Pie-Rates of the Carp and Bream
‘A brand new pantomime set in modern times, and perhaps paying homage to the Pied Piper of old. It is the tale of a poor Northern fishing club battling to save their precious stocks of carp and bream from being removed by goblin-like ne’er-do-wells and miscreants, who have travelled from afar and speak in strange tongues.’
(Cue booing and hissing from audience)
Every time the club holds a match, a couple of these nasty little goblins creep along the bank and engage one of the hapless anglers in conversation, using their very best broken English, like ‘Whats feeshez inz heeer, Meeester?’ Whilst he is being bewildered and his back is turned, the other goblin whips out the angler’s keepnet and makes off with the catch.
(Cue: ‘He’s behind you!’ shouts from audience)
This goes on for some time, and with the fish stocks nearly all gone, the club calls a crisis meeting. There is much wailing and gnashing of teeth, along with a fair bit of theatrical hand wringing, but no really one knows what to do. Then a little voice from the back of the room says:
‘Why don’t we call in ‘The Masticator”?
They all turn round and see a young lad clutching an advert, which proclaims that ‘Derek Deanos, aka The Masticator’ will rid you of all nuisances. On the back of the advert was a scale of charges, known as the Pie-Rate. These rates ranged from one or two meat pies for settling trivial domestic matters up to ‘All I can eat’ for the serious, UN peacekeeping role, stuff.
The committee huddled round and soon agreed that time was running out and that it had to be worth giving the bloke a chance, even if the charge was at the top end of the scale. The Masticator was summoned to appear before the committee. When he arrived the committee members were impressed with his formidable bulk, and the fact that his waistline appeared to have its own gravitational field, pulling loose objects towards it as he passed.
The members soon set out the troubles they were having with the goblins. The Masticator paused for a while then scanned the Pie-Rate. This was a big issue, so the solution would demand top-end pricing. It was definitely an ‘All I can eat’ job, for sure. The relieved committee had no problem with that and a contract was quickly signed, almost without a thought. After all, a bloke can only eat so many pies in a sitting, ……
The Masticators methods were simple, but effective. He would either creep up behind the goblins and scoop them up in the voluminous folds of a pair of Auntie Kathleen’s belly-grabbing bloomers (which had to be back on the washing line before midnight or they’d turn into something very unsavoury).
The alternative was to sit on the little goblins to render them senseless or just lie in the road to form an immovable roadblock.
Using a combination of these methods the problem was soon eradicated as the goblins were rounded up. (The ones that were sat on and got squashed flat had to be rolled up), and The Masticator called in on the committee to honour the deal. The committee members were delighted, and were all very pleased with themselves that they had got the job done so cheap. A few quid was taken out of the petty cash tin and a lad was sent round to the butchers to get a dozen meat and potato pies.
The Masticator sat down in the committee room and waited for his repast to arrive. The young lad rushed in and upended the butcher’s bag and the pies spilled out onto the table in front of him.
‘Dig In,’ urged the committee members. ‘And don’t worry if you can’t finish them all lad, you can take the leftovers home in a doggy bag.’ The old boys were backslapping and chortling away to themselves.
‘Brown sauce.’ Said The Masticator, looking at the pies disdainfully, and would have folded his enormous arms over an even more enormous belly if they could have reached.
The lad ran off and returned a few minutes later with a big bottle of HP sauce.
The jovial mood of the committee slowly changed as, open-mouthed, they watched as The Masticator dumped volumous amounts of brown sauce over the the mound of pies and devoured them in minutes, and without spiling a crumb. He then pointed to the contract with a fat, sausage-like finger and said sternly, ‘All I can eat.’ A dribble of brown sauce ran down three of his chins and he thumped the table with such force the sauce bottle jumped three feet into the air.
(Cue audience: ‘Has he had enough pies? – Oh no he hasn’t….!)
The petty cash tin was raided again, and the lad rushed off, coming back a little while later with two bulging sacks of pies. The committee members watched nervously as the mountain of pies disappeared, sometimes two at a time, the only sound being the chomping and slurping, the occasional belch, and the oddly quiet hiss of a gaseous fart that had the committee gagging from the stench.
Soon there were just a few crumbs left on the table, and a podgy finger was stabbing at the contract and repeating once again, ‘All I can eat….’
(Cue audience: ‘Has he had enough pies? – Oh no he hasn’t….!)
The committee members were now getting very worried, they had a quick whip-round amongst themselves and sent the lad out with a carp barrow and instructions to empty the shelves of every pie seller in town and bring them back, along with half a dozen large bottles of brown sauce, pronto.
A little while later the poor lad struggles back with a carp barrow so loaded up he can hardly see over the top of it. It is wheeled in front of The Masticator, and the committee members stand back, arms folded, nudging and winking at each other and muttering under their breath:
‘That fat bugger’s eyes are bigger than his belly, tha’ knows. He’ll not get outside that lot.’
But they were wrong. Slowly, The Masticator’s bulk started to appear from behind the pie-laden barrow. First one handle was showing, then both. Then one wheel appeared, soon followed by the other. Then there was just the skeleton of the crumb-covered barrow looking like the carcass of Xmas turkey on about January 12th.
The committee members shrunk back as The Masticator slowly rose to his feet. The chairman was pushed forward, and blurted out:
‘We’ve no money left and you’ve eaten all the pies and brown sauce in the town, surely that’s us finished.’
The contract was thrust under his nose and with ‘All I can eat,’ ringing in their ears, the committee watched as The Masticator turned and walked out of the room.
(Cue audience: ‘Has he had enough pies? – Oh no he hasn’t….!)
To everyone’s delight and surprise, that appeared to be the end of the matter. The goblins were no more, fish were re-stocked and of The Masticator, no more was heard. Then, a little while later, a fishing match was held and everyone, even the club’s crack anglers, dry-netted.
The committee were called and as they walked along the bank they came across a strange mound of weed-draped soggy material. They prodded at it with sticks and opened it out to reveal the largest pair of long-legged bloomers that anyone had ever seen.
Even stranger was that the ends of the legs were knotted and a huge hoop of steel reinforcing rod had been threaded through the more than ample waistband. As they looked at it, one of the members said it looked like some giant kid’s fishing net. Just then the young lad came rushing up, and shouted at the committee to get down to the pie shop in town as fast as they could.
When they got there, the Masticator was just about to sink his teeth into an enormous pie, the crust of which had fish heads and tails sticking out, in the manner of a West Country Stargazer. Judging by the huge pile of empty foil trays and sauce bottles scattered around, it wasn’t his first of the day. The committee watched in horror as he got about half way through the pie, then put the dish down and patted his huge belly.
‘All I can eat,’ he murmured, contentedly……
(Cue audience: ‘Has he had enough pies? – Oh yes he has….!)
