Vicar opens fete

When the editors of The Rockall Times recently asked me to cover the annual village fete, my first reaction was to politely decline.

Not for me, I considered, the simple pleasures of the little people whose lives are uncomplicated by the weightier issues to which - as my regular readers will know - I have dedicated my journalistic career.

Yet upon reflection, I felt drawn to examine this peculiarly proletarian gathering and, with my assistant bringing up the rear, sallied forth to discover what meaning - if any - might be distilled from it.

So it was that among the carefree laughter of children I was delivered back to that fateful day in the war-torn republic of Arridia when, as history records, I single-handedly saved humanity from nuclear apocalypse.

I was at the time no more than cub reporter, uncertain of where my calling might take me, but sure in the knowledge that I had been marked down for greatness.

The war in Arridia had raged for seven long years - seven years of anarchy punctuated by atrocity and famine. When I arrived in the capital, Cabrón, insurgent Communist guerrillas were preparing for what they hoped would be the final assault to oust President Mbmbmbinga.

Tensions between East and West were running high. Arridia would be where the Iron Curtain finally fell over Africa, or the tumbling dominoes were finally put back in their box. If the regime fell, it was said, the West would have no option but to repel the red menace from the continent with nuclear force. The future of humanity hung in the balance.

No sooner had I been introduced to President Mbmbmbinga, a witty and urbane man (who remains a friend to this day, despite his exile) than his Imperial Majesty decided that I alone should be the one to assure his sponsors that their financial and military assistance was being put to just and proper use.

Riding in the presidential limousine, accompanied by President Mbmbmbinga's US-trained National Guard, and under a sky darkened by loyal helicopter gunships, we set forth proudly into the countryside.

Reflecting upon the circumstances, and the threat of sudden death at the hands of Red Marxists, I was surprised to note that I felt no fear. Mbmbmbinga studied my face momentarily. "Fear is for lesser men," he boomed. "Not for men such as ourselves." At that instant the president radiated greatness, and as I bathed in the light of that greatness, I myself transcended the banality of my former self and achieved greatness. It was the first of many times that I was to experience this clarity of vision.

Then was an explosion, then a moment's silence, then the crackle of gunfire. Tumbling from the burning car we found ourselves alone in a ditch under heavy mortar fire. The chances of survival looked bleak. To my left I could see the National Guard troops, rather disconcertingly, running at full speed towards a nearby village. To my right, a cadre of insurgents prepared to claim their prize.

Suddenly, President Mbmbmbinga took a round in the left buttock. Without warning, a crazed Arridian woman soldier jumped into the ditch and prepared to finish him off with a machete. Despite being myself seriously wounded by a fragmentation grenade moments earlier and wary of nearby small arms fire, I wrestled the she-devil to the ground and strangled her with her own brassiere.

Her erstwhile compadres, witnessing this deft piece of rugger-trained public school white man's voodoo, promptly took to their heels and fled. I had saved the president, and in doing so, the world.

President Mbmbmbinga's gratitude was boundless. I soon found myself installed in a private palace built on the very spot where I had performed the miracle. I was installed on a throne constructed of beaten gold and treated to the same luxuries as the president himself. Naked slave women would fan me with ostrich feathers and massage my limbs with precious ointments while I considered what the future may hold.

The local villagers built a temple in my honour where, touchingly, these primitive people still gather every year to worship a crudely carved wooden effigy of a tall white man with a reporter's notebook in one hand and a brassiere in the other.

There is merriment, there is dancing and there is celebration. Not unlike, indeed, last week's village fete. But without the tombola or popular "splat the rat" game.

The fete was considered to be a great success, despite the weather. The bring-and-buy stall took £81.74 for the church roof appeal.

Next week: The municipal council unveils its new park bench.