Peter Rhodes on village fetes, generous squires and the weaponising of long, hot showers
And off to the village fete, possibly the only event in the world where you can get a prize for arranging five onions in a saucer of sand.
Strange, isn't it, how TV comedies implant themselves in our collective race memory? As cars arrived at our local fete, a volunteer in a tabard pointed the way to the parking field. And I bet everyone over 50 was instantly reminded of Jim Trott (Trevor Peacock) directing drivers by loud-hailer in the Vicar of Dibley (BBC1): “No, no, no, parking is allowed on the upper field.” Or was it: “No, no, no. Parking is allowed on the upper field.”? The Dibley fete episode was made almost 30 years ago and we still don't know the answer.
If you want to see an example of how far democracy and levelling-up have come, just look at some of the magnificent cups and shields from ye olden days at the average local show. Back then, the squire would present a trophy for the best display of roses which probably cost more than the winning rose-grower earned in a year. These days the moneyed classes don't have much class and tend to spend their money on themselves.
Talking of which, am I the only one who was looking forward to ordeal by energy-cap? I take the view that energy ought to be soul-wincingly expensive and that, if the cause is right, there is a certain nobility in wrapping yourself in a thick hair-shirt, reading by candles and huddling around a cigarette end for warmth. Doesn't it worry anybody that the Government might pump so much money into softening the energy-bills blow that a scorching hot 15-minute shower will be seen as not only affordable but entirely reasonable?
Europe girding its collective loins against Putin's winter blackmail was a grand opportunity to liberate a continent from Russia's bullying. History may record that we chucked in the towel and negotiated with Putin because the wimpy West couldn't face the ghastly prospect of shorter showers.
Somehow, the weekend storm which delivered 36,000 lightning bolts managed to soak our garden while missing our oft-zapped broadband. I feel blessed. As the good book very nearly puts it: What shall it profit a man if he shall gain a nice green lawn but lose his wi-fi?
