Switchback Fair

‘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.’