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.’

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

‘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.

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.’