STORYTIME – part 9

Apologies for how long it’s been since the last installment. Actually, this one’s slightly rushed as a result of how much time’s gone past.

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PART 9

Pixar Paul’s ordeal was nearly over. He had endured hours of high-budget entertainment, hours of ruined plotlines, two and half buckets of popcorn in his hair. The villain’s high-pitched laughter still vibrated in his ears, suspending all animation and joy. Even the credits were slowly drawing to a close, all the hundred thousand names listing in front of him, a glossy war memorial to the film.

The memorial could just as easily have been to his own life, Pixar Paul thought. At that moment the lights brightened and the film stopped rolling. Finally the sock was wrenched from his mouth.

“So you’re going to kill me?”

“No, I shall not kill you, oh no. Instead, I shall… let you die. Ha!”

“What is your plan?” Even though he’d never seen a Pixar film before this day, Paul had seen enough movies to know that villains always revealed their schemes. All you had to do was ask nicely.

“Ah, it is simplicity itself. In films they always try too hard. Lasers, golden guns, and so on. Why the effort?”

Pixar Paul didn’t know.

“When you have your man in an abandoned warehouse, there is no need for lasers. In an abandoned warehouse you may just… abandon him!”

“But then it wouldn’t be an abandoned warehouse if there was someone abandoned in it.”

The villain considered this.

“But it would, Paul. Both the warehouse and the man would be abandoned. It would be a place of abandonment, full only of abandoned people, like sailors lost at sea.”

“So you’re going to abandon me in a warehouse.”

“No. There are no warehouses here.”

“Why all the warehouse chit-chat, then?”

“Because I am going to abandon you here. In this cinema. To cover my tracks I shall, of course, let the townsfolk know. That way I cannot be blamed. But they may never find the note.”

He waited expectantly, but Pixar Paul wasn’t curious about the note.

“They may never find the note, because I shall leave it somewhere no-one ever looks. A place no-one ever goes. A place no-one ever checks.”

Pixar Paul still didn’t ask.

“That’s right. The local newspaper. Ha!”

Despite his affected nonchalance, even Pixar Paul recoiled slightly.

“The local newspaper! The last place anyone would ever look. They shall never, ever find you.”

And with that the villain left. A door slammed somewhere in the distance.

Pixar Paul was left in the darkness, tied to a chair. His fate was decided now, as surely as any fate can be.

———————————-

The ceremony, too, was drawing to a close. Awards were circulating the room. Farmers grinned left, right and centre. All the prizes for vegetables shaped like genitalia had been given out. The Brussels Sprouts, which had been delicately arranged like Ferrero Rocher, had all been eaten. There were only two Turnips to go.

“Our penultimate award is a super one, folks. The Cucumber Which Most Reminds Us Of The Endless, Meaningless Futility of Existence!

Gert crossed his fingers. His cucumber had been snatched from the Buy-One-Get-One-Half-Price display. It was bound to win.

“And the winner is… this cucumber!” Mr Sherman said, holding up a very average-looking cucumber, “Weltschmerz, existential angst, whatever you call it, this cucumber certainly has it.”

A dog yelped in pain.

“I was robbed. Robbed. There’s nothing wrong with that cucumber.”

“Oh, but there is, Gert,” interjected Rupert Cornelius, who mysteriously appeared behind them, “the ordinary cucumber, beholden to nothing, appears day after day in our grocery, ready to be eaten once more. Does it not remind you of Sisyphus?”

Gert ignored him.

“Pity Abe isn’t here this year, Lester. He’d have loved all them peas.”

“Mr Sherman said he was a five-time winner. What prizes did he win?”

“Oh, he was always up for the Grand Prize, Abe was. The only one left, as it happens.”

At the front, Bradley Alan Sherman was readying himself for the main effort. He dabbed his hair a little with wax and straightened his bow tie with a carefree, efficient turn of the wrist.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our final prize. The one you’ve all been waiting for” – he pointed to indicate a particularly big fake turnip on a stand – “the greatest Turnip Trophy of them all.”

“It is, of course, the Novelty Vegetable Prize!”

“But first, a tribute to…” he checked his notes hurriedly, hoping no-one would notice, “Mister O’Hearney, our late friend. Maximilian, our very own Master of Ceremonies, will say a few words.”

And he retreated, clapping politely to his seat. Maximilian stood to address the audience.

“Ahem. A few days ago, someone very important was taken from us. A great friend, a great farmer. We’ll always remember Abe, a great drinker, too. He use to sit in the Lady Luck with that rum and coke of his, sipping away. Maybe he’s up there in the sky now, sipping a rum and coke. I’m sure he’s here now, floating above with a drink, watching the show today.

“We all remember his farming. Five times winner of the Novelty Vegetable Prize, of course, the star of the show. First year he won it with a butternut squash shaped like the Taj Mahal. Second time around it was a radish in the shape of James Joyce’s Ulysees. That one was pretty close, one of the judges thought it more reminiscent of George Bernard Shaw and voted against, but it took the Turnip anyway. Then, three years in a row, three mushrooms in the shape of Nagasaki. Five wins for old Abe.

“But this year Abraham isn’t competing. His tragic passing is mourned by all, we can agree. And our brave detectives – sitting just over there – will surely solve this terrible crime.”

“Hear, hear,” echoed the crowd. But there was muffled disagreement.

“Why haven’t you solved it yet?”

“Why are you in the pub?”

“I saw you yesterday,” accused one farmer, “asleep under the bridge! Not much of a detective.”

There was a disembodied grumbling from the floor. Maximilian, the Master, tried to take command again.

“They, will, of course, solve the mystery of this dastardly deed. But we return to the festivities. Let me sit and hand control back to Mister Bradley Alan Sherman.”

Applause.”Thank you, thank you.”

“I was nervous coming here, to all you good people. Was this, it was.”

He held up the paper, with its headline ‘MAN IS DEAD. RUN IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU.’

“But you’ve made me feel right welcome, here in your lovely little drinking-hole. Like the old dad always said, if you get past the cover, the book’s always worth reading. Always said that, he did. And if we get past the cover, we see” – he turned some pages – “grand ladies with their cakes. A washing machine in the middle of the road. A notice for an old Mondeo that’s sitting in the layby. A polite notice of a kidnapping. A little lad proudly holding his first swimming certificate…”

“Hang on, what was the last one again?” Maximilian interrupted.

“First swimming certificate. Forty-seven metres, big bright badge…”

“No, no, the one before.”

“Oh, it;s just a note to say a jazz musician’s been taken…”

The suit crumpled slightly.

“Taken hostage. Someone’s been taken hostage. Cinema.”

Everyone rushed for the door, peas on the floor.

—————————————-

It was a full twenty minutes before the pub was back to order.

“Pixar Paul, who did it?”

Gert felt he ought to lead the investigation, given that he was the lead detective. Bradley Alan Sherman stared somewhere in the distance, watching a golden coast of yesteryear in his head.

“No idea, sir. Could have been anyone, anyone at all. I’ve lived a long life, and there’s many a kid who holds a grudge against me.”

Paul was sitting on an upturned manger, rubbing his head with a sickly orange towel. Quite why he was doing this no-one knew, as he had run out of hair years ago. The only effect was to make his scalp extra shiny.

“Somebody did it!”

“Someone’s to blame for this!”

“String ’em up!”

“Tie him to a stake!”

“Throw him in the river!”

“Pelt him with tomatoes that are past their best-before date!”

“Make him sit out in the rain for a very long time!”

“Throw him in the pool!”

There was a big cheer for this. The squadron of pool-carrying helicopters had been worth it, the crowd reckoned, for a proper afternoon’s entertainment.

Sherman got in on the act. “Pool, pool pool!” he chanted, fist raised in the air, as if he were boxing at a 90-degree angle.

“Pool, pool, pool!” Everyone took his lead.

“Pool, pool, pool! Pool, pool, pool!”

The crowd was up, craving reprisal, stamping a conga of natural justice.

“Pool, pool, pool! Throw him in the pool!”

They turned to Gert.

“Get him, Gert! We’ll throw him in the pool.”

“Where’s the ruffian, Gert?”

Gert paused. He held the silence for a heartbeat longer than anyone would expect, just for that chilling effect.

“Well, we’ve started with a list of suspects. Made enquiries, questioned…”

“Yeah? How many suspects?”

“How many was it, lad?” he said, turning to Lester for support.

“Oh, um, er…”

“It was…”

“57?”

“No, too many. You’re thinking of beans.”

“1?”

“More than one.”

“4?”

“4 suspects! On the list, we’re crossing them off, one by one. For each we’re…”

“They don’t know!”

“Not much in the way of detectives.”

“Chuck ’em in the pool!” At last, they had a scapegoat or two.

A cough, and everyone was suddenly, mysteriously silent. This time Maximilian had got it just right.

“Ladies and gentleman, let me remind you of a middle-aged man, in the prime of his life.”

The crowd would have preferred whips rather than tails, but the cough had worked its charm. They let him continue, still eagerly anticipating a bit more splashing about.

“This man came here many years ago, with a young wife. He set up in the old farmstead, just north of here. Didn’t grow any crops for years, survived all the same.

“Then someone peeked in, turned out the couple were running a socialist communist utopia commune, but they’d forgotten to invite anyone else along. And no-one had told them you can’t be running a socialist utopia, that’s not the point, but they continued anyway, with their land redistribution and anti-competition regulations.

“A few weeks later, they declared war on the United States of America, they did. No shot was ever fired, but the U.S never dared to invade. Scared of something.

“And, do you remember, that man was scared of something too? He’d never go near water, he wouldn’t. Always avoided the fresh juice aisle in the supermarket, would only ever buy from cartons from concentrate.

“But there was that one time, see, that one time when the man was too engrossed in his manifesto on the means of production, and he fell in the river. Terrified, he was. Too scared too swim. And we all went and fished him out. Every last man, woman and child was by that bank, pulling the man to safety. Of course, we didn’t need the whole town doing it, and it took hours longer than necessary, mainly because people kept pushing each other in for a lark, but we got him out, all the same.

“And that misguided, kindly man thanked us, he did. Couldn’t thank us enough. Invited us over to his socialist communist utpoia for stollen. Most of us couldn’t make it, having had prior engagements, but those that did said it was the best stollen they’d had all week.

“Our town grew to love that man. We’d save him from any old river, we would. We’d pull him out the Atlantic Ocean if we had to, because he was one of us, even if he did follow the red flag. And when he came round to liberal capitalist democracy in the early nineties, we all roared for it, but we’d always loved him, really.

“And Abraham – for it was he – Abraham couldn’t bear water, and now he’s dead, and now you’re threatening to throw the detectives investigating his own death, threatening to throw the very detectives into the water he so feared. Shame on you! Shame on all of you!

“If Abraham taught us one thing, it’s that life is more than sickles and swimming pools. It’s about respect for our fellow human beings, in life or in death. So throw not these men into the water, for you are better than that, my friends.”

The crowd turned their eyes to the floor, gazing beyond the assorted vegetables in between the tiling. They were looking at a deeper truth. Finally, one spoke for the multitutde.

“Yes, Maximilian. We cannot throw these fine detectives into the water.”

Gert’s easy grin, which had never wavered, flickered a little brighter.

“But we cannot keep them on the case. Abraham’s memory is too precious for that. We need a new detective.”

The crowd were quiet in their agreement. This mutiny was all for one, one for all.

Gert shrugged. His mind was on his cucumber.

“Who will be our detective?”

A suit jacket was drawn together. The crowd turned at the sound.

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything,” Mr Sherman said, hastily replacing a fountain pen in his pocket, “but a do a line in old-timey sleuthing too.”

He handed round a single business card. ‘Mr Bradley A. Sherman, Guest Speaker’ it said, with ‘Private Detective’ underneath in spidery ink.

“He’s a detective!”

“Maybe he would take on our mystery.”

“Why don’t we ask him?”

He looked round at the crowd and pointed hid finger in the air.

“I would…be delighted to help. My price is very reasonable.”

“How much?”

“What have you got?”

The farmers rummaged through their pockets. They had spent every last penny on vegetables.

“Tell me, Mr Sherman, how do you like vegetables?”

Mr Sherman kept his polished whites showing. Vegetables might not put food on the table, but it was probably the best he could do.

“Show me what you’ve got.”

And show him they did. Every farmer went away with their shovels and came back with everything they could shovel together. All the vegetables in the town were there, all piled up.

“Is this enough payment?”

“Oh, I think it is, folks. But I’ll need a completion fee too, you know. Something for solving the case. That’s my price.”

Everyone groaned. There weren’t any more vegetables.

But Maximilian had an idea. “Well, we do have one thing left. Anything’s worth bringing that killer to justice.”

He turned, meaningfully, towards the last Turnip Trophy.

“As Master of |Ceremonies, I bequeath the Novelty Vegetable Prize, our greatest trophy, to the detective who can solve the mystery of the murder of Abraham O’Hearney.”

Gert gasped. This was heresy. Not only had he been stripped of the detective role, the town’s greatest accolade was being given away for a trifle. He had no choice but to solve the mystery, and solve it as soon as he could.

TO BE CONTINUED

Deep Ecology – clarifying my thoughts

I’ve been reading about Deep Ecology. It’s a philosophical position I’ve seen before, but never really looked into, so I thought I’d learn more. I start with an explanation of why I wanted to read about it. I finish by trying to construct the argument that seems to be made: I’m not convinced, but I’m intrigued.

I had come across Deep Ecology before – it is the idea that ecosystems themselves have a value independently of human beings, and ought to be treated well because of this value, not because of human reliance on them. It contrasts with most environmental philosophy: usually, people believe we have a duty to maintain the environment because human beings would suffer if we did not. On this view, it is wrong to cause climate change because climate change would harm human beings. To a deep ecologist, on the other hand, it would be wrong to cause climate change because it would harm the ecosystem itself, not just human beings – if it didn’t harm human beings, it would still be wrong.

As some readers may know, my Master’s dissertation was about citizenship and animal welfare. One conclusion I drew was that some of our duties to others come from our dependence on those others, and that the duties go beyond the extent to which we depend on those people. So, for example, it is good to love and care for older relatives partly because we have depended on them in the past. The duties owed because of this previous dependence go far beyond our current level of dependence on those people – it is not a matter of paying back what has been received, but of respecting that person as someone who has been a crucial part of my life, and therefore as someone worth saving in themselves, not just because of their utility to me across my lifetime.

I took this a little further, with two more conclusions. Firstly, I used quite a broad notion of dependence. By this I mean emotional dependence, as well as physical dependence. These duties arise whenever a person is hugely emotionally invested in another, to the extent that we might call it dependence, in the sense that the dependent would be severely hurt were the dependency to cease without any mitigating circumstances. This is quite a vague idea, but that’s the nature of the subject. This gets very strange and complicated for certain types of relationships between people, but then again, duties, pains and pleasures have to be balanced out against one another, and it is very much in the nature of life for people to encounter such difficulties. Secondly, I maintained that it was the dependence relation itself which gave rise to these duties, and interdependence relations even more so. Importantly, it had little or nothing to do with the nature of the beings in question – whether they were humans or non-human animals, for example. Such interdependence could occur between, say, humans and their pets, not just between humans.

Deep Ecology, then, attracted my attention. If the dependence relation itself generated moral duties, then our need for a functioning ecosystem meant that we had to act morally towards that ecosystem. There was an argument for ordinary, standard ethical ecology right there. It might even go further: if I was arguing that we owed more to those we depended on than was necessary for our own survival / well-being, then we would owe more to the ecosystem than strictly necessary for our own survival / well-being.

So, back in 2012, I took a quick look at the Deep Ecology literature, but quickly rejected the doctrine. It wasn’t that the position was false, but that I couldn’t find any arguments for it. The books I found tended to state a standard position – that mountains, rivers, etc. had value in themselves, independently of human beings – and failed to give any arguments for it. The closest I was found was a vague justification that we ought to see ourselves as citizens of the world, so we ought to treat the world itself well – but this completely begged the question, whilst raising new ones. Why should we be citizens of the world? Why does ‘citizen of the world’ entail Deep Ecology rather than cosmopolitan care for all humanity? In addition, it seems to me that there would be no right or wrong without creatures to experience it: if no humans or nonhuman animals had ever lived on this planet, and the world was comprised of lakes, trees and hills, then nothing good or bad could ever happen. A related question – how can something be harmed if it cannot experience it in any way? So I didn’t agree with Deep Ecology, and I’m still not convinced.

However, I have searched for a better understanding of Deep Ecology, and I think it is an interesting way to view the world. Whether it is correct is another matter, and not one I’m able to evaluate. There is some reasoning: the argument is that it is possible to view the world in a certain way, and that it is more beautiful to view the world in that way. So Deep Ecology is to be viewed as an aesthetic duty, rather than an ethical one. Interestingly, the conclusion is that ecological disaster is self-destruction.

Here’s the reasoning:

1. There is no single entity called ‘I’, i.e.there is no fixed entity to which I refer when I talk about myself.

This notion will be familiar to anyone who has studied either Hume or Buddhism. Hume claims that, when we try to observe ourselves, all we can observe are thoughts, feelings, desires, sensations, hopes, dreams, fears, etc. We never observe a self that thinks or feels. If we are empiricists, then we cannot conclude that there is some fixed self which has all of these mental phenomena. Similarly, there is a Buddhist thesis that there is no fixed or permanent self. This is often argued by way of analogy. For example, think of an aeroplane. The aeroplane is composed of wings, a cockpit, wheels, etc. – if we were to take them all apart we would not find a single part that was the plane. It is the composite of all these parts, not something separate from them. Human beings are said to be analogous to the aeroplane, and there is no fixed, permanent self. These two arguments are subtly different, but they are similar enough for our purposes.

Of course, these arguments have been debated for a very long time – I don’t really have anything to add to that debate.

2. If there is no single entity ‘I’ refers to, then ‘I’ does not necessarily refer to the individual ego.

In fact, the point of that Buddhist argument was that there is no such thing as the individual ego, so – if the argument is sound – ‘I’ does not refer to it. The conclusion would be stronger, but I’m keeping the modality in because I don’t think the argument needs to concern itself with that debate.

3. If ‘I’ does not necessarily refer to the individual ego, then we do not have to identify ourselves with our ego.

4. If we do not have to identify ourselves with our ego, then we can identify ourselves with others, even in a strict sense of identity.

This move is probably the most controversial. Hume’s argument claimed to show that there was no fixed thing that was the self. He put forward the cluster theory of self, by which I am identified with my bundle of thoughts, feelings, etc. There may not be a fixed criterion of identity for that bundle, but the self is comprised of that bundle, not any other, and it is fairly straightforward in practice to draw the line between the mental phenomena which are part of me and the phenomena which are not.

I may extend this comment in the future, once I’ve thought about it more.

5. It is possible to identify ourselves with other people, i.e. I am more than just my ego, but also other people too.

It is worth illustrating (5) with two examples cited in the literature. Firstly, Gandhi is supposed to have thought this way. When asked about the aim of his work, he replied that his chief goal was self-realization, and it was by helping the poor and needy that he was able to realize himself more fully. If Gandhi had been identifying himself with the individual ego, then this would make little sense, as he was helping others rather than helping himself. If, however, those people were identified by him as part of his self, then he would be achieving some kind of self-realization by helping them. Secondly, it is a common theme within some psychology that at certain stages we develop a social self – for example, we describe ourselves by talking about our job or place in society, so that someone may be a builder or an accountant, as well as an individual ego. It is in this spirit that the extension of the self is meant.

6. It is possible to identify ourselves with nonhumans too, including animals and plants.

An example would be a member of a tribe identifying themselves with their habitat. It is sometimes claimed we do something similar, even in Western culture, we often identify ourselves with a place or nationality, although perhaps in less strict a sense. There have been court cases brought about because people were evicted from tribal lands, and they sued on the basis that they themselves were being harmed by the eviction because that land was, literally, part of their identity, part of them.

Whether these are to be taken literally is up to the reader – they may just be metaphors which are not analogous to the concept of identity we are accustomed to, in which case the inference is a bit dodgy.

7. If it is possible to identify ourselves with our ecosystem, it may be more beautiful to do so.

8. It is more beautiful to identify ourselves with our ecosystem.

I have no idea how to evaluate (8). I don’t know how you tell.

9. In order to be as beautiful as I can be, I ought to identify myself not just with my ego or with other humans, but with my ecosystem as a whole.

10. If, to me, my ecosystem is me, then harming the ecosystem is harming myself.

11. Even if I am purely self-interested, and I identify myself with my ecosystem, then it is in my own interest not to damage the planet.

And that’s how Deep Ecology derives the (aesthetic) duties to mountains, trees, lakes, etc. A Deep Ecologist would view a mountain as part of him or herself.

—————————————————

So that’s best case I can put together from the literature I’ve read. I am a little sceptical, it must be said, but it’s an interesting idea. There’s a hint of Spinoza there, and an unusual use of metaphysics, even if it is dubious in places.

A Thought About the PISA Education Tables

Today the OECD has released league tables ranking countries on the performance of some of their 15 year olds. Predictably, the UK media has decided that the UK education system is hopeless because we were only about 20th for each category. I am, however, a little sceptical of this kind of story, purely because of something I heard a couple of years ago.

 

It was the first day of my Master’s and, as is customary on these occasions, we all had to sit in a great big hall and be welcomed. I can never quite understand why universities think that seating people en masse and talking at them is the best way to make them feel welcome, but apparently it is. Anyway, my university had a very diverse student body, with most postgraduate students being international, from all sorts of interesting countries and cultures.

 

This is all fantastic, and one of the main reasons I went there. But there was one main message the speaker wanted to convey to the new postgraduate students that day, and it was a surprising one. He, having first come to the UK as an international student, had gone through the same experience we were about to. The education, he warned, would be very different from the teaching many of  this audience would be used to. He claimed to have been shocked when he first arrived: previously in his education, it was possible to do well by following what the teacher said and reproducing it later. However, postgraduates in this university could not get away with that – instead they would have to work far more independently. For some it would be a sharp learning curve, he told us.

 

Now, the PISA tests only talk about 15-year-old attainment, not about tertiary / higher study, and I have no idea how accurate his warning was to us. It’s important to remember, however, that we might actually be doing the most crucial things well.

My Reading – 02/12/13

I’ve just remembered my plan to keep a list of books I had read / was reading. It’s been nearly two months, so I reckon it’s time to update the list. Not very many completed in the past two months – seeing the list you’ll quickly understand why. I’m only including books I’ve actually read (some of) since October, and only books which I haven’t completed before.

Books I’ve completed

The Brothers Karamazov – Fyodor Dostoevsky

Unpopular Essays – Bertrand Russell

Ludwig Wittgenstein: The Duty of Genius – Ray Monk

Meet Mr Mulliner – P.G. Wodehouse

Books I’m reading

Crime and Punishment – Fyodor Dostoevsky

P.G. Wodehouse: A Life in Letters – ed. Sophie Ratcliffe

To The Edge Of The World – Christian Wolmar

For Whom The Bell Tolls – Ernest Hemingway (I’ve promised myself I’ll actually finish this soon)

The Deep Ecology Movement: An Introductory Anthology – ed. Alan Drengson and Yuichi Inoue

The waiting list is long. George Eliot is an author I’ve been meaning to read for years, so I’ve got a pile of her books, as well as another eight (I think) Dostoevskys. Should keep me quiet for a while.

STORYTIME (part 8)

Part 8! Nearly at 25 000 words, which is quite exciting.

———————————-

PART 8

“What are your favourite animal noises, lad?”

“Baa!”

“That’s not a farmyard noise. Don’t get sheep on farms.”

“Yes you do. They’re called hill sheep farms.”

“No I mean normal farms. Yard farms. All the animals in the yard. What’s the best farmyard noise?”

“Neigh!”

“Don’t find horses on farms, either.”

“Ok, then – moo!”

A few people from the queue of farmers turned round, startled. There weren’t many large events in our small town, but everyone showed up when there were. It is a curious fact of small-town gatherings that, on big occasions, everyone dresses the same. If there’s a sports match everyone dresses up in the team colours. On Bonfire Night everyone wears long dark coats. And on the day of the Novelty Vegetable Show, there are a thousand flat caps, or at least there would be, if there were a thousand people here.

“Nah, the best is oink.”

“Woof!”

“Quack!”

A flat cap flew in the air, its elongated owner flapping furiously, but then realizing who it was, and that they were not calling him a quack, smiled his piano whites.

“Maxi! You’re in a cap.”

“Yes, Master of Ceremonies, they call me today.”

“You’re the Master every day, Maximilian, whatever they call you. Is everyone ready?”

“They’re organising themselves as we speak,” said Maximilian, gesturing towards a few tweed jackets by the pub gate, who were erecting rickety tables by the wobble-load. “Either of you entering today?”

“No, we’re just here as spectators, investigators. Or, actually, I’ve got two entries, but they’re both a bit last minute.”

Gert had found his entries in the local supermarket.

“Ah, right then. Any luck with the murder? There better be no murdering here today, mind,” he said, waggling his finger at Lester, “don’t want a fine day spoiled by the cold callow stench of death.”

He raised his nose to the air and sniffed.

“All I smell – for now – is the lingering odour of aubergine. But if the scent of the grave should rise, then Lord have mercy on us! Have mercy on our root vegetables!”

And with that he pirouetted away, looking for a wonky manger.

Gert and Lester wandered over to a trestle table and took their places.

——————————–

Paul opened his eyes. He was at the cinema. He didn’t know why he was at the cinema, because he was supposed to be in bed. This had never happened before, not even in movies. There was a figure wandering around in the shadows, flicking switches and fiddling with electrical equipment.

“What’s the story, guy?”

At least, that’s what Pixar Paul tried to say. What he would have said, perhaps, if there had not been a sock stuffed in his mouth. Paul was tied to a seat and the show was about to begin.

——————————–

The jibber jabber at the Farmer’s Arms continued. As usual, far more people had come along than the lackadaisical bar staff had expected, so underpaid workers buzzed around, seating people however they could. There were little children perched on bags of potatoes, farmers on coat hooks, washerwomen seated on the bar itself. Naturally, all this involved a great deal of hubbub.

Maximilian stood up at the front. It is never easy to silence a crowd, particularly a crowd of honest-to-goodness labourers intent on enjoying their Saturday. The Master of Ceremonies tried coughing, but everyone ignored him. He tried coughing again, but in a more masterly way. Again, the crowd ignored him, except one old lady, who passed him a lozenge. Upon closer inspection it turned out not to be a cough sweet but a sherbet lemon. Maxi sighed.

“Your attention please.”

Noise stopped and stared at the glossy, blue-suited stranger on Maximilian’s left, who, having brought peace, promptly sat down again, grinning in a 1950s sort of way.

“Um, yes, yes, hello everyone,” Maximilian said, “Quiet please. It’s time to start the show. May I introduce your host, of Orange County, California, and also of Broomfield Road, Huddersfield, Mr Bradley Alan Sherman!”

Mr Sherman rose slowly to his feet, as if a social inferior was handing him a cigar.

“Yes, you may introduce me, Max.”

Maximilian scowled. He hated being called Max. Back at school a teacher had once called him Max For Maximum, and the memory haunted him still. Mr Sherman continued in his duties.

“Welcome ladies, gentlemen, and pigs!

Two pigs at the back oinked in approval.

“Welcome to the 42^nd annual Vegetable Show or, as we like to call them round here, the Turnip Trophies! What do we call them?” Bradley asked the crowd, gleaming his white teeth.

“The turnip trophies!”

“That’s right. And may I thank your Master of Ceremonies, local soothsayer, mystic meddler, honorary Welshman, proud patriot, storyteller… Maximilian!”

Cheers, roars, oinks. The crowd had already met Maximilian, and didn’t really want to thank him, but their desires were bent to the will of the suede shoes.

“As you will no doubt remember, this marks a departure from previous years. I’m told that the host used to be introduced by the Mayor, who also had to be introduced by the organiser, who in turn needed introducing by the Mayor, who was introduced by the organiser. I hear your fine old show nearly didn’t happen as a result. Well, this year the organisers got their act together,” pointing the organiser out, who beamed, “and they hired me, Bradley Alan Sherman, to iron the record straight.”

“You can call me Mr Sherman, or Bradley. Or, to you, just Bill.”

He winked at a goose. The goose winked back.

“Before I go on, I’d like to dedicate today to a lost friend of ours.”

Mr Sherman stopped smiling and lowered his face into a frown.

“Mr Abe-ra-ham O’Hearney,” he pronounced uncertainly, “A fine man, and a fine farmer. A five-time winner of this show, no less, and sorely missed by all the good folks here.”

The crowd bowed their heads in acknowledgement.

“But on with the show!” and the grin was back, as if emerging from behind an awkward cloud.

“We’ve got all kinds of fun for you today. Big fun, little fun, japes just right for the little ones.”

“And it’s time for our first category of the day. Need a big bang to get us started, folks. Are you ready to make a big bang?”

Clapping. They were ready for a big bang, all right. Someone whooped, but was glared at by his teenage son.

“Okay then. Raise your glasses for the entrants of our first contest, our first Turnip Trophy – the Heaviest Pumpkin!”

Crowd members raised their glasses of carrot juice. Three very similar-looking pumpkins were carted to the front in wheelbarrows. People like pumpkins the world over. Mr Sherman examined each of the vegetables closely.

“Number One first. It’s a big brute, isn’t it?” he asked a farmer, who nodded. “And Number Two, what a beauty!” he gasped. “Number Three, well. Not the prettiest little thing in the world, but what she lacks in art, she more than makes up for in pumpkin!”

Farmer Three wasn’t too happy about this. She’d always seen her beloved pumpkin as male.

“And now, your judge for the first category.” he paused expectantly. “These bathroom scales!”

He laid the bathroom scales tenderly on the ground. They were truly the Scales of Justice.

“Weigh the first pumpkin!” he commanded, in a way reminiscent of Dwight D. Eisenhower, or a young Vernon Kay.

The pumpkin was dumped from the wheelbarrow. The scales broke.

“The scales have broken! Fetch me some bigger scales.”

Bigger scales were fetched and the pumpkin was weighed.

“And the pumpkin weighs in at… the second smallest set of scales. Put that pumpkin away and bring out Number Two!”

“Second pumpkin please! Put that pumpkin on some scales.” The first, broken set of bathroom scales were fetched.

“And the first scales have been broken! The second scales.”

This time the second smallest scales snapped too, but the pumpkin failed to break a third, bigger set.

“And Pumpkin Two weighs in at… the third smallest set of scales!”

Some fumbling and wheeling with the two broken sets of scales.

“Pumpkin Three… The smallest scales are broken. The second scales are broken. The third… the third are intact! It’s a tie!”

The crowd clapped enthusiastically. Pumpkin owners Two and Three stepped forward to receive their Turnip Trophy.

“Of course, all our resources were spent on bathroom scales – and me, of course – so we can’t award trophies to both of you…”

A mild scuffle ensued, in which Farmer Two pushed Farmer Three, but Farmer Three got Farmer Two in a headlock, and so was declared the winner.

“We have a winner! Do you have a name?”

Farmer Three stood up to her full height, triumphant in her moment of glory.

“Yes, yes I do, Mister Sherman.”

A pause.

“Well, what is it?”

“None of your business!”

“Oooh, she’s got spirit, this one. What are you going to do now you’ve won a Turnip? Any plans for the future?”

Raising he fist in the air, Farmer Three shouted, “I’m going to bake me some pumpkin pie!”

The crowd roared.

“Congratulations to our first Turnip winner. They say you can’t beat a good winner, and you definitely can’t beat a good pumpkin, so it’s fortunate that winners and pumpkins aren’t competing, else we’d have another tie.”

“Anyway the next category…”

———————————–

Adverts were playing on the screen, but the sound was down. A bumbling oaf failed to put his pants in the washing machine, so his homely wife had to do it for him. This appeared to be advertising a car. Next up a long-legged woman was posing for the cameras. Apparently other women were supposed to be jealous that she was being hounded by paparazzi. The long-legged woman was urging people to buy cameras, as if people still used cameras.

“You are Paul, yes?”

The voice came from behind him. Paul couldn’t affirm or deny, still having a sock in his mouth.

“Hmmm, Paul. And they call you Pixar Paul, do they not?”

The invisible stranger had a fake accent.

“And why do they call you Pixar Paul?”

Paul didn’t know why the stranger bothered.

“I shall tell you. It is because you have never seen a Pixar Film. Not Toy Story, not Wall-E, not even Antz.

“But all that is about to change, my friend. You have never seen a Pixar movie, yet you have seen all sorts of other things in this world, haven’t you? All sorts of things. But yet they call you Pixar Paul, when you could have had many, more appropriate names.

“Tonight you shall sit here, at my invitation, and watch a film with me. It will not be one of your favourite films. It will not be a recorded Miles Davis concert. Nor will it be The Devil Wears Prada. Instead, it shall be… a Pixar movie!”

Paul jolted violently, struggling with every bit of life he had, desperately trying to break free of his socks.

“You will no longer be Pixar Paul, but just… Paul. Plain, ordinary Paul. You will be nobody, not even a man who has never seen a Pixar movie.

“And it gets worse, my friend. This won’t be an ordinary Pixar movie, this will be… Toy Story 2!”

Paul struggled again in panic.

“Toy Story 2, a wonderful film. So wonderful, in fact, that you will have to go and watch the first and third films for yourself, just to discover how the tale begins and ends.”

“I am a diabolical genius!”

The villain cackled, as all villains are wont to do.

“Very well, then, let us begin. We shall not be disturbed. Hence I have included a good thirty minutes of adverts first. You do so love adverts.”

And with that footsteps clanked, dying away as the sound came on. The reel began to roll.

—————————-

The 42^nd Turnip Trophies were storming along. The Biggest Root Vegetable award, a category most spectators agreed was unnecessary, went to the winner of the Heaviest Pumpkin. Similarly, the Pumpkin scooped up the Widest Pumpkin, the Widest Root Vegetable and the Vegetable Most Likely To Sink In An Olympic Swimming Pool, the last of which caused all sorts of logistical issues and left Maximilian completely drenched.

“Now, folks, it’s time for the Turnip Trophy awarded in recognition of the Smallest Parsnip!”

Everyone whooped this time. The massive pumpkin couldn’t possibly win this one.

“Bring out your entries.”

There was a groan as an uncountable number of tiny parsnips were carried to the front, followed by a very big pumpkin.

“And the winner is… the pumpkin!”

The crowd booed as one. Someone threw tomatoes at Mr Sherman, which seemed a little unfair – after all, it wasn’t his pumpkin. Fortunately, the tomato pulp missed his shiny blue suit.

“Fix! Fix! Fix!” chanted the spectators.

The organiser jumped in the air and raised his palms in front of him. It looked like he was trying to high-ten a very large object, possibly a root vegetable.

“There is no fix. The process is all above board, I can assure you, and care was taken…”

At that moment his tweed pocket burst, and seeds scattered everywhere. A farmer examined the seeds.

“Wait, these are pumpkin seeds! Fix, fix, fix!” he led the crowd, waving his arms in the air like a loon.

“Fix! Fix! Fix!” the crowd chanted. They picked up the pumpkin owner and the official. For a second there was vocal, frenzied debate over what to do with them, but eventually they were chucked out the window.

“There’ll be no corruption here. Stay out!”

A few entrepreneurial farmers attempted to throw the pumpkin out with them, but it was far too heavy. Instead, they threw it back in the swimming pool, to a lusty cheer and a gigantic splash. Maximilian was, once again, the only person to get wet. Roars of approval and laughter brightened the breezy pub.

While all this was going on, Gert whispered in Lester’s ear. “Corruption, lad. Never pays. Always stay on the right side of the law, always respect your parents. That’s the way.” He winked and sat up straight, noticing that Bradley Alan Sherman was clearing his throat.

“Order, please.” It was not a request, and Mr Sherman’s listeners obeyed instantly, won over by his bright-button charm.

“Now that we’ve ended all corruption in this town, let us continue.”

“Hooray!” agreed the pub.

“Where were we? Ah, yes, the Smallest Parsnip.” Ripping up the envelope, he examined each parsnip in turn, first with the naked eye, then with a magnifying glass, and finally with a microscope.

“And the winner is… Andre Maisonette with his very small parsnip!”

A French-looking man collected his award, and primly sat down again.

“Let’s move on to the Grooviest Marrow!”

——————————

The adverts were over. Paul had been instructed to buy two kinds of German car, forty-four watches, seven types of detergent and a new cure for warts. Not only that, but he had been shown trailers for eighteen different, yet completely indistinguishable, PG-rated films, none of which were showing in a local cinema.

The hidden villain lurked behind him as the main feature began. It was munching popcorn loudly enough to disturb Paul’s enjoyment of the film, and occasionally balanced bits of popcorn on Paul’s head. It laughed uproariously at every joke or turn of phrase, whether it was funny or not, and spoiled every twist and turn by announcing it five minutes beforehand. Worst of all, it mimicked every catchphrase in a plastic, squeaky soprano, an anti-jazz falsetto that threatened to burst Paul’s very eardrums with its dissonance.

This could be a long afternoon, thought Pixar Paul.

—————————–

“Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the Most Orange Carrot is” – Mr Sherman opened and quickly closed the envelope which read ‘the big pumpkin’ – “Carrot Number 12!”

The owner of carrot number 12 punched the air and was quickly forgotten. More categories followed.

“The winner of the category for the Longest Corn-On-The-Cob goes to…”

“The Most Vegetables Inside Another Vegetable prize is awarded to that man behind the coat-stand in the tweed jacket! Seventeen spring onions inside a mushroom, well played sir!”

“The Potato Most Resembling A Human Head goes to… this beauty!” Mr Sherman held up a Desiree which looked like Alan Bennett.

Gert groaned, but clapped anyway.

“I was up for that award, young’un! Entered a King Edward I found at the supermarket. Looked for all the world like King Eddy itself, it did. Oh well, it’s a fine winner anyways, and my cucumber’s still got a chance.”

Lester would have liked to know which award the cucumber was up for, but decided he was better off not knowing.

Mr Sherman picked up another envelope. “Ah, a real family favourite coming up now. Let’s see the entrants to the Turnip Trophy for the Most Peas!”

A loud cheer for that one. Most Peas was a beloved, popularist prize.

“A much maligned vegetable, the pea. Lay folks love it, always put it with their meat and gravy, but we true vegetable-lovers disregard it. A vegetable for people who don’t like vegetables, we say. But this is the time for the humble pea to shine. First contestant please.”

A farmer walked up to the front with as many peas he could carry. Impressed ooohs rippled across the audience.

“That’s a lot of peas. Peas in our time! Or our thyme, if you’re a fan of Simon and Garfunkel. Contestant number two, please.”

A second farmer walked up with two big buckets. Both were filled to the brim with petits pois.

“Oh, well done! We have a new leader, folks. Give peace a chance,” he punned, trying to look natural.

“Third contestant?”

A little old man shambled up with a pea-filled eggcup.

“That’s a decent effort, but it’s not going to beat Number Two, I’m afraid. Pea-tiful in comparison. And finally, Contestant Four. Can you beat our leader?”

Nothing happened. The crowd were silent, waiting expectantly.

“Contestant Four?”

A pause, and then a noise. A very, very loud noise. It sounded as if a forklift truck had just collided with a supernova. There was a whiny creaking sound like the wind through a haunted house, and then all the glass smashed. Peas fell from the skylight like rain hurling itself at an umbrella-less public. Peas whizzed bullet-like through the open windows, zapping the audience with a maelstrom of friendly fire. There were petits pois, Alaskan peas, Little Marvels, Mister Bigs. Thomas Laxtons, Early Perfections, Tall Telephones. Panicked onlookers avoided Kelvedon Wonders, Green Arrows, Miragreens and runner beans. Gert was hit by a Wando in the eye and a Serge in both his ears. Lester spent most of the next week picking Lincolns and Sugar Snaps from his hair and face.

Three minutes of pea-rain, of pea-fire, and then it stopped. The calm of the moment was the calm of a broken battlefield. Peas lay stricken across the pub, jamming the jukebox, stuffing the till. Peas had indeed been given a chance, and they had taken it, forcing their illustrious namesake Peace to crawl home dejectedly.

And, just like all wars, those that were left had no choice but to pick up their lives and carry on. The crowd, having taken refuge in various places around the pub, stood unsteadily to their feet, brushing broad beans off as they did so. The floor was layers deep in little green peas. It could have been a giant ball-pool for small mammals, if mammals enjoyed ball pools enough for it to be economically viable. Little attempt was made to clear the mess, but the audience righted their chairs and re-organized. The show must go on.

Mr Sherman had run out of pea-based puns. “That, well, yes, peas.”

“A lot of peas, folks. Unfortunately, there were so many peas that the previous entries have been lost somewhere in all those peas on the floor, and so we have no way of telling which of our entries had the most peas. Thus, I declare it a four-way tie!”

The crowd decided this was fair, and roared.

“What I can say, however,” said Mr Sherman, watching peas squelch under people’s feet and chairs, “is that the next award, the Turnip Trophy for the Mushiest Peas, can be awarded to Contestant Number Four! Big round of applause, folks! Contestant Number Four can be peas-ed with that.”

Clearly he had not run out of pea-based puns.

TO BE CONTINUED