Author’s note. 

There is no swearing in this episode. Well, maybe arse but no F words. There is however some nudity so if you are offended by the sight of spinsters wrestling naked in mashed potato then it’s best to look away when you get to that bit.

No elephants were harmed in the writing of this nonsense.

Episode Three. 

The winters in Harefield are short but harsh. Usually winter will start with the first snowfall on Christmas Eve and end when the first snowdrops and daffodils appear around about St. Valentine’s Day. The village is still very much an agricultural community and even when cut off from the outside world by snow blocked roads, is able to sustain itself through the hard times. The Farmer’s Collective, which consists of all the local farms with the exception of Farmer Turncoat’s Black Heart Farm, store their produce in giant barns  on the site of the old Ministry For Germ Warfare buildings just off the High Street, keeping the village food supply safe from raiding parties of hungry Orcs from Rickmansworth. The allotmenteers, of which there are many, are able to feed themselves and their extended families throughout the year, although some are known to camp out on their plots to protect their crops with the use of firearms if the weather is particularly harsh and supplies are running low.

Gaz and Hoppy the Geordie’s plot. 

Spring is said to arrive on the first Sunday after St. Valentine’s Day, known as Potato Sunday. This is the day that the seedling potatoes go on sale in the Trading Hut on the allotments. The previous day is called Select Saturday when certain committee members get to pick the best of the bunch. Most of the villagers are pagans and as Potato Sunday is a pagan festival they will send each other Happy Potato Day cards and place old potatoes on their thresholds to welcome in the new season. Christians will take their seedlings to church to be blessed in the hope of a bumper crop, except the Baptists who take theirs to be Christened.  Traditionally the pub landlords will place gratis plates of roast potatoes on the bar during the lunchtime session, with the exception of the Old Orchard who dish up Chef’s pan roasted pommes de terre a la Rosemary and the Spotted Dalmation who do salt and vinegar crisps. In the Kings Arms car park the Harefield Benny Hill Recreation Society hosts an event where spinsters of the parish wrestle naked in a paddling pool filled with mashed potato. The overall winner is dubbed Miss Harefield Potato and officiates at various events throughout the year such as the opening of the Infant School Fete and the discontinuation of the Sunday bus service.
Just after Christmas the Harefield Art Gallery had ceased trading. The proprietor Mr. Amberley, an expert in ‘reproduction’ masterpieces had sold all of his stock in the Christmas rush and had received an offer he couldn’t refuse from a Mr. Tinker on behalf of a certain Mr. Lovejoy to provide replica works of art for the lucrative East Anglian market. This, followed by another request from a certain antique shop owning Duchess to ‘ stop selling pictures and get out of town pronto or say goodbye to your kneecaps’  was enough to persuade him to disappear.  The Harefield Chamber of Commerce were extremely concerned that yet another shop in the High Street had become empty and the Chairman, the Mayor of Harefield Atul Von Londis, called an emergency committee meeting to try to attract potential investors to the village. At the same time the leader of the Harefield Residents Angry Brigade, Mandy Rice-Pudding, approached the Council to plead for funding to rejuvenate the High Street. The council offered to send a representative in the form of the councillor for the Mount Pleasant ward, Dicky Cowsheds, to a general meeting to be held in the Library in Park Lane with all villagers and shopkeepers invited to attend.

On the night the event was over-subscribed, so emotive was the topic for discussion that people were spilling over into the library car park trying to get in. Various opposing factions with different agendas also turned up to confuse the issue and there was much jostling and name calling between those demanding Barrington Drive be demolished and the others who wanted to see it underpinned. The Benny Hill Recreation Society had arranged for Miss Harefield Potato to be chased in her underwear by some comedy policemen to add a piece of jollity to the proceedings for no particular reason and the anti HS2 Freedom Fighters were recruiting rural guerrillas from the gangs of surly youths who hung around outside Costcutters, begging passers by to purchase cigarettes for them. Eventually the Harefield Home Guard arrived, led by Captain Manucci, and soon restored order.  The meeting commenced and various deals and counter proposals were brought to the negotiating table. Discussions went on long into the night and refreshments were taken, carry outs of light ales from the Kings Arms and butties from the all-night Village Bakers. Councillor Cowsheds offered on behalf of the council to refresh the look of the High Street by erecting banners advertising the council’s latest schemes around the borough such as the fifth runway for Heathrow airport and the new gypsy site in West Drayton. Closer to home the council had offered generous discounts for shopkeepers to have new signage fitted and shop fronts modernised but this was to be funded by painting double yellow lines on both sides of the High Street and making the previous free car park opposite Bill the Bookies a pay and display one. The deal was sweetened by giving all those present a free shopping bag emblazoned with the slogan VISIT HAREFIELD, IT’S GREAT! and everyone went home happy and deluded.

The matter of the empty shops was soon forgotten by the villagers, they were more concerned with making plans for the big St. George’s Day celebrations. If it ever came up in conversation again then Harefieldians would dismiss the topic with phrases like ” Small potatoes are better than no potatoes at all” or ” One potato doesn’t make a summer” and even ” You know what they say, better the potato you know…”

This blessed plot. This earth. This realm. 

St. George’s Day was the first big celebration of the year. There were parties, booze ups, feasts, music and a big parade. Okay so it came after Easter and Mothering Sunday but whoever heard of a parade at Easter time? This particular year was one to remember for a long time. The festivities began when the children from the infant school re-enacted scenes from St. George slaying the dragon in paper mâché costumes on the village green. The local bobby P. C. Brigade then closed the High Street to traffic as the marchers assembled outside the Royal British Legion Ex-Servicemans Club. The parade would start there and finish on the common. Crowds had gathered six deep along the High Street waving their little St. George flags in anticipation of the grand procession. First off was the Boy Scouts Marching Brass Band, playing Football’s Coming Home, followed by the brave ex-servicemen themselves, medals worn proudly and brightly polished, St. George banners unfurled and marching smartly in step. Next up were the Harefield Home Guard led by Captain Manucci, shuffling along out of time brandishing their pitchforks and yardbrooms. Behind them followed the First Harefield Venture Scouts, the Girl Guides and Brownies all carrying their respective banners and flags. Then came the floats, colourfully decorated. There was the combined church choirs of St Mary’s and St Paul’s singing Jerusalem conducted jointly by the Reverend Killjoy and Father Cassocklifter, Miss Harefield Potato on the back of the Farmer’s Guild wagon towed along by Black Heart Farm’s milk float, the Harefield Amateur Dramatics Players’ float with the cast of their latest production No Sex Please We’re From Ruislip in full costume and the float from the Harefield Inn carried the pub’s championship winning darts team, with pub regulars Josh and Tom posing as the pub landlords. The real management team Mr. Ho Ho Ho and Martyn the part time cellar man had been bound and gagged and left in the cellar to miss the celebrations as a prank by The Quizzy Rascals and Señor Willy, two of the pub’s quiz teams. This was followed by the Pirahna Brothers in their scrap metal lorry loaded right up with iron and decorated with bunting and another float with the members of the Bowls Club all dressed up as cockney Pearly Kings and Queens doing the Lambeth Walk gor blimey ‘ave a banana. The Trouble Boys weaved in and out of the floats on their quad bikes and scooters doing wheelies whilst giving onlookers the middle finger. It took a full half an hour for all of the floats to pass by until the final one appeared, Mr. Shifter driving his tow truck with a stock car on the back. If he was part of the official parade or just stuck in traffic at the back no one is clear but he tooted and waved merrily at the crowd and they cheered him back and threw the last of their streamers at him anyway.

Mr. Shifter’s Chevronz stock car 

In the Kings Arms car park the Swan Inn Memorial Society held a Dwyle Flunking competition and the Guv’nor Sean served up trays of traditional foaming pints of lager top. The Springwell Lock Morris Dancers went from pub to pub performing their merry dances and in the Spotted Dalmation beer garden the smiling landlord Mr. Jolly was welcoming one and all to his free hog roast. The local gypsies gave free rides to children on the common in their pony and traps. The locals of the Harefield Inn were treated to a good old fashioned sing along around the piano, led by the vicar himself, the Reverend Killjoy, once the management team had been released from the cellar. The residents of Dovedale Close held a bring-your-own-dope street party down by the allotment gates to celebrate winning Britain In Bloom for the sixth consecutive year, dancing to the Best of Boney M played by Mad Ken with his patio doors open. On Newdigate Green a rave was held featuring mixes by MC Ray Pond. The natives danced all night long, some in their shell suits and some naked, fuelled by alcopops and Es.  An impromptu football match started between the teenage gangs of Newdigate Green and graduates from the Harefield Academy for Somalian Footballers. The ladies from the Hill End Women’s Institute held a tea dance in St. Marys Church Hall which degenerated into a food fight and wet t shirt competition. It all got out of hand when the treasurer of the Horticultural Society punched the Church Warden’s lights out for daring the treasurer’s wife to streak with him along the High Street to the Peri Peri Shop and back, and assisting her in removing her clothes when she accepted the challenge. Everything calmed down and was soon forgotten about after a few more pints of Old Bedwetter. The nine o’ clock watershed passed after which all men become the beshtest of friends and are legally  allowed to talk gibberish. Yarns were told and tales were swapped of giant marrows, huge fish that had got away, marathon drinking sessions, extreme gardening and threesomes with the church secretary, Roxanne Snott. Well everyone likes their Sunday roast, right fellas?

Hoppy the Geordie and the yard of ale. 

The rest of the evening passed peacefully in all the drinking establishments in the village and the Harefield Home Guard weren’t called out once, which is just as well as they were all snoring in a drunken slumber hiding in the scoreboard hut of the Cricket Club after Private Moulder found the key to Mr. Fingers’ secret stash of turnip vodka that he had been saving for a rained off day. After the pubs closed the happy villagers made their way home under the light of the full moon, some supporting each other zigzagging down the road, some softly singing traditional english folk songs such as Back Home and World In Motion by the England World Cup Squad. Hoppy the Geordie’s attempt at the John Barnes rap was only surpassed by Mr. Shifter’s rendition  of Slipknot’s  ‘Pulse Of The Maggots’.

Mr. Ho Ho Ho and Martyn the part time cellar man. 

Sometime  during that night an event occurred that would have far reaching and grave consequences for the village folk. One of Harefield’s elders was a gentleman called Hairspring. A man of indeterminate age, he had been practising wizardry for the past two hundred odd years in the village. For about half a century before that he had studied geomacy, necromancy, alchemy, shamanism, Santeria and voodoo to name but a few of his skills. Daily he would patrol the village borders and boundarys on his penny farthing Shergar, together with his acolyte Dicky Jives, casting spells to protect Harefield and its folk from outsider mischief and malice. After his rounds he would accept a free pint or two of Old Bedwetter from the village’s many hostelries. This being the feast of St. George, Hairspring made sure he visited all of the pubs and clubs in the village, including the borderline establishments such as the Rose and Clown, The Coy Crap and the Halfwit House. Grateful villagers and landlords bought him many pints in appreciation of his great deeds. Finishing up in the Spotted Dalmation he beat all comers at darts before wobbling off home on Shergar. Being a wee bit pissed, and who could blame him, he forgot to cast the locking spell on the bike before heading up the wooden hill and seeing it in his front garden unfettered as it were, some little toe rag decided it would be fun to joyride home on a wizard’s penny farthing and nicked it.

Shergar the magic penny farthing. 

First thing the following morning, as Harefieldians were waking up and nursing their aching heads, a J reg red Ford Escort van emblazoned with the legend ‘BECKENHAM TOWN FOOTBALL CLUB’ pulled up in the High Street outside the empty Fray Bentos Dental Surgery shop and three gentlemen got out and started unloading ladders from the roof rack. ( Author’s note. This bit is true. You couldn’t make it up. )   These were no ordinary builders though, these were the famous 1970s retro builders, with scant regard for health and safety, no hard hats nor safety boots for these lads, no scaffolding, warning signs, traffic cones or hi-viz jackets. Oh no. One of them, a fat man with no shirt, wearing a pair of red football shorts and the company’s only concession to safety wear, a pair of hi-viz socks, directed operations whilst constantly with his mobile phone pressed to his ear. The second gentleman spent the entire day with his head beneath the bonnet of the ancient van, trying to coax it into being well enough to ferry them home to South London at the end of the working day. His efforts would prove to be futile and they would end up being towed home by the AA. The third worker, a wiry tough looking individual wearing a Crystal Palace bobble hat, propped a ladder up against the van so that passers by were forced to either walk under it and risk a head injury from above or walk out into the road and take their chances with the traffic. He then proceeded to paint the outside of the building with a two inch brush. The traditional builders’ radio blasted out Diddy David Hamilton on Capital Gold and more paint was spilt on the pavement, pedestrians and the workmen themselves than managed to adhere to the wall. It was truly a performance the Chuckle Brothes would’ve been proud of. Ladders were swung around, striking the van, the public and themselves. At one point the only worker  painting was left hanging from the guttering by his fingertips as the fat bloke, distracted by yet another phone call, moved the ladder prematurely.

Their antics eventually caught the attention of the Harefield public, still drowsy from St. George’s Day, and rumours began to circulate about what kind of establishment the shop would be once renovated. A tattoo parlour said some. A pet shop said others. Another estate agent said the estate agent. A satirical writer from the  upmarket Dovedale estate maliciously spread the rumour that it was going to be one of those ‘private’ shops selling marital aids and adult videos. This was of great concern to the Morals Sub-Committee of the Harefield Residents’ Angry Brigade, who, after an emergency meeting outside the Co Op, dispatched former councillor and local busybody Maureen Horley to the Town Hall to see what she could find out.

With the use of certain handshakes that she had learnt from the book ‘Freemasonry For Dummies’ Maureen was able to gain access to the inner sanctum of the Town Hall Planning Office and the secret filing cabinets marked ‘Planning Permission Pending’.  Looking under H for Harefield High Street she discovered there was no planning permission currently being sought for 16 High Street Harefield. “Aha!” she exclaimed “Caught the devils!”  Straight on the phone she was to mission control of the Harefield Residents Angry Brigade and to the delightful Ms. Rice-Pudding. “Mandy!” she cried “I’ve found them out! There’s no planning permission applied for the old dentists. They’re up to something mark my words!”  “Well it’s probably going to be another dentist then” replied Ms. Rice-Pudding sarcastically ” Now go and dig me some real gold, something we can really complain about. You know how our residents like to have something to moan about on Facebook!”

True to Ms. Rice-Pudding’s prediction, after a week of Son of Chuckle Brothers toshing up the shop inside and out a true craftsman turned up to sign write it, as the imaginatively titled ‘Village Dentists’. Mrs Horley however doggedly stuck to her task of trying to find some dirt on the council regarding dirty deeds in the Harefield constituency and after a week of lobbying lodge meetings and digging deep into the planning offices’ files, unlike Bono she finally found what she was looking for. Scandal.

Craftsman at work. 

The new owners of Mr. Amberley’s old Art Gallery  at number fourteen the High Street, according to the secret files Mrs. Horley had discovered, had applied for planning permission to turn the premises into an opium den. Now Harefield people are well known for keeping themselves to themselves and not gossiping but for once news like this spread like wildfire. The editor of the Church Magazine sent an eager cub reporter Jan ‘Scoop’ Francis to the council offices for a quote, but she received a generic ‘No comment!’  Speculation and rumour was rife on the Harefield Up Your Arse Facebook Page. Many thought it would be a good thing for the village, that it would be nice for the young mums to have somewhere to meet up and do some gear together after the school run. Others suggested that consultants and surgeons from the hospital would be pleased to have a place to meet, relax and get blasted  away from work. ‘Just what Harefield has been crying out for’ people agreed ‘No more having to go to Ruislip or Rickmansworth to get toasted’ they concurred.

Not everyone was happy about the opening of an opium den in the High Street though. Many argued the case that Harefield didn’t need another dope outlet in the village and that there was already the famous Cannabis Cafe to sit down for a smoke or the Barbituate Bakery for a take away. Dave December from the bakers and Chemistry Ali from the cafe immediately lowered their prices and put extra advertising in their windows to remind the public that they were already the suppliers of fine narcotics to the villagers. The only person happy with this new competition was Mr. Kinada from the Foo King Ada Chinese takeaway restaurant as his triad had a monopoly on opium supplies to the North West Middlesex area. Direct descendants of the Ten Tigers of Canton zealously guarded the poppy fields off the Harvil Road down by the Dog’s Home and the opening of a third Harefield outlet meant they could increase their prices as there was more demand for their product from the retailers who consequently had to lower their prices to increase their market share.

Guarding the poppy fields by the Dogs Trust. 

True to their word, the council started offering grants to the shopkeepers towards smartening up their shopfronts. Unfortunately due to a new government Health and Safety directive, comedy builders were outlawed and so new professional construction workers were hired to complete the jobs. Many took advantage and had new signage above their shops. Bob the Butcher had BOB THE BUTCHER and underneath that painted in fancy writing purveyors of fine meats poultry and game to the gentry. Bill the Bookie had his full name painted above his shop, WILLIAM HILL  Turf Accountants. The gorgeous girls who worked in the Village Salon needed no such advertising as their appointment diary was always full but even they had a new hand painted sign VILLAGE SALON  Paris Fashions at Mayfair Prices. (That alright Jacqui?). These girls were multi talented and of an evening time they went out as a crack pub quiz team called ‘The Bitch Is Back’ , winning top cash prizes everywhere they went, sometimes assisted by a gentleman ringer. (Okay Gilly?).

Hairspring’s bicycle was still missing and he was unable to do his daily rounds. Unprotected by magick, the village began to see strange events occuring. The builders carrying out the restoration works on the High Street were outsiders, not even from places such as Ruislip or Northwood but from foreign parts SOUTH OF THE RIVER where much evil exists. The pubs were full at lunchtimes and after work with fighting Millwall and Charlton supporters who would then gang up on the Crystal Palace lot. Villagers were afraid to go for a drink. The builders’ apprentices had frightened away the local youths and had replaced them outside the Costcutter shop. Instead of asking people to buy cigarettes for them, they were demanding money with menaces for the purchase of strong ciders and amphetamines. Builders’ wagons continually blocked the High Street stopping the 347 bus from getting through and so the bus company suspended the route, meaning the villagers were cut off from the outside world. Under a new edict from The Town Hall private cars were banned and a curfew was put in place forbidding citizens from walking the streets during pub opening times. A firm of pikies resurfaced the High Street with Tarmac mixed with red diesel without being asked and demanded payment from the shopkeepers. One night at three in the morning a herd of wild horses invaded the village, ousted the Parish Council and seized control establishing Emergency Equine Powers. Allotment holders were forced to pay tithes to the Equine Council in the form of cabbages which were to be brought to the common thrice daily. All horses in stables locally were freed and saddles were prohibited. Pikies were forced to pull their ponies along in their little carts instead of the other way round and expect a damned good whipping while they were at it. The pubs were renamed. The Kings Arms became The Horses Fetlocks, The Spotted Dalmation was the Spotted Appaloosa Horse, the Harefield Inn renamed the Nags Head, the Bear On The Barge reverted to the Horse And Barge and the White Horse remained shut.

Work was coming along nicely in the new opium den, the inside had been completely refurbished to a high standard and at last it was sign written skilfully as WE LOVE COCAINE. Several of the other shopkeepers were impressed by this method of advertising and employed the signwriter to change the names above their shops. The Village Cafe became WE LOVE BACON, Harefield Wines was WE LOVE CHEAP CIDER, Mr. Grimsdale the Funeral Director changed his sign to WE LOVE A GOOD FUNERAL and Phil Ling the Chinese dentist became WE LOVE TO DRILL ‘EM AND FILL ‘EM. The Harefield Pharmacy next to the new opium den, continuing the theme, was renamed WE LOVE ALL DRUGS. The Village Bakery used a bit of poetic licence and was called USE YOUR LOAF whilst Terry the Barber had a sign erected outside informing one and all that they were at CUT THROAT ALLEY.

We love cocaine. 

An article in the Harefield Gazette written by Scoop Francis about this stupid village ruled by horses and being taken advantage of by South London builders was repeated in the Daily Hatemail. All of a sudden the world’s press and TV reporters descended upon Harefield. The community soon became a world wide laughing stock. Memes and vines (whatever they are) appeared on the world wide interweb. Harefield jokes replaced Irish jokes. Satirical TV shows like Have I Got News For You, Mock The Week and The Last Leg ripped the piss out of Harefield. Even Blue Peter got in on the act by bringing a baby elephant to the High Street and letting it crap everywhere.

No elephants were harmed. 

Some of the village elders got together and held a secret meeting in the Scout Hut at Taylor’s Meadow to decide what should be done. Terry the Barber, the Duchess of Harefield, Farmer Turncoat, Old Pete from the allotment, Dicky Jives and that bloke who walks backwards along Harvil Road spoke long into the night. Several halves of Old Bedwetter were drunk before a decision was reached. There was only one man who could possibly save them. Hairspring. But he had been missing ever since his bike had been nicked.

Dicky Jives was dispatched to the nearest Council of Wizards who met at Merlin’s Cave, a jazz pub in Chalfont St. Giles. He spoke to a senior wizard, Catweasel from the West London Harley Riders who confirmed that Hairspring hadn’t been seen for weeks and that the strange events occurring in the village were no doubt due to the lack of a wizard’s protection. As an acolyte of course, Dicky had heard most of the spells on the daily rounds but, if used or spoken incorrectly, they could cause even more trouble for the village. Being a motorcyclist though, Catweasel did have one piece of advice for Dicky. ” Seek ye the missing conveyance and ye shall find succour”. Dicky correctly took this to mean start by finding Hairspring’s bike although he wasn’t sure who Catweasel was calling a sucker.

The following night Dicky reported back to the Council of Elders in the Scout Hut. It was obvious to all there that finding Shergar the penny farthing was the way forward but where to start? ” What we need” said the bloke who walks backwards along Harvil Road ” Is a scouting network to cover the whole area”.  “Well how we gonna do that with all these there horses everywhere?” asked Farmer Turncoat. “What we need ” emphasised the Duchess of Harefield ” Is a group of people who are fearless, don’t care about the law or upsetting people to get what they want. We need to set a thief to catch a thief”. Just then their discussion was interrupted by the sound of what seemed like a thousand motorcycles revving up outside in Taylor’s Meadow. ” It’s Catweasel and the Harley Riders come to help us!” cried Dicky. “I don’t think so” said the bloke who walks backwards along Harvil Road, peeking out the window. “You’re right” said Old Pete ” It’s those Trouble Boys who ride up and down the High Street doing wheelies scaring the villagers”. ” Bloody hooligans. Need a bloody good haircut the lot of ’em!” snarled Terry the Barber. “No wait! ” exclaimed the Duchess, who, after Hairspring was the wisest person of the village, and who had refused many requests to join the ladies’ hairdressers quiz team ” This could be just what we need. Go and fetch their leader in here and I’ll speak to him”. The bloke who walks backwards along Harvil Road walked backwards out of the Scout Hut and into Taylor’s Meadow. “Oi you lot!” he hollered ” The Duchess wants a word with you!”  ” Duchess? Go screw yerself!” sneered a hoodie astride a quad bike. Suddenly all the motorbike noise was drowned out by a piercing whistle. Everyone turned to look at the Duchess who was removing her thumb and forefinger from her mouth. “YOU. IN. HERE. NOW. !” she ordered the hoodie.

A Trouble Boy. 

The hoodie and the Council of Elders spoke for several hours until the dawn. Discussions were heated and voices were raised but eventually a secret deal was struck. Later that same day a huge gang of cyclists, motorcyclists and quad bike riders all wearing hoodies instead of crash helmets gathered on the common, engines revving away. They rode off towards all points of the compass doing wheelies, flicking V signs, giving the finger and scattering pedestrians. The keyboard warriors immediately took to their computers and smart phones to complain about kids today with no respect for others and blaming the parents and how it wasn’t like that in their day and that they’d nearly been run over by a quad bike whilst driving home pissed from the pub the other night.

The Trouble Boys systematically searched Harefield high and low looking for the magical penny farthing. No stone was left unturned, no shed unbroken into. Farmyard barns, school playing field’s groundsman huts, pub beer gardens, those bits out the back of shops where they throw all the cardboard boxes, the trouble boys were diligent to the extreme.  Plenty of other missing or stolen things turned up. Road cones a plenty, a set of stop go boards, a bus conductors hat, The Scream by Edvard Munch, the Jules Rimet Trophy and Nellie the Elephant. Nobody found my missing flip flop that I lost walking home from the Cricket Club in the rain but that’s a story for another day. Of course everyone knows that when you have lost something you’ll always find it in the last place you look. You could save a lot of time looking in the last place first but nobody ever thinks of that.

And so it was that the last place one of the Trouble Boys looked was under a bush in the park on the Gilbert O’Sullivan estate, you know, the one with all the dog poo everywhere, behind Rameshes Revenge And All Nite Covenience Store and in amongst the needles and used condoms was Shergar, Hairspring’s magical penny farthing. And in a sorry state it was too. Both wheels were gone and the frame was buckled and bent almost in half. This was almost worse than it being missing. Dicky Jives was summoned to the scene to cast his good eye over the distressed machine. “There’s only one thing for it” said Dick “We’ll have to restore this to its former glory if we’re going to tempt Hairspring back from where ever he is”.

But how do you fix a magic bike? It’s not the sort of thing the average craftsman comes across every day. Dicky had an idea though. “There’s one man I can think of. If anyone can fix it he can”.  Dicky and the trouble boys carried the mangled penny farthing through back gardens and alleyways avoiding the horse patrols to the Village Forge next to the Kings Arms where a blacksmith had worked since horses were invented in days gone by. The sign above the door read ‘THE VILLAGE FORGE. ‘ Horses shod, magic swords made, guitars restrung, bicycle repairs. The sign on the door read ‘GONE FOR LUNCH’. There were six horses queued up,outside waiting to be shod. “Have you seen the smithy?” Dicky asked them “Neigh” they all replied. “Sorry about that” said the author. Lunch could only mean one thing though and that was the Kings Arms next door where they found Smiffy the Smithy propping up the public bar nursing a pint of Old Bedwetter. As broad as he was tall he stood, with tattooed forearms like tree trunks, a shock of white hair and a golden earring. “Alright Smudge?” greeted Dicky. ” Got time to look at a bike for us?”  The blacksmith shook his head “I’m rushed off me feet mate. These horses are keeping me busy, I can’t keep up  with things, I’m busier than a one armed paper hanger.”  ” Mate, it’s Shergar we’ve got here, Hairspring’s penny farthing ” Dicky informed him. ” I’ll be right on it bud” replied Smudger “As soon as I’ve finished this pint and the next half dozen”.

Smiffy the Smithy with my Telecaster. 

True to his word, six pints later the smithy was back in the forge and after a little nap he told the horses waiting to be shod that he was out of horseshoes and got to work on the penny farthing frame that was bent beyond all recognition. All tnrough the night he worked and through the next day and night also. The door to the forge was locked and bolted and sported a hand written sign. ‘NOT NOW I’M BUSY. NO HORSES OR PEOPLES GO AWAY “. Banging hammering and swearing could be heard from within, a blacksmith’s traditional sound of industry. On the third day an argument of wizards led by Catweasel the Grey came a rapping on the forge doors with their staffs. Smiffy admitted them swiftly and they beheld in front of them a gleaming sparkling brand new looking penny farthing. “There it is fellas” proclaimed Smiffy ” But it ain’t magic ’til youse lot ‘ave ‘ad a go”.

The Wizards formed a circle around Shergar. Catweasel raised his staff and struck the penny farthing. The Wizards uttered a spell starting quietly and rising to a crescendo. “TRAGUNA MACOIDES TRACORUM SADIS DEE. ANIMOVIVIDUS SHERGAR EXCELSIOR. CHIRPY CHIRPY CHEEP CHEEP!”  Nothing happened. Catweasel repeated the spell. Still nothing happened. Smiffy dug Catweasel in the ribs. “Oh yeah. COMEONYOUHARES!” Suddenly a ray of light light shone through the roof onto the bicycle. “I must replace that slate” muttered Smudger. At once the penny farthing reared up and whinnied like a stallion then started doing laps of the forge on its own. “Sorted then” said Smudger ” I’ll just get your bill”. Catweasel glared at the blacksmith whose trousers’ backside mysteriously  began to smoulder. “Just joking” said the smithy and gave the bike another polish.

“So what you do now” explained Catweasel ” Is just leave the bike outside. Either Hairspring will find it or it will find Hairspring”. “Or it’ll get nicked again” said Smudger. “It won’t get nicked” Catweasel told the smithy “Now come along Wizards!” He banged his staff on the ground, shouted “SHAZAM!” and a billowing cloud of blue smoke filled the forge. When the smoke cleared the Wizards were still left standing there. ” Does nothing work around here?” wondered Catweasel and stormed off in a huff, which I believe is some kind of pedal car, followed by the rest of the Wizards.

By the next day things were going from bad to worse in the village. The horse patrols had doubled, the pubs were all shut and the South London builders had started constructing another row of shops down the centre of the High Street. Now no vehicles could pass through the village at all. On top of that, Hairspring’s penny farthing had disappeared from outside the Village Forge. The rain was teeming down but the bricklayers carried on slapping down bricks in the wet so that the walls weren’t at all plumb or level. Some villagers had gathered on the common but this was no assembly like when Watt Tyler led the Peasant Revolt across London Bridge, nor was it a meeting of The Levellers, a New Model Army or even Travis. They knew their plight was hopeless.

In the distance, coming from along the Ricky Road, there came a noise like rumbling rolling thunder. Louder and louder it became and the biggest pack of Trouble Boys you ever saw came into view on quad bikes, motor bikes, scramblers, scooters and hand built old racers. Closer they came until they reached the crossroads by the Kings Arms and they parted down the middle. Through the centre of the pack came ,yes, you guessed, Hairspring astride Shergar. The old wizard dismounted and stood there, neckerchief tied loosely around his neck, old engineers cap on his head and the arse hanging out of his trousers. The villagers on the common gathered around him and more left their houses as the word spread. Pretty soon the common was packed with a traditional angry mob carrying flaming torches. The building work came to a standstill in the High Street and a passing patrol of horses stopped to demand what the hell was going on.

Hairspring stood on the centre of the crossroads and raised his staff. The whole village was waiting on his every move. He began to chant. ” DEUS EX MACHINA. IN VINO VERITAS. IN CERVESIO FELICITAS. SHA LA LA LA PUSH PUSH. COMEONYOUHARES”   There was a clap of thunder, a bolt of lightning hit the aerial on the mini cab office and electrocuted the fat controller, the heavens opened on the High Street and drenched the horses and builders whilst the sun shone on the villagers standing on the common. The horses fled in all directions of the compass, the South London builders got in their vans and drove off to the other side of the river and the sun shone on the whole village. The new ugly buildings dissolved, the pubs had reverted to their proper names and in the High Street was a delightful row of independent shops with shopkeepers standing proudly outside. Where there had once been an art gallery there was a coffee shop called We Love Coffee. There was the Village Bakery, the Village Cafe, the Costcutter, the Co Operative and CJs General Store all looking wonderful. Bob the Butchers had become Mr. Robinson’s Family Butcher selling the finest meat and also eggs and fresh vegetables. Harefield Wines had a special offer on Stella Artois. The villagers were ecstatic. “Hurrah for Hairspring” they cried “Hurrah for the Trouble Boys”

In all its beauty. 

They carried Hairspring on their shoulders through the High Street to the Harefield Inn to buy him the first of several pints of Old Bedwetter. “It was nothing really, a mere parlour trick, just smoke and mirrors” chuckled Hairspring. “Nothing my arse” thought Dicky Jives. “Now leave my sodding bike alone in future” ordered the wizard “And start picking up your dog doos after you!”

The villagers celebrated long into the night and the next day they began making a speedway track down in the old poppy fields by the Dogs Trust for the Trouble Boys who never troubled anyone ever again. Harefield was at peace once more and the good folk who dwelt there began to look forward to Harestock, three days of love peace and music that is held each year on the common, but that’s a story for another time.

The common or village green if you will. 

The pond. When I was young they found a shark in there. 

Harefield Hospital Centenary. 

Harefield is famous for its sunsets over the allotments. 

Harefield I love you. This stuff writes itself.