WANTED: A LITTLE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS

Froghill resident Tilly Banstead got less than she bargained for as she sat down to her morning breakfast cereal yesterday. For the semi-skimmed milk, which she had bought while out shopping the previous day, refused to emerge from the container.   

“It was really odd,” she said, from her Chestnut Rise home, “I had the open carton tilted over my cornflakes but nothing came out. Instead, I could hear faint cries of ‘No! I’m frightened!’ coming from inside.”

Ms. Banstead, it turns out, is one of a growing number of people who have recently made a purchase of nervous milk. Most, if not all, of the produce from Wednesday evening’s milking at Rayling’s Farm appears to be affected.

Contacted by the Observer, farm owner Joshua Rayling said: “The herd got a scare on Wednesday afternoon when a dog exploded on the footpath that runs through their field.”

The sudden shock seems to have seriously upset the cows, resulting in the shelves of Froghill’s shops and supermarkets becoming stocked with timorous milk products.

“In the end, I did manage to get the milk to come out of the carton, it was just a question of speaking nicely to it,” said Ms. Banstead, as she sipped her morning latte.

She recommends patience and kindness to anyone who might find themselves with some nervous milk or yogurt in the fridge.

“You have to coax it, as if you’re talking to a puppy who’s unsure about going into the sea for the first time.”

Have you had an amusing or unusual experience with dairy products? Then why not share your story with our readers? Email your stories to http://www.froghillobserver.co.uk/scarydairy or call our Mental Milkline on 0372 55055. Calls cost £372 per minute, standard rate.

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Sir,

I am writing to complain about the inadequate standards of food hygiene in this country. Only the other day, I was chewing a mouthful of Cheezy Bytz when my teeth cracked against something hard. I removed the offending item and, upon examination, discovered that I was looking at a very large piece of bone.

Being something of a paleontology buff, I consulted my Bumper Book of Fascinating Dinosaur Facts just as soon as I got home, only to have my worst suspicions confirmed. It was nothing less than the jaw bone of a Diplodocus.

Now this creature became extinct something like 150 million years ago. Am I, therefore, to assume that my snack was manufactured at the same time? Even if not, how did a sauropod bone find its way into the packet?

This is not the first time I have had an unfortunate experience with packaged food. Last Christmas, I bought a Festive Yule Log from a well-known high street store. Imagine my dismay when I found a live AK47 round inside the icing. Worse still, when my teeth made contact, the bullet detonated. It passed through the roof of my mouth, exited from the top of my skull and lodged in the ceiling. Facial reconstruction surgery and replastering have cost me upwards of £65,000 so far and the damage to my self-confidence is irreparable.

That such sloppy practice should be commonplace in an industry which serves our most basic need is quite simply indefensible.

I therefore urge the readers of your paper to follow my example and stop buying food in all its forms.

Yours indignantly,

Duncan Disawdley

Traubert’s Heath

THE HIGH FLYING PIGEONS OF FROGHILL

Local inventor Durwood ‘Doc’ Pigeon may be no stranger to these pages (Observer, May 3), but few now remember his once-celebrated great-grandfather Hieronymous.

Born in 1857 to George, a purblind bone setter, and his wife Cora, Hieronymous Pigeon was the fourth of five children. A weak and sickly boy, his parents took the decision to educate him at home rather than send him to boarding school. He grew into an intelligent and inquisitive child, devising gadgets as varied as the cantilevered tea caddy, the self-winching corset and the oscillating blackhead extractor by the time he was nine years old.

Hieronymous won a scholarship to study structural engineering at Keble College, Oxford, but was sent down in April 1876, following a scandal involving a local barmaid, an anvil, a quantity of damson jam and two dozen live whelks.

Back in the parental home, the disgraced former student became a virtual recluse, emerging from his room only to eat or to perform experiments on the family goldfish. However, it was during this period that Hieronymous was to build the invention that made – and ultimately, ruined – him.

Had you peered through the window of Abercrombie and Sons of Froghill in early December 1876, you would have beheld a Christmas cake, the like of which had never been seen before. Flawlessly decorated, it boasted a log cabin, a spruce tree, two children riding a sled and the words ‘Yuletide Blessings’, piped across the top in flowing pink script. The cake inside was ordinary enough – it was the finely crafted iced decoration that made it the toast of the season. 

The festive delicacy was purchased by industrialist Josiah Catchpenny, who would go on to take a keen interest in its reclusive young creator.

Under Catchpenny’s watchful eye, Hieronymous took his first steps into the manufacturing business. Success followed success and, before the decade was out, his Patented Steam-Powered Cake Icer was not only selling faster than hot cakes, it was decorating them too. No self-respecting Victorian home was complete without one and orders flooded in from all corners of the Empire. From Calcutta to Kirkcaldy, from Lagos to Leicester, if it was an icer, it had to be a Pigeon.

By 1892, Hieronymous had become an eminent and wealthy man in his own right. He married local debutante Effie Stringfellow and the couple had two sons, Alonzo and Orville. Unanimously elected Executive Director of the Froghill Chamber of Commerce, he was awarded the OBE in that year’s birthday honours and granted the freedom of the City of London soon after. 

Yet just when it seemed that Hieronymous Pigeon had ascended to the very pinnacle of success, Fate was to step in and deal him a cruel blow.

In February, 1893, a trainee pastrycook in Harrogate lost an eye, both ears, five teeth and her reputation after a cake icer malfunctioned. The national press got wind of the story and whipped up a perfect storm of outrage. Cake icers were denounced from every pulpit and Heironymous hanged in effigy on street corners up and down the country.

Orders dwindled to nothing and his licence to manufacture was revoked. He was dismissed from the Chamber of Commerce and stripped of his OBE. With his income drying up and his name dragged through the mud, Hieronymous was left with no option but to file for bankruptcy.

In the spring of 1894, his beloved Effie left him, taking both their sons with her.

Shunned and alone, Hieronymous fled Froghill, eventually taking a room on the top floor of a boarding house in St. Leonards-on-Sea. It was here, on the 26th of October, 1894, that he was found dead by his landlady. By the side of a rubber tube leading from the body to the gas tap was a lavishly decorated cake. In shaky but legible curlicue across the top, the iced inscription read:

I took on Fate and tried to beat it

But ambition became my death knell

I strove to have my cake and to eat it

But the icing was not enticing – so farewell

LAST ORDERS - FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE

For the past couple of weeks, drinkers at Cheetingham’s Peek-A-Boo Inn have been nonexistent, following an evening of supernatural goings-on which cleared the old pub in under half an hour (Observer, June 7).

Since then, things have settled down somewhat, though life is hardly normal for proprietors Jim and Dolly Bladder. Unexplained cold spots in the public bar, a cider tap which either cannot be turned on or cannot be turned off and the pervasive odour of pork pie have all had the couple at their wits’ end.

“We’ve only been here for about a year and we’ve spent a lot of money on the place,” Jim told the Observer from the deserted Lounge Bar, “so we decided we’d better do something quick before we went bankrupt.

“Only thing we could think of was to go online and hire a medium.”

Madame Mirella duly arrived yesterday evening and wasted no time in identifying the best spot to conduct a séance.

“She set up near the window, next to that seat that gets hot for no reason,” said Dolly.

“She told us that was the place where the portal was widest open. Said we should sit with her and join hands. Then she closed her eyes and dozed off to sleep.

“Her mouth dropped open, ever so undignified, and I was afraid she was going to dribble all over her blouse.

“Then she starts moaning and, next thing I know, there’s this voice coming out of her. Man’s voice it was, same one that talked about pork pies that awful evening.”

Madame Mirella, it appears, had made contact with Alf Lamplighter, who passed away three months ago after an interview with this paper on the occasion of his 110th birthday (Observer, March 11).

“When the voice came through, it sounded like Alf alright,” continued Dolly, “he said he’d come back because he didn’t like one or two things about the way we were running the pub.”

The ‘hot seat’, he informed the trio, was his customary place in the bar, one which he had occupied for over 50 years.

“Alf said he didn’t want no-one occupying that seat,” said Jim, “said as how we should keep it vacant in his memory. Also, he didn’t reckon this new cider we’ve had put on. Wanted us to go back to Ramsden’s Old Scroat, the one they used to serve in his day. And he asked us to put his Chumping certificates back on the wall behind the bar, where they used to be.

“Said if we did all that, he’d keep quiet and wouldn’t bother us anymore.”

Asked whether there had been any further communications from the other side, Dolly replied in the affirmative.

“Alf said he was sorry about the horseshoe hitting poor Ron Spike on the head and knocking him out. Said he’d only intended to move it about a bit, just to put the wind up folks, never intended for it to drop.

“Oh, and he also thanked your journalist for putting his dentures back in, after they fell out when he passed on.”

* Madame Mirella is a City and Guilds Level 2-qualified clairvoyant who is available for séances, exorcisms, weddings, baptisms, conferences, birthday parties, stag and hen nights, coach trips, Star Trek conventions and balloon sculpture events. She can be contacted on 0774 993 1871, until such time as the deportation order takes effect.

THE KIDS ARE ALL WRONG

Pupils from Cheetingham Primary’s Year 1 have failed in their attempt on the world record for the number of children who can fit inside a single condom.

Three months ago, we reported how 55 youngsters had managed to squeeze into an Erotickle Deluxe and that the school had submitted the evidence to Guinness for evaluation (Observer, March 22).

“We got the news yesterday,” said headteacher Arnold Plumm, “and, unfortunately, we were beaten by a school in Sendai, Japan. It seems their Year 1 children are, on average, smaller than ours.”

The plucky headteacher is undaunted however, and said the school is going to continue in its quest for world record glory.

"We are going to continue in our quest for world record glory," he said.

“The Year 5s are doing the Victorian era in their history classes at the moment so, in the spirit of that age, we’ll have a go at the record for the number of children who can be sent up a chimney.”

LACTOSE INTELLIGENT – RAYLINGS FARM CHURNS 'EM OUT

Nowadays, everyone enjoys a pot of yogurt. Strawberry, black cherry, banana, hazelnut - they’re the familiar faces of the nation’s breakfast tables. Yet no-one, it seems, has ever thought to produce anything a little more exotic.

Until now, that is.

Raylings Farm is venturing into pastures new and, from next week, visitors to their farm shop will be offered a choice of yogurts with mouthwatering names like Cumberland Sausage and Pizza Napolitana.

“I go the idea after one breakfast time when me and the wife was having a bit of a ding-dong,” owner Joshua Rayling told the Observer.

“She lost her temper and threw the frying pan at me, bacon and all. Lucky for me I ducked and it went clean out the window!”

What happened next was to set in motion a process that would result in a entirely new and original range of yogurts.

The flying pan landed in the cowshed, where Florence, the farm’s prize-winning Guernsey, was happy to devour its contents. When she was milked later that day, it was noticed that her milk smelled and tasted of bacon.

“Whatever you feed a cow will end up flavouring the milk she produces,” said Mr. Rayling, “so I decided to take that idea and run with it.

“From Monday, we’re launching three major new lines. The first we’re calling the ‘Big Breakfast’. This has got your staples like bacon and egg, sausage sandwich and beans on toast flavoured yogurts.

 “The ‘International Gourmet’ features the likes of Penne Arrabiata, Chicken Chow Mein and Thai Green Curry. The cows took to the Chow Mein big time, so we’ve got high hopes for that one.

“With the ‘Country Fayre’, we’re aiming square at the English market, with traditional favourites like Hedgehog Al Fresco, Venison Roulade, Toadstool Surprise and Acorn Ripple.”

Pull the udder one, you might think but, at the time of going to press, the Raylings are hard at work on some even more unusual ideas, including bespoke yogurts for special occasions.

The first of these will be called ‘The Gunpowder Pot’ and it’s aimed at firework parties this coming November. Its unique flavour is achieved by having a cow inhale the smoke from a bonfire.

“We decided to use Florence for this, as she was the one who gave me the idea in the first place,” explained the farmer-turned-entrepreneur.

“We use an old cylinder-type vacuum cleaner, which we found in the loft. We turn it on and put the nozzle near the bonfire, so that it sucks up all the smoke. We keep the fire on a slow burn by piling old tractor tyres on it.

“The other end of the cylinder, where the air comes out, we duct tape over Florence’s mouth, so it blows the smoke from the fire straight down her throat.”

Strain on the animal's head is reduced by means of a horse collar fitted with a fishing rod. When the collar is placed around the neck, the rod projects over the head. The line from the rod is then attached to the cylinder and reeled tight, reducing downward drag and keeping the cow's head up.

In order to ensure maximum results from the smoke inhalation process, Florence is induced to run on a treadmill, so she will take deeper breaths than normal.

“We don’t want to wear the old girl out, so we don’t set the belt speed too high,” said Mr. Rayling, with a chuckle.

“Never more than 35 mph, tops.”

ROADS ARE GETTING LONGER, SAYS FDC

Our roads are getting longer and our towns and villages further apart. That’s the inescapable conclusion of a three-month mensuration project, details of which were released yesterday by Froghill District Council.

“If we compare our new measurements with those of a similar study conducted back in 1970, it appears that average distances have increased by anything up to 52%,’ said Desmond Smalls of the Council’s Job Creation Department. 

The three-month project, which cost £2.5 million of taxpayers’ money, saw over 350 civil engineers on their hands and knees, painstakingly recording the length of local roads using wooden rulers.

“We’ve measured every single one to the inch,” said Mr. Smalls, “and it’s a fact - our roads are quite simply longer than they used to be.”

That statement will come as cold comfort to motorists like Barry Parry of Wythering.

“I’ve been travelling between Wythering, where I live, and Froghill, where I work, for the last 20 years,” Mr. Parry told the Observer, “and, factoring in petrol price inflation over that period, it seems that I’m now spending a lot more than I used to on my daily commute.”

The Council’s findings make for interesting reading. Take Wythering Road, for example: in 1970, it was measured at 10 miles long whereas now, it clocks in at 13.6 miles. The distance between Froghill and Traubert’s Heath shows an even greater increase: from 12.2 miles back then to a whopping 18.5 now.

The phenomenon as a whole can be ascribed to global warming, as tarmac tends to expand when it becomes hotter but not always to contract again as temperatures fall.

“Last year’s scorching summer added a mile or more to local distances in three months alone,” said Mr Smalls, as he adjusted his glasses.

“If global temperatures go on rising like this, things will only get worse,” he added. 

"Should the international target of a maximum 1.5°C rise fail to be achieved, it is probable that the village of Traubert’s Heath will be in Poland by the year 2050.”

PUB WITH ONE SPIRIT TOO MANY

The only pub in Cheetingham village stands uncannily quiet today, following a series of bizarre incidents earlier in the week. 

Jim and Dolly Bladder, proprietors of the normally popular Peek-A-Boo Inn, find themselves left alone with an eerie atmosphere and an empty bar.

“It started on Wednesday night,” recalled Jim, “when I was serving a customer with cider. I went to turn off the spigot as the glass filled up but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t let me. It was like there was some invisible force, pressing down on it.”

Unable to stop the flow of cider, Jim swapped the full glass for an empty one. As that one filled, he substituted a third, a fourth and then a fifth. Things continued in this way until the barrel ran out, leaving 116 pints of cider on the bar and no clean glasses in reserve.

“We were just wondering what to do with all the pints when there was a sudden scream,” said Dolly, taking over the story from her husband.

“I looked over to see this bloke jump out of the chair by the window. He was holding his bottom and shouting. Said he’d been burned on the bum. Made quite a fuss about it, too.

“Well, I couldn’t see no reason for it. It’s not as If we had the fire going or anything.”

The inexplicably injured customer had only just limped out of the door when another approached Jim and asked whether there was pork pie on the menu.

“At first, I didn’t know what he was getting at,” said Jim, “and then suddenly I smelled it. It was pork pie alright, crust, jelly and meat, sure as you like. And it was getting stronger.”

So powerful did the odour become that it filled the room, causing many of those present to start retching.

“Then this man’s voice laughed and said: ‘I love a pork pie, me’, plain as the nose on your face. Seemed to come right out of thin air,” said Jim, with a shudder.

Combined with the now overpowering stench, the disembodied voice caused all-out panic. Within seconds, a pub that had been packed just half an hour previously became all but empty.

Unfortunately for the frightened couple, this was not to be an end to the evening's mysterious events.

As Jim was opening a window to let in some fresh air, he noticed that one of the horseshoes tacked up over the bar appeared to be moving by itself. As he stood watching, each of the retaining nails worked itself loose and dropped onto the counter. Then the shoe fell.

Sitting directly beneath was the evening's sole remaining drinker, retired tomato painter Ron Spike. Hit squarely on the head, Ron fell senseless onto his dog Bonzo, who was lying at his feet, chewing at an old gout bandage. Emergency services were called and both were rushed to the Lucky Charms Concussion Unit at Froghill General.

“Makes my hair stand up, thinking about what happened that night” said Jim, putting his arm around a clearly unsettled Dolly. “I mean, look at it. We’re normally full at this time of day but there’s not a soul in the place.

“And am I imagining things, or is it getting cold in here?”

ENTREPRENEUR USES INFLATION TO BEAT INFLATION

If nothing else, the British are celebrated as a nation of animal lovers. We cherish our pets and it can be heartbreaking when they pass on. Yet with taxidermy prices spiralling out of control, preserving our dear ones is beyond the means of all but the wealthiest.

All that could be about to change, thanks to the inventiveness of a young Froghill businessman. For instead of filling dead animals with the customary wire frames, foam and cotton padding, Jasper Mooncalf inflates them.

“I use a kind of gas, called VapoStiff,” said Mr. Mooncalf from his studio on St Alfege Street. “Once all the organs and skeleton have been removed, I inflate the carcass. The gas infuses the pelt from the inside, firming it up and preventing it from decaying.”

The inflation process is a slow and painstaking business and has to be performed by hand.

“I use a bicycle pump and insert the gas little by little,” the 29-year-old Cambridge graduate explained.

“The insertion is performed from behind, in the same way as an enema. I have different nozzle attachments for different animals, so I can always achieve an airtight fit.”

A graduate in Precambrian Philosophy, Mr. Mooncalf got the idea for his company, From Here To Peternity, after his twin brother died in a freak accident involving a pig’s intestine and a cylinder of propane gas.

“Basically, Toby hyperventilated himself, with the result that, in death, he was the same size and shape as he was in life. He was just a bit less animated, that’s all.”

In the three months since he established From Here To Peternity, Mr. Mooncalf has inflated everything from dogs to dogfish. He maintains that his results are every bit as good as those achieved by conventional methods but come at a fraction of the price.

“I don’t use any of the paraphernalia essential to conventional taxidermy. That keeps the overheads down and allows me to pass on the savings to the consumer.

“The only tricky part is getting the gas volume exactly right. Too little, and the subject will be floppy and wizened, with the posture all wrong.

“Too much and it will come out over-inflated, like Donald Trump.”

HENRY TAKES ROOT AT THE BBC

Henry the shrub is to star in his own television talk show.

The erudite talking lavender bush, runaway winner of a recent pub quiz at The Nut Tree, will host his own programme, scheduled for BBC 1 later this summer.

The initiative is the brainchild of local celebrity Barrie Nesbit, presenter of popular children’s programme Mr. Wobbly’s World. After reading about the quiz win (Observer, May 21st), he immediately contacted Henry’s owner, Cheetingham businessman Alastair Rose, and put the idea to him.

“It struck me right away that Henry was made for TV,” said Mr. Nesbit, speaking by phone from his Wythering home, “and with my standing at the BBC, it was fairly easy to convince the Head of Light Entertainment to take a chance.

“I mean, how many chat shows are presented by anything other than a human host? Even the Japanese networks haven’t managed that!”

The pilot programme, provisionally entitled Chatting Around The Bush, will air on August 23rd. Guests so far confirmed include actor/director Phoebe Waller-Bridge, heavyweight boxer Anthony Joshua and Julien Overbite-Smythe, the man who for 10 years was Elton John’s personal dental floss provider. Music will be courtesy of Crazy Frog tribute act Spawn Again.

Sources close to the Observer report that Nigel Farage has been approached to perform a fundraising balloon sculpture act, with all proceeds going towards a second Brexit referendum.

Asked how he felt about appearing on national TV, Henry answered: “I’m really excited by it all. I’ve always enjoyed a challenge and the opportunity to do things other bushes can’t.

“So in fact, you could say that I’m branching out,” he added, with a cheeky rustle of the foliage.

MISPRINT

Due to an editorial oversight, a misprint occurred in last week’s edition of the Observer. In an article entitled Best Sellers in the Cellar, we stated that Bill Blocker, German beer connoisseur and landlord of The Nut Tree, “has some deliciously well-rounded bollocks that slip down the throat with ease”. That should, of course, have read “some deliciously well-rounded bocks”. We apologise to Mr. Blocker and his family for any offence caused.