Switchback Fair

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.

‘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.