EXCITEMENT mounts in our tiny parish following news one of the Krankies – hopefully the one who is getting on a bit, and is a woman, but dresses as a schoolboy – is considering switching on the Christmas lights.
If she suffers an accident, domestic, road traffic or even industrial, and has to pull out of a planned panto date in Fort William, she's definitely “up” for flicking the switch at our event. If not, we've already drafted begging letters to The Chuckle Brothers and/or Sid Little. I'm particularly proud of the missive to Sid.
“A lot of people here think your fat mate was funnier,” the third paragraph explains, “but our infants school has a healthy eating programme in place, so we didn't feel it appropriate to invite him.
Nobody's going to listen to Eddie warning about the danger of doughnuts.”
PS: “Can you bring your guitar?”
If that doesn't woo the former TV star, nothing will.
Four years ago, we almost clinched the services of Canadian crooner Bryan Adams, but he wanted us to pay travelling expenses from Toronto.
We offered a compromise – urged him to make his own way to Coventry Airport and we'd pick up the tab from there, but he'd have none of it.
If all else fails, we'll have to again call on The Major, an octagonarian whose hand trembles so much last year he spilt a tumbler of water on the control panel and almost fried the Brownie Pack. “...and all who sail in her,” he mumbled before pressing the button and sparking the shimmering, 15 foot neon Elvis into life.
“Where did he sneak-up from?” demanded the startled Burma vet before being led away by his nurse.
He returned 15 minutes later with an elephant gun and shot Elvis. “He looked bloody Japanese to me,” bellowed The Major, as the parish council chairman tried to explain he'd obliterated the community's festive centrepiece.
In truth, pernicious health and safety regulations have meant this year's village festive light show is a pale shadow of previous seasons.
Parishioners can now, apparently, no longer power their own outdoor decorations – illuminations so garish they've earned our village the title “Rural Vegas” – from street lamps that fringe the main thoroughfare.
Some say they never could.
Who needs streetlamps when you've got a six foot flashing red reindeer on your traffic island, I say?
And there have also been a handful of complaints from motorist who have crashed into the churchyard's sandstone wall after being blinded by the neon signs, which is ironic – the letters picked out in dancing electric turquoise, says: “We welcome careful drivers.”
One of the drivers hit that, blimmin’ thing too!
My own, life-size 'mooning' elf, his bare backside emblazoned with the pulsating legend “Merry Xmas” which for seven years has perched proudly on the roof of Chateau Lockley, has also been deemed inappropriate – by none other than our vicar!
What on earth does he know about Christmas?
“It's hardly in keeping with the true Christmas message,” said the Rev Ricky.
“How about a mooning shepherd, then?” I asked hopefully, but he'd have none of it.
“How about a simple angel?” he suggested.
“You're sick, pal,” I told him before storming off.
Our light show may, in truth, be a disappointment, but I'm determined to make this year's parish panto a triumph and have spent months pouring heart and soul into my own, modest part.
“Derek,” I pleaded with the show producer, slamming the script against his chest.
“I'm playing a tragic-comic figure. I've endured hardship, I've endured bereavement, I wear my heart on my sleeve, I've known love, I've known loss, yet I've retained a deep sense of morality.
But, and here's the important point, I don't take crap from anyone.”
“You're playing Widow Twankie, Mike,” said the producer.
“All the same,” I stammered, pointing a finger at the script. “I'm not comfortable with this line, Derek.
“It's a pivotal part of the whole play, for heaven's sake. This is the moment Widow Twankie has finally had enough of the lies, the backbiting, the deceit.
I honestly think, at this moment, Widow Twankie should just bellow: You're nothing but a lowlife scumbag, Aladdin.”
“An interesting point,” conceded Derek, “and I admire your commitment to the role, but for the moment I think we'll stick with just shouting: They're behind you.”
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