r fAS REG .t 12 YEAR OLD

COMPETITION

egAVAS REGAL

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Village voice

Jaspistos

SCOTCH WHISKY In Competition No. 1691 you were in- vited to provide an account by an exasper- ated villager of an imaginary celebrity's visit to his or her 'favourite rural retreat'.

There is a good book, called The Harp and the Oak, by H. J. Massingham, pub- lished in the 50s, which describes the disastrous entry into the life of a remote English village of a sensitive, liberal, rich do-gooder. He takes it slowly, he buys them a new sports ground, he supports all local charities and activities, but the villa- gers end up by setting his house on fire. It is a shocking conclusion, but the reader is subtly made aware that it is not simply a case of brutish, rustic malignancy. I re- member a faintly celebrated acquaintance of mine coming back from a stay in Wales and telling me how flattered he was that when he went into the pub the locals felt so at ease with him that they talked in Welsh.

It was a disappointing week. The prizewinners, not as worthy as usual, who are printed below, get £18 each, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky goes to Roger Woddis.

When the landlord told me, I was that excited I nearly wet myself — and scared, too, I don't

mind telling you! 'Not a word to anyone, Jo,' Albert said. 'He doesn't want any fuss.' That was a joke, it was all over Shingleton. They might as well have put up posters: `Zoster is coming!'

He walked into the Bell that night when I was pulling a draught G. I just stared and let it slop all over the place. Everybody stopped talking. And there he was — Herpes Zoster, star of The Violence of the Hams. Much nicer than he looked on the screen and shy sort of, funny that. He ordered, and everybody followed suit, even the hardened regulars. And they've been doing the same ever since.

It's pretty well ruined us. You don't expect a serial killer to drink tomato juice.

(Roger Woddis) There I was in the yard, puttin' a new pair o' shoes on the Major's 'unter when the flippin' Doris Crudd of the tele turns up wi' er fancy man.

`Ooo, darlin'!' she shrieks. 'Is that a 'orse the man's shoein'?'

`No!' I cracks, wi' me arse facin"er. It's a cow, missus. Can't yer see its 'orns?' 'Ooo!' she says, 'I didn't know cows 'ad shoes on their feet.'

'Cause they do,' I says. "Ave you never 'eard o' cows' eels!' Laugh? I was fair bustin' me sides. Then she says, 'It must be 'ard work; do you ever get bitten?'

'No,' I says, 'I takes their teeth out afore I starts.' Ha, ha, ha. 'Er fancy man laughs too. At least 'e thought it were funny. Any'ow she steps a bit closer.

`Arthur,' she says, 'isn't 'e quaint?'

`Quaint? Win'mills is quaint, missus.'

(Sid Field)

Hellocopeter out of the sky. Not a word of notice. Slap-bang in middle of Turner's cow patch. No milk that day. 'I was a hostage for twenty year in Manhattan until I espied your place in The Illustrated Book of Quaint English Hamlets,' says she. We informed the lady there was nothing here for her. 'I'd like to meet the mare,' she retorted, slap-happy on top of one of George's pats. 'I'm doing a colour piece for Wine and Decanter.' She was speaking to the right man — I'm the editor of the parish newsletter (established 1869). The major net- works could well pick up on my story; also movie location scouts, with a bit of luck.' We all laughed at that one. We introduced her to Rosie the mare, gave her a drop of our mead, some mutton and sent her on her way.

(John O'Byrne) On Thursday afternoon his PA booked his usual room for the weekend, so Charles convened a meeting. The newer ones were a bit stroppy, but quietened down when he uttered the magic words 'property prices'. It was the usual 'Operation Unspoil'. A party went into the woods to gather ivy for draping over satellite dishes; the stocks were retrieved from Anderson's garage and set up on the green; Tim sent over to Greddlesford for some new- mown hay; and a three-line whip went out to hide all BMWs and confiscate kids' radios, We had a nasty moment when we realised the last remaining cribbage player had died since last time round, but Nick boned it up and still beat the old fool. The vicar got the organ going, but couldn't find an old-style prayer book and had to improvise. Nobody noticed.

Tiresome, though. Still, nice to know the moleskins still fit.

(Noel Petty)