Country life
Let battle commence
Leanda de Lisle
War has broken out in the border country of Leicestershire and Warwick- shire. There were skirmishes at the mediae- val fayre in Market Bosworth. While at Bosworth Field, Henry Tudor (who had breasts last year) is poised to fight the bat- tle that will make him King (or, possibly, Queen). If you can't face watching Richard III's depressing annual defeat there are always other blood-baths to entertain the children. At Cadeby's Steam and Country Fair, the keeper of the bouncy castle promised me that a stone age scrap would take place that afternoon. I could hardly wait.
I scoured the fairground for half-naked nerds discussing the finer historical details of a caveman's costume, but, curiously, they were nowhere to be seen. My infor- mant was clearly living in the wrong time zone. There was no stone age battle. No trainspotters hurling polystyrene rocks at each other. Just three rather lugubrious Celts preparing to repel a Roman invasion. They looked remarkably like modern day crusties. But I wasn't going to wait around to cheer on Julius Caesar when, just a few yards away, my sons could discover all the excitement of the steam age.
I must say, the ranks of coal-fired trac- tors looked in considerably better order than the fun-fair rides, one of which was playing its merry tunes at the speed of a funeral dirge. It was really quite scary. But almost as soon as my blood pressure dropped it rose again. For there, fluttering in the breeze, was a yellow flag reading 'Guide Dogs for the Blind Association'. I couldn't believe that they had raised their standard here. For wasn't this the organisa- tion Dominic Prince wrote about in The Spectator? The one that has f160 million in reserves and gave its employees interest- free loans? The one that nevertheless con- tinues to fund raise, drawing money from poorer and more worthwhile charities?
I felt a head of steam build up that would have put the old engines to shame, 'You ... you,' I began, stabbing my finger in their direction, 'you're a disgrace. You are quite rich enough already. You shouldn't be here.' I was ready for a fight that would have put the Cadeby Celts in the shade. But the children had spotted an ice-cream van and were dragging me towards it with the determination of plough horses.
'The GDBA are taking money away from you,' I spluttered as I was pulled past the Cancer Relief stand. Voices were raised in agreement, but this was no time to start recruiting enraged charity workers. We had reached the ice-cream van and the children were pointing out that there were Fab ice- lollies for sale.
I have fond memories of Fab lollies. My parents had a tenant in the Sixties who used to buy them for us every Saturday. He was kindly, but mad. One day, having thoughtfully organised a year's supply of lollies for us, he went up to London and threw a bomb at the Russian Embassy. We never saw him again. My parents tell me he was put in a bin. The same thing happened to a chap we shared our flat with in Lon- don. He murdered two of his relations, but as he didn't buy us lollies I don't really remember him.
I suppose it's lucky for the GDBA that I find ice-cream so much more appealing than violence. For, soothed by the lollies, I decided to forgo a fist-fight in favour of something more political. I trotted off to see some of the fair's organisers and told them what I had read about the GDBA in Dominic Prince's article. I am happy to say it caused something of a stir. 'Ooh,' one woman exclaimed angrily, '... they told me they need to raise thousands of pounds. Well! I'll be making sure they don't get any of the money we raise here.' I went home feeling pretty smug. A bat- tle won without so much as a grazed knee or a bruised hand. It puts the triumph of that Henry Tudor woman in perspective, I can tell you.
Don't bother with the golden hair, I always cony a ladder.'
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