Switchback Fair

‘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.’

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?’

‘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.

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?’

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…’