THE British plum is now languishing eight in the 'favourite fruit' league - only two places above the papaya, which I would not recognise if struck with one. I think an adventurer called Thor Hyadal may have travelled from Peru to Easter Island in a vessel made out of them. If a fruit can survive a sea journey like that it's going to play havoc with your digestion. "We cannot simply stand by and watch as old varieties like the Pershore Yellow Egg or Pershore Purple become extinct because people choose to buy foreign fruit from supermarkets," the email pleads. Too right we can't. I will do my bit to save the humble plum and have penned a campaign song which, hopefully, my good friends Eastern Bloc pop princesses The Cheeky Girls will perform at a forthcoming Plum Aid concert, providing Midge Ure can sweet-talk the powers-that-be into providing free use of the Assembly Rooms. 'Touch My Plums - You Cheeky, Cheeky Consumer' is to be the climax of a musical extravaganza that will be linked by satellite to neighbouring parish, Little Scarring. Images of Mr Magic doing strange things with balloons are to be beamed onto a big screen on the village green. I've also taken a leaf out of Sir Bob Geldof's book with the anthemic, 'Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mangos'. It's because they're fifth in the fruit chart, actually. Luminaries of the music world have pledged support. A bloke who used to strike his skull with a tea tray on Opportunity Knocks while singing Mule Train has said he'll be there - unless the voices in his head tell him not to. And the Wurzels will come - providing a Young Farmers' tug-o'-war competition in Nantwich doesn't drag on. I've also stood outside the parish council office with a placard declaring: 'Grasp the plum'. The Major gave a polite 'not today, thankyou' and quickened his pace into the chambers. Pc Dixon wanted to know if it was a euphemism. It's not. It's a fruit. "No one cares about plums," scoffed Colin eyeing my 'Pass us a plum, chum' t-shirt. They do in our house. "That's because you've bought a ton of them," he pointed out. Did you know, I told him, if you placed every plum sold in Worcestershire during the season in a straight line along the M5 fastlane it would, within minutes, become too slippy to use? I've also discovered plum duff isn't a pregnant plum. "Man cannot live by fruit alone," warned Colin. "Well, they could...but it would require quite a few trips to the bathroom." Mr Patel who has battled tirelessly to make the village's only cornershop a success - he had to get planning permission to build a corner, then planning permission to build a shop - has been somewhat slow-footed in supporting my campaign. "Plums!" I requested during a recent early morning visit. "Top shelf," he muttered not bothering to look up from the newspaper spread out on the counter. I pointed out it's a fruit. "Sorry, mate," he apologised, at last making eye-contact, "I thought it was a men's magazine." "Don't get much call for them round here," shrugged Mr Patel, "most people want bananas." "Ridiculous," I bellowed, "every tried to make banana jam?" "Ever tried to make a plum-split?" asked the trader. | 
