not deter him and by his teenage years he was engaging in borderline criminal activity. On one memorable occasion he broke into his school at night and redecorated the hall with quotations from Lord of the Flies, for which he was awarded an A for English and expelled.

Jack’s life could have spiralled out of control, but like so many pranksters before him he was saved by the power of the entertainment industry. Three years ago he started presenting a stage show (Jack Caracas Attacks) in the big top. The biggest show each year is held on April Fool’s Day. In his first year Jack announced to the audience that they were glued to their seats, a feat which cost the fair £20,000 in clothing repairs. In his second year he bribed a pilot friend to strafe the big top with chocolate-covered peanuts. Although the high velocity confectionery caused no injuries, one audience member suffered an allergic reaction and successfully sued the fair for £50,000.

It was inevitable, then, that a crack team of lawyers and accountants would be on hand this year to make sure that no more damage was done to the audience, and, more importantly, the fair’s finances. Nevertheless, a brave crowd travelled from around the country in the hope of being victimised, after signing a disclaimer that they could not expect damages.

Half-way through the show, Jack announced that the money saved from his legal indemnity would be released from the roof of the tent. The audience gasped; the accountants panicked. One of them stood up to cancel the show, but the notes were already raining down. Jack looked on with pride. For as long as he made more money over the year than he lost today, he knew they wouldn’t sack him. He had found the secret of sustainable pranking.

Plus he made the banknotes on his computer.