Sequins and Clacking

 On the nineteenth day of Advent my 3-D tree gave to me...a very chilled-looking badger scoffing some berries? Apples? He'd better watch out - Mrs Slocombe is always very keen on a pre-stuffed badger for Christmas dinner. Anyhoo, on with the show...

‘Did you hear that?’ says Mrs Slocombe, who has emerged from the motorhome with arms full of red sequinned costumes in order to do a final costume fitting.

‘Hear what?’ says Mrs Poo, who possibly has some engine oil in her ear because she has been busy putting the motorhome through a thorough thirty-two-point Winter check plan just in case Arctic conditions descend when she is out doing the weekly shop.

‘I could have sworn I heard Kenneth shouting,’ says Mrs Slocombe, standing very still and staring across the woodlands. ‘Listen,’ she says.

Both hens stand with their heads intently cocked to one side, like they are listening for rising worms on a rainy day.

‘Nope,’ says Mrs Poo, sticking her wing in her ear and giving it a little wiggle. ‘Can’t hear a thing. What was he shouting?’

‘It sounded like ‘Shut up!’’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘And ‘Season of mists a-twunce!’’

‘Well, that doesn’t make any sense, does it?’ says Mrs Poo. ‘I expect what you heard was a wolf howling. Or maybe a pheasant. You know what a cacophonous, drivel-ridden racket they can make.’

Mrs Slocombe shrugs. ‘I suppose,’ she says, and busies herself fitting the costumes to the ladies.

Meanwhile, Kenneth has full and complete control of the leaping Lords. He has crushed their egos, sat on their dissent, and vanquished any hint of narcissistic behaviours, mostly through various acts of bribery which is the Lords’ recognised currency. He has cast the parts in The Owd ‘Oss, and put Lords Farquuad and Oftheflies in charge of manipulating the wooden skull of a horse on a stick, as they both have equine experience. Well, one of them does.

‘I’m very pleased with this ‘Oss,’ says Enrico. ‘I especially like its snapping jaws. I think it would be possible to cause serious damage to someone using this horse’s head. I mean, only if one really wanted to. Which I don’t.’

Lord Blair nods in agreement. ‘It’s like a weapon of mass destruction,’ he says, stroking the sleek wooden nose of the skeleton head and pulling on the stringed mechanism that makes the jaw snap, snap, SNAP!!!

‘Is it?’ says Lord Voldemort. ‘It’s not as effective as THIS weapon of mass destruction,’ he continues, whipping out his wand and sending a blue jagged lightning bolt streaking across the edge of the woodlands, narrowly missing a pair of hedgehogs who have emerged from their hibernation in order to pop a nice holly wreath on their front door and also do a quick trip to the supermarkets who are having a price war with their 5p packets of vegetables.

Lord Kinnock says something incomprehensible in Welsh.

‘What did he say?’ whispers Kenneth to Juan.

‘Something about leeks?’ says Juan. ‘Although they aren’t in the supermarket veg offers, more’s the pity.’

There is another mild fracas when Lord Byron declares himself the best Lord because he is mad, bad and dangerous to know, and Lord Prescott demands to know why they have a horse and can’t they use one of his Jaguar cars instead? And then Lord Vadar steps in with his light sabre which he drops on the foot of Lord Lucan who discovers it isn’t a light sabre at all, it’s a rather heavy sabre, actually.

 Kenneth the Phantomime sinks onto a tree trunk and puts his head in his hands. ‘Really,’ he mutters to himself, ‘I have never had to work under such difficult circumstances EVER.’

But because he is a professional and there is an adoring audience on the performance horizon, he persists, and by the time the mid-Winter sun is slipping beneath the horizon, he has organised the ten Lords into producing a passable performance of The Owd ‘Oss, and feels confident that they will pass muster in the auditions the following day.

‘I think we should perform a traditional Morris dance to finish the play,’ he says. ‘Do we have any jingle bells, perchance, Juan?’ he says, turning to the turtle dove.

Juan pats down his combat gear in a pretence of looking. ‘Surprisingly not,’ he says.

‘I can fashion some out of acorns,’ says Enrico, who is keen for another venture into the woodlands with Madame Bovary and Madame Cholet.

‘Jolly good!’ says Kenneth. ‘And what about some sturdy sticks for clacking together? Could you find some of those, too?’

Enrico says he is sure he can, and off he trots with the two Madames in tow.

‘I’m not sure arming ten Lords with a clacking stick each is wise,’ says Juan. ‘They can get a bit carried away, you know, especially if you are basically giving them permission to hit each other.’

‘They’re not hitting each other,’ says Kenneth. ‘They are hitting each other’s sticks.’

‘Tantamount to the same thing as far as this lot is concerned,’ says Juan. ‘I watched them having an innocent game of ‘Wack-a-Mole’ once. Turned into carnage.’

‘Oh, they’ll be fine,’ says Kenneth. ‘They’re all responsible adults. What could go wrong?’

Juan sighs. ‘Didn’t I just say? Wack-a-mole?’

But Kenneth is no longer listening. To be honest, it’s a miracle he has listened thus far. Instead, he is already living out the triumph of tomorrow’s auditions. And being one step closer to meeting the Lord General Porpoise and finding out the porpoise to his own Phantomime life.

And so it is that on both the East side and the West side of the woodlands, two sets of weary would-be audition troupes settle down for the night, to rest their weary arms and legs, and prepare for the following day. The hens and nine dancing ladies manage to squeeze into the motorhome because it is a deluxe model with additional six berth awning. The Kenneth camp settles in various cars parked, wild west wagon-style, around a small bonfire. There’s a bit of singing, a bit of whisky drinking, a bit of inappropriate banter and then a silence descends across the woodlands, and the resident woodland creatures think, ‘Thank goodness for that,’ or words very similar, and all, for the moment, is right with the world.