Switchback Fair

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

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…’