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Portaloo Massacre

January 1, 2019

Tuesday morning dawned bright and cloudy, after the rainfall overnight, and everything shimmered in the gentle breeze. I turned away from the window as the kettle clicked off, made my tea, then set about giving Muffin his breakfast before he tripped me up. Hot buttered toast done, I settled at the kitchen table to enjoy a leisurely breakfast, myself, when the letterbox rattled urgently. I glanced at the clock…the post wasn’t due for another hour, yet, but curiosity got the better of me, even though it was probably more take-away menus, or advertising for nasty-looking loose covers, or even hearing aids!

Little did I know, that this was the beginning of a division in the village, a civil war, them and us! It was a call to arms…okay, not literally, but my curiosity was aroused by the piece of paper in my hand. A meeting was being called at the village hall to discuss an upcoming event, an event that quite a few people were looking forward to, only this seemed to be dead against it for some reason.

Arriving at the village hall at the stated time, I found that those attending had formed themselves into two groups. On one side were the villagers who seemed to find this whole thing quite amusing, as they chatted and laughed while waiting for the meeting to begin. On the other side were the incomers, those who lived on the new estates, and some of the larger houses in the village, who remained silent, or whispered their disgust that this event should even be happening in ‘their’ village!

Just then, a small, neatly-dressed man, of middling years, approached the stage, followed by a lanky female, who I guessed must be his wife. He proceeded to faff about with his papers, tapped the microphone to check that it was working, then cleared his throat rather longer and louder than was necessary.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “The reason we have called this meeting is because we feel that our beautiful village is about to be violated! Yes, that’s right, violated!” There was a general hum of assent from the incomers, but silence from the villagers as they waited for him to go on.

“And who might you be?!” demanded old Mrs Lacey-Dawkins in a loud voice, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Er, yes, thank you, madam…how very remiss of me. I am Mr Bogle. Mr Henry Bogle,” there was sniggering from the crowd. Clearing his throat again, he continued, “…our, um, our beautiful village…”

“Get on with it!” yelled Joey Green, of Green’s Newsagents on the High Street, “I haven’t got all day. The wife’s had to take her mother to the hospital ‘cos her piles are playing up something chronic, and I’ve had to leave young Tomkins in charge…and you know what happened last time…” general murmurings and laughter, as Bogle started to go rather red in the face.

Yes, yes, okay!” he snapped, as he tried to regain order. Mrs Mangold’s piles were legendary in Muchgrott, and often the butt of jokes. Sorry.

“Now, the reason we have called this, um, this m-meeting is to, er, to discuss what we are going to do about this, um…this ‘event’.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, removed his thick-rimmed glasses, and proceeded to clean them, then replacing them on his bulbous nose continued, “It is a total disgrace!”

“You’re not wrong there, mate, you should have gone to Specsavers!” The hall erupted into laughter, and the more Bogle tried to quiet the crowd, the more they laughed and jeered, until someone actually made a sensible suggestion.

“I’m off to the pub, who’s coming?” this was met by cheering from the assembled crowd, so we all filed out and wandered down to Ye Olde Stuffed Onion, chatting merrily as we went.

“What was that meeting supposed to be about?” asked Mr Jobbins, “I haven’t laughed so much in absolutely ages…just wait until I tell Ada, she will be tickled pink!”

“Yeah, my sides are hurting!” chuckled young David, the butcher’s boy, “And who was that Bogie, bloke…what an utter arse biscuit!” I laughed at this, and he winked at me. I couldn’t agree more.

Over the next couple of days, the story spread around the village, which infuriated Mr Bogle, and when someone started whistling Colonel Bogey when he walked past, he nearly blew a gasket! I’m afraid that Colonel Bogey caught on pretty quickly, which infuriated him all the more, and I’m sure this was the main cause of what happened next.


Friday morning was perfect for breakfast alfresco. Not a cloud in the sky. The bees buzzed around the flowers, and the butterflies flitted here and there, while Muffin was busy washing himself before settling down to soak up some sunshine. Suddenly a great roaring noise broke the tranquility. Startled, Muffin dived under the nearest bush, and I almost dropped my cup of tea. I jumped up, and ran round to the front garden to see what the commotion was about…seven or eight large motorbikes roared down the lane, all laden with tents and bags, heading for Ye Olde Stuffed Onion for this weekend’s bike rally event.

Of course! I hadn’t given it a thought, but this is what Mr Bogle had been trying to organise the protest about! If the silly man had been here any length of time, he would have known that this was the fourth year that the pub had hosted this popular event…not just popular with the bikers, but with the villagers also. In fact my nephew, Gary, and his girlfriend, Sally, will be arriving soon, joining me for lunch, before heading for the pub in order to find themselves a good spot to pitch their tent.

They arrived just after twelve, and were ready for a hearty lunch, having ridden all the way here without any stops. It was lovely to catch up, and listening to Gary’s stories is something I could have done all day, but I had to let them go, besides, I would see them again tomorrow for the entertainments and crazy competitions…something I was looking forward to.

Next day began with a cool breeze and grey clouds that appeared to threaten rain, but they soon cleared, and blue skies reigned once more, and the sun was blazing down when I wandered along to join in the fun. There were motorbikes and trikes of every description, with a constant stream of arrivals returning from the morning run out, stalls, a hog roast, catering vans, and so many people enjoying the day, including a young man with a broomstick shoved through the sleeves of his jacket, and a sign on his back that read ‘I’m a rally virgin, buy me a drink!’

Just then, the sound of chanting drew people’s attention to the front of the pub, and a crowd was gathering at the entrance to see what it was all about. Bogle! There he was leading his merry band up the lane, looking like a miniature warrior about to do battle, his megaphone to his face, shouting abusive slogans, and his followers chanting back. By this time the pub landlord, Ernie Spring, and a few burley bikers had blocked the entrance, in order to prevent them going any further, and Ernie was trying to reason with them. Bogle was having none of it, and carried on trying to tell everyone to go away, and that this kind of ‘event’ was not wanted in their beautiful village! It looked like things were about to start getting rough when someone in the crowd began to whistle Colonel Bogey. You should have seen his face! Gradually, others joined in, until everyone was whistling, slowly advancing on the small band of protesters, many of whom had started to look a trifle worried…and one or two had already broken away, and were retreating back down the hill.

Bogle was furious, and shouted out to his deserters to come back and make a stand for what was right, but the rest of them had also thought better of it, as they, too, began to retreat. Left facing the enemy, his courage began to waver, until he, too, turned and ran after his cronies, but when he felt he was at a safe distance, he turned back and continue to hurl more abuse and threats. Constable Crumpet had arrived by this time, and was busy talking to Ernie to find out what had occurred, while some of the locals were enjoying themselves telling the tale of Bogle and his protest meeting.

The afternoon’s entertainments were well under way, and I had just had a go at welly-wanging…and won!… when raised voices, then urgent shouting drew our attention to the side of the pub. People were running out to the front, then suddenly came running back, as the sound of a large vehicle was heard approaching. We looked on in amazement as a determined Mr Bogle drove a JCB into the yard and straight into the row of portaloos that were lined up along the fence, a look of smug self-satisfaction on his face.

This did not last, as the door was yanked open, and Bogle was dragged from his seat, screaming for help.

Constable Crumpet pushed his way to where two hefty lads had hold of him, lifting him off his feet, while others were shouting suggestions of what to do with him, but then someone waved a broomstick at him, and everyone laughed agreement. His arms were yanked wide apart, and the broomstick was shoved through his sleeves and tied in place at the elbows and wrists. He was then lifted high and carried out to the front of the pub, still screaming and kicking. Constable Crumpet was asked where he wanted him, thought for a second, enjoying the spectacle, then bade them follow him down to the local police station where he would be charged…with criminal damage, I believe…?

Excitement over, the rest of the weekend went on as planned, and my dear nephew and his girlfriend joined me for Sunday lunch, before heading home. As we said our goodbyes, the sun glinted on their helmets, and I couldn’t help but ask how they kept them so clean.

“Pig Snot, Auntie Mavis!” he said, with a wink.

“Don’t be so disgusting, Gary!” He laughed, then explained that it was a real cleaning product. You learn something new every day!

4 Comments leave one →
  1. January 3, 2019 11:32 pm

    Ooh! That was great! And you definitely do learn something new everyday!!😂

  2. Chip Allen permalink
    January 4, 2019 4:36 pm


  3. Robert James permalink
    January 7, 2019 8:21 am

    I’m with Chip – lols at the Pig Snot.

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