Tragedy mars village heavy metal night

Dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun; dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun; dun-dun-dun-dun, dun-dun-dun-dun; DER-DER-DER. It's Black Sabbath night at the Village Pub.

A band who look like extras from Braveheart with over-active sebacious glands are headbanging away in the beer garden.

I am attending Hawkwind Sid's first-ever rock night with Malcolm, my friend who is an architect, whose knowledge of 1980s heavy metal would fit on the back of a stamp with room to spare.

Malcolm nods sagely, as I explain how the nucleus of Black Sabbath remained true to the band's doom-laden sound in the wake of the numerous personnel changes that spanned the decades since the band was formed by Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler, Bill Ward and Ozzy Osborne, in 1968.

"They're nearly as old as that other lot you like then," Malcolm observes, holding up an empty glass in need of a re-fill. "I mean, these guys are so like years ago, they might as well be in another century, yah. Your shout either way, mon brave. I'll have a Shucky and a chaser."

The Vicar's mate is on drums, as the band shift seamlessly from Paranoid to the opening strains of Die Young, from the Heaven and Hell album featuring the late Ronnie James Dio on vocals, which was released in 1980 and many would argue remains one of the band's finest.

Ching-ching-ching-ching, ching-ching-ching-ching, goes the Vicar's mate on the hi-hat, as the band wind up for the song's explosive start amid a swirl of keyboards.

Pzzzzzzzzzzzzzt. There is a bright blue flash as the lights go out across the village. A dog which has urinated on a speaker stack lies twitching next to the amps, as the odour of roasting lurcher is carried across the beer garden of the Village Pub, overpowering the smell of beer and barbecued chicken.

"Lemmy - no, Lemmy," cries Hawkwind Sid, as he pushes his way through the crowd. "Someone like, um, call an ambulance - or a vet or, um, the RSPCA or something..."

Lemmy, who once blew up Hawkwind Sid's probation officer's photocopier looks singed beyond help to me, as the lights go back on, although I am no expert.

A uncomfortable silence descends on the beer garden of the Village Pub. This is not how anyone would have wished the Village Pub's inaugural heavy metal night to end.

Many - myself included - hoped Die Young would be followed by Children of the Sea, which remains one of my favourite Black Sabbath songs.

"Last orders... La-aa-aa-ast Or-da-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-aa-ahs," screams Neil By The Way.

"Looks like time for Lemmy," shrugs Malcolm, my friend who is an architect, summing up the situation in the succint but poignant way that only people who design buildings can. "Good job you didn't bring your dog. He'd probably have been toast too."

And when the Lord spoketh to Malcolm

OK, OK - I've got it, says Malcolm, my friend who works as an architect. Why don't we do one of those job swap things, you know, get it sponsored and stuff. You're the local media tycoon, ring Channel Four and see if they want to do a documentary on it or something.

I look down at my half-finished pint of Shuck. Neil by the Way hovers near the optics, spotting the obvious potential for doubles all round by way of celebration if this meeting of minds can only find a way forward when it comes to the challenging question of the church roof fund.

The Vicar, my friend who is a vicar, weighs in while we're still mulling this one over. Why yes, says the Vicar. I could design a building. Malcolm could run the Village Pub for the day, as guest landlord. Chris, who has a way with words, could write my Sunday sermon.

Sheer genius, as the Good Lord would doubtless say were he among us tonight. I mean, he's obviously with us always, he walks among us, but...

I can't see this one working, to be honest Vic, I say - puncturing the uneasy silence which has whose round is it written all over it.

Um, like, what am I going to do, says Hawkwind Sid. The bar remains silent. Neil by the Way refills our glasses, in a bid to break the deadlock.

I take a slug, noting how the ale in the Village Pub's initial bitterness gives way to a more complex blend of flavours.

I've got a better idea, I say. How about we all stick to what we're best at, but chip in for some collecting tins. Maybe we could do a float at the Village Carnival. Malcolm's mate's sister's ex-husband's brother runs a haulage company, which has lots of lorries.

Malcolm surrenders to common sense and stands his round, as I begin composing the Vicar's Sunday sermon on the back of one of the Village Pub's limited edition beermats.

ROGATION: The Epistle, St James (Village Pub, 22...) Lo, when Jesus spoketh to Malcolm, he sayeth it was Malcolm's shout...

Heavy metal night in the village

There have been a number of changes since my last visit to the Village Pub. I understand that life must move on and as the social fabric of rural Norfolk changes, the licensed trade must move with the times.

Hawkwind Sid has been allowed to organise a trial evening of musical entertainment, during which it is rumoured there will be a "special geust", according to the Parish Magazine, whose editor Veronica, the Vicar's wife, has still not mastered the use of spell-check.

A number of retired rock stars live in these parts, some of whom Sid - who once jammed with Hawkwind - claims to be on nodding terms with.

Neil By The Way, who is now the Village Pub's bar manager, is discussing the finer details of said *soiree* with said ex-hippy as I walk in.

"So, um, yeah Neil," he says. "He's a busy dude man, but he's, um, said he'll definitely turn up and like, um, play the drums if he does, like, um, turn up. Um, like, Hi Chris. You, like, um, coming to my rock night..?"

I, um, think I might be otherwise engaged, I reply as Neil By The Way slaps a Shuck and a Jack chaser on the bar.

"It's like, um, next Friday. It's a fiver to get in - but we've got, like, a special guest," says Sid. "He was like, um, bigger than Deep Purple when, um, like, they were really big, during, like, their really big period. And we're, um, like doing food too."

"We've got a Black Sabbath tribute band playing in the Beer Garden," adds Neil By The Way, by way of clarification, as I hand over a tenner and take a long sip on my Shuck, noting how the initial bitterness gives way to the complex blend of flavours associated with said ale.

"It's gonna be rockin' - they're gonna play all the hits. We've got an eat all you like buffet and the Vicar's mate who used to play the drums is coming."

Lemmy, Sid's dog, takes a lengthy wee against the end of the bar. The yellow puddle flows menacingly towards my new brogues. For some reason I can't quite put my finger on, I don't fancy food.

Time to build an igloo

"Come on," says Malcolm. "You can't bottle it. I mean, it might be a bit cold but that shouldn't bother an old pike fisherman.

"Look, I tell you what. Me and Sid will build it - well, I'll design it (being an architect, obviously...) and Sid will do the actual, um, building as it were. All you've got to do is take some pictures and job's a good 'un."

I waver, while the New Barman at the Village Pub reads my mind and pours me a double shot of Jack on the rocks. I like the New Barman's style.

"Are you, like, um, sure there'll be enough snow," asks Hawkwind Sid. "I mean to build, like, an igloo..?"

It says more snow on the forecast, I shrug. But I'm sure they build igloos from ice, as in, like, where the eskimos live.

"I reckon you might be on for that tonight," says the New Barman, in the first of what I am sure will be many useful contributions to the wide-ranging debates which happen in the Village Pub.

"They reckon that's going to get down to minus eight or nine. And my name's Neil, by the way."

Desolation Row

I go to the Village Shop to buy bread, but plump for a Bob Dylan CD, a jar of extra-strong Marmite and a bottle of peach schnapps instead. This is the way I roll these days - anarchic, unpredictable, on the edge.

Realising I still have £5 left, I decide to take a detour on the way home and reinject it into the rural economy via the Village Pub.

The lounge bar is empty apart from Malcolm and Hawkwind Sid, who was never actually a member of Hawkwind, but claims to have jammed with them when he used to *like, uh, do the festivals, man*.

"Hello stranger," says Malcolm, peering at the recycled carrier bag plonked on the bar. "Been shopping, have we..? What's this, Marmite, schnapps and - oh, get this Sid, the man of letters has bought a CD by the greatest poet of the sixties, as in uh, Bob, uh, Dylan, ma-a-a-an."

Malcom makes a peace sign over his gin and tonic. Sid scratches his crotch through his combat pants. "Like, uh, right," he says. "What's it, uh, got on it..?"

"Bob Dylan mainly," I reply. "Bought it to like, uh, listen to in the car."

"Never had you down for a Dylan man," Malcolm says. "Sid met him in the seventies once, didn't you Sid..?"

"Uh, like, yeah, uh, no, that was Lemmy," says Sid. "When he was, like, uh, in Hawkwind. Or maybe after he left and, uh, formed Motorhead."

Quality conversation with my neighbours is one of the reasons I enjoy the occasional visit to the Village Pub. We are unsure when Motorhead were formed. I plump for 1980. Malcolm thinks I've confused them with Radiohead.

The latter half of the 20th Century is largely a blank as far as Sid's concerned. His dog is called Lemmy, in memory of temps perdu, but said hound does not play bass guitar for Motorhead, or have a wart on his nose.

Half way down my pint of Shuck, Malcolm disappears to water the horses.

"Uh, I was, like, uh, wondering something," says Hawkwind Sid. "I thought you were, like, uh, a journalist, man."

I reply in the affirmative, eyeing up my rapidly emptying glass.

"But Malcolm said you were, like, uh, a man of letters," Sid continues, clearly perplexed. "So if I buy you another pint, would you like, uh, write one to my probation officer..?"

Two hours and several pints later, I stick on the Dylan CD, sit down in my study with the bottle of schnapps and start writing.

Dear Mr Jenkins,

I am truly sorry for the mess that Lemmy my dog made in the probation office. I particularly regret the fact that he urinated on your photocopier, rendering it inoperable and causing a power cut in which your colleagues lost their work.

I hope that the remorse I feel on behalf of Lemmy regarding Friday's events will go some way towards assuring you that I am a changed man who is well on his way to rehabilitation. While I have not, strictly speaking, breached the terms of my licence, since preventing my dog from urinating on office equipment was not included in my parole conditions, I am willing to make a donation of £50 towards a charity of your choice by way of recompense.

Yours Sincerely,

Sidney Breeze Esq

I e-mail it to Sid, along with instructions on how to buy a stamp, attach it to the envelope and address it to the probation office.

Let no-one say I'm not prepared to go the extra mile for my mates.

You want to get that seen to, you do

You want to get that seen to, says Malcolm as I sink a medicinal brandy in the Village Pub. That looks nasty.

Thanks for that Doctor bleeding Kildare, I reply through the exquisite fumes of Cognac aged in oak casks for at least four years.

The Half Awake Barman sniggers as he pours me another. Malcolm extracts his wallet from his Chinos and slaps a tenner on the bar.

Oh for god's sake, he says. It's only a mosquito bite.

I am a girl's blouse. I am a gibbering pansy. I have been bitten on the arm by a mosquito. It is swelling before my eyes. I decide to take my bite elsewhere in search of sympathy.

Blast me that's a biggun, says the Village Shop Lady, as I invest in another bottle of brandy and a sausage roll, before exiting the premises before the Village Shop Lady has time to enrich my afternoon with any interesting anecdotes about interesting bites suffered by other customers.

Strictly medicinal Vic, I tell the Vicar, who is sitting on the Memorial Bench by the Village Pond, as his eyes alight on the bottle of VSOP Martell, which has been aged for at least four years in oak casks.

Been bitten by a this fly, and... I didn't know they sold VSOP, said the Vicar, moving the conversation away from my ailment. They age it in oak casks for a minimum of four years, you know.

For a moment, I contemplate offering the Vicar a swig. But I take my booty home instead.   

Normal for Norfolk

Rain drums on the windows of the Village Pub, like rain drumming on the windows of a village pub. Fancy a game of dommies, says Malcolm, who is reckoned to be one of the best domino players in the village.

I decline, suggesting the weather's all wrong for dominos. I like playing dominos in the beer garden of the Village Pub, but it is raining too hard for dominos al fresco. Malcolm asks if there's anything else the matter.

Nothing a day's fishing wouldn't cure, I reply, looking at the rain descending on the village through the second window to the left of the door of the Lounge Bar of the Village Pub.

You and your fishing, says Malcolm. Fancy another pint..? I'll have another pint of Shuck, I reply. Just for a change. Malcolm heads off to rouse the Half Awake Barman. I look outside and it is still raining. I go for a wee, to break up the evening.

I return to find two pints of Shuck on the table. Malcolm is staring intently into one as he fiddles with a beermat. I stare briefly into the other, before I raise it to my lips, noting how the hoppy after-taste soon competes with the brew's initial bitterness, delivering the balancing act of flavours associated with this particular brand of ale.

I look outside, through the second window to the left of the door of the Lounge Bar of the Village Pub, noting that it is still raining. Gonna' rain all night, says Malcolm, as he raises his glass. An' they reckon that's gonna' rain all day ter-morrow.

Sling some pike in - that'll thin 'em out a bit

New signs have appeared in the village and there are men with clipboards surveying the Village Pond.

Veronica, the Vicar's Wife and the Village Shop Lady are being interviewed by a TV crew. The Village Pub is a-buzz with rumours that this has nothing to do with Chip Van-gate, the media interest focussing more on ducks than the lack of takeway food outside the Vicarage on Friday night.

Hanging baskets and herbaceous borders are being pecked clean. Washing is disappearing from washing lines, the culprits (allegedly) leaving a trail of feathers leading to the Village Pond. Those living close to the water's edge find their 4x4s sometimes fail to start for the school run, as duck down clogs up air intakes.

Something clearly has to give, I agree with Malcolm, as we sip pints of Shuck and watch the media circus on the Village Green from the beer garden of the Village Pub.

"I reckon you ought to sling some pike in there. They'd soon thin 'em out a bit," he whispers. "I know someone's already tried, they just bought the wrong fish, some sort of carp or something, yah..?

"Might help get the parish council on-side if you ever fancied building an extension - you know, scratch my back and all that."

I raise my glass as I consider the ethics of breaking Section 30 of the Salmon and Freshwater Fisheries Act in order to obtain planning permission for my new extension. A pair of ducks skim overhead on their final approach to the Village Pond, narrowly missing the camera crew interviewing Veronica, the Vicar's Wife, and the Village Shop Lady.

I think back over a summer briefly dominated by the saga of the pike in the Village Pond that turned out to be a grass carp, which culminated in the invention of the Sausage Roll Rig, before I make my excuses and leave.

Chips are down in village

The Vicar has that worried look I have sometimes seen etched across the faces of members of the clergy at times of crisis in the church.

A small crowd has gathered in front of the Vicarage. While I do not propose to embark on any kind of blame game in the heat of the moment, the Vicar's foreword in the Parish Magazine clearly stated that a visitation from the Chip Van would occur this very evening.

And yet there is no Chip Van, or takeaway food of any description available outside the Vicarage.

"Where's the Chip Van then Vicar," a woman asks. "I tol' my kids th'ass sossidge an' chips fer tea."

The Vicar wrings his hands, looking up at the leaden skies for inspiration. Were I in the Vicar's shoes, I would crisis manage matters and pledge a full, independent inquiry, using social media to reach my key audiences and generate stakeholder sympathy.

I would probably also include an update in my Sunday sermon, perhaps moving the narrative on to more positive territory by stressing my ownership of the problem and the steps being taken to resolve it.

The opening bars of Paranoid by Black Sabbath shrill from a pocket of the Vicar's coat. It is the Vicar's mobile. I do recall the Vicar telling me he was a roadie for various heavy metal bands, before becoming a vicar.

The Vicar confers briefly, before he turns to the queue. The Chip Van has a flat tyre. It is stuck on the A149 somewhere near Snettisham. There will be no chips tonight.

I feel the crisp new twenty pound note in my pocket, as I set off through the drizzle for the Village Pub.

A word from the Vicar

Jesus was a fisherman - and some might say a chip off the old block, for he was a carpneter too, begins the monthly foreword from the Vicar in the Parish Magazine. I note that the Vicar's Wife has not spell-checked this month's Parish Magazine, but read on regardless as I wait for Malcolm in the Village Pub.

Our Lord turneth fish to bread and water into wine, or so the Gospel tells us. Continuing on this theme I am pleased to announce that Veronica and I have agreed to allow the fish and chip van to park outside the Vicarage on a trial basis on Friday nights between 6.30 and 8pm. Rejoice!

I point this out to Malcolm, when he arrives fresh from the gym in King's Lynn and orders a brace of Shucks with whisky chasers.

"Chip van's back then, is it," he says, looking at my midriff. "That's your diet gone for a Burton then, fat boy."

Monster pike mystery solved at the Village Pond

It's 5am and no-one's about, which is just as well when you're about to try pike fishing with a sausage roll for bait. But I've done my research and thought long and hard about this, fine tuning my approach down to the last detail. As I creep across the Village Green, I feel the hand of history on my shoulder.

I've sliced up a sausage roll ready to throw it in the Village Pond to see if there's really a pike called Mike in said water, which has developed a taste for pastry products from the Village Shop over the road.

When I scoffed at the last pike in village pond story which hit the Parish Magazine - distributed by the parish council on the last Wednesday of every month, with a foreword from the Vicar - I got it badly wrong.

There really was a pike in the village pond concerned. And someone caught it at over 28lbs. So this time, the gloves are off. I have a steer on where it knocks about. I know it's been devouring sausage rolls like they're going out of fashion, mainly thanks to the Bread Man and the Village Shop Lady.

As I sit back on the Memorial Bench with a double expresso from Starbucks in a can, I feel quietly confident. I have brought three sausage rolls with me, for the benefit of those who may be wondering how the sausage roll method pans out in practical terms.

Those who fish on a tight budget may care to note that it is cheaper to buy sausage rolls in threes from the Village Shop, with a triple pack weighing in at £1.99, as opposed to 99p each for single sausage rolls.

This clearly represents a considerable saving over the course of a season. I also once found a pubic hair in a sausage roll from the Village Shop, back in the days when I bought them one at a time, but have never to date experienced this problem with triple packs of sausage rolls.

Sausage roll one, as in the first sausage roll out of a pack of three, is for baiting up with. Sausage roll two, as in the second sausage roll, has been attached to a trace via a pair of size four Owner ST36 trebles. Sausage roll three, for those who like to keep count of their sausage rolls, is in case this turns into a longer session than envisaged and I require food to see me through, although I may inspect it for stray body hair of the short and curly variety first to be on the safe side.

I have attached a two ounce lead to the trace clip, which you need to sink a sausage roll from the Village Shop. This is owing to the highly bouyant nature of its folds of puff pastry which is made by Marnie, who works at the Village Shop on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturday mornings.

I am not sure what Marnie does to the puff pastry which encompasses the sausage rolls they sell in the Village Shop, not to mention whether she was the cause of the pubic hair issue I once had with a sausage roll from said outlet. But they are so bouyant that you could probably get away without a life jacket if you ate one or two before you went out on a boat and stuffed a couple more in your pockets just in case. 

I have also tied a poly ball to the bottom hook, so the sausage roll will sit just under the surface, as I twitch it back. The pike will see this as a silhouette, but should hopefully be able to ascertain that this is a premium sausage roll, made from organic pork with extra sage and onion without added preservatives,  from the Village Shop.

Presentation counts, in my experience. And details like this can sometimes make all the difference.

The chances of anyone I know coming along are fairly remote at this time of the morning. This is fortunate, as I am doing my best to keep the Village Pond off the radar, to spare Mike the inevitable attention that speculation in the weekly angling papers might bring.

I am wrestling with the dilemma of whether or not to go public in the Parish Magazine, with the background to the pictures blurred in Photoshop, when a chunk of sausage roll disappears in a swirl. I reach for the rod. It's game on.

A gentle overhead lob, past the free offerings, and the rig lands in a straight line just shy of the reeds on the far bank. As I twitch the popped-up sausage roll, a bow-wave appears as a long, dark back scythes through the water towards the puffs of silt kicked up by the lead and the bouyant pastry snack on the end, made by Marnie from the Village Shop, from organic pork with added sage and onion - not to mention the occasional public hair.

I can see the headline in the Parish Magazine, which generally comes out around the last Wednesday of every month, with a foreword from the Vicar.

EXCULSIVE - Pike Ace tames monster in Village Pnod

Veronica, the Vicar's wife, does not always use spell-check. At times, this has been the source of some controversy, such as the occasion when the Count of Monte Christo led the bill at a film festival at the Village Hall. But I understand the pressure the modern media often find themselves under and am sure she will do the story justice if I supply her with quotes and pictures.

It may even make the front page, and rival talking points such as the lack of bins for dog mess on the Village Green, or the day the bell ringers smuggled a sheep home on the bus after their annual outing to Fakenham and released it in the Village Pub, where it now works behind the bar.

I see the sausage roll hovering in the margins, as I give it one last twitch. A shape glides into sharp focus from the depths, long and dark, with piggy little eyes. I strike the bait off just in time and the fish devours it as it floats to the surface.

Mike the Pike is no pike after all. It's a sodding great grass carp. As I pack up the rod and net, I see the Bread Man's van coming down the hill, as the lights in the Village Shop go on.

Th'ass called Mike - as in Mike the pike

You have one new message. Press one for main menu, press two for... "Hella, hella - yew there Cress..? I got some more information for you about the pike w'oss in the Village Pond. Th'ass called Mike apparently. As in Mike the pike.

"I heard that off the Bread Man. He say him and the Village Shop Lady's been feeding 'im on the quiet so they don' upset the parish council.

"An' yew know what - that likes sausage rolls, old Mike do. Bread Man reckon he was on his lunch break, threw half a sausage roll in and ker-splosh, that come right up and took it.

"He say that hatta' be a pike, great big long ole thing, so they call't 'm Mike, like - as in... Anyways they bin bungin' the odd sausage roll in ever since. They reckon he live right in the corner by the shop. Sits there waitin' to be fed he does. Bread Man reckon he's a real big 'un too. Thought I'd better let you know. See yew roun' podna."

I 'd forgotten the pike in the Village Pond. Put there (allegedly) to thin out the ducks. The one I was going to try and catch before it got boiling hot. The one that's now developed a taste for sausage rolls. The one the Bread Man and the Village Shop Lady have christened Mike. As in Mike the pike.

I weigh up the options. Popped-up sausage roll on two size four Owners. Catch pike and offer story to Village Magazine in exclusive deal. Ace village pike angler foils monster in Village Pond on snack from Village Shop.

I retire to my study, to get a rod sorted.

We are the Sultans of Swing

The pub is heaving like the Relief Channel in a good blow. I have sunk a Friday night's worth of beer alongside my friend Malcolm, who is an architect - matching him glass by glass as the evening unfolds to the sound track of a live band.

Nature calls, as Norfolk Enchants launch into their penultimate Dire Straits cover version of the night.

"There's a shiver in the dark, tha'ss a rainin' in the park," sings the singer, as I ricochet down the corridor on my way to the toilet.

"Band was blowin' Dixie, double four time. An' a big well done to Marnie Hodges hooz won the turnip carvin' at the young farmers do for the third year on the trot, we are the sultans, let's hev a big hand for Marnie, we are the sultans, of serrr-wing."

"We are the sultans," the bar chorus. "We are the sultans, of serrrr-wing."

The lights flash on and off as I select a urinal and make room for more beer. Last orders. I fend my way back through the singing, swaying throng in search of a top-up, as the band begin their final Dire Straits number.

"Jer-hoo-lee-yurt, the dice was loaded from the start," they sing as I spot Malcolm, who has acquired a 30-degree list during my absence. "When you gonna realise, it was just that the time was wrong, Jer-hoo-lee-yay-yay-yay-yurt..."

Malcolm is waving a £20 note in the air over the bar. This is what architects do on Friday nights, as closing time nears in rural Norfolk to the final strains of an eponymous love song inspired by Shakespearean tragedy, which reached Number Eight in the charts in January 1979.

The barman shakes his head and points to his watch. Malcolm shrugs, puts his money away and breaks into song without correcting his lean, as the band begin to pack away their instruments.

"Jer-hoo-lee-yurt, the dice wossh loaded from the sshtart. You ole tart. Hwoaah, hwoaah. When we made love. Get in there son. Phwoaah, hwoaah, hwoaah. You used to cry. Jer-hoo-lee-yay-yay-yay-yurt. Bitpissedbettergohome,"  he explains, as I lift a pint of Black Shuck which appears to be between owners.

"Howcomeyougotanotherpint. Julietthedicewasloadedfromthesshtart. Sultansofswingyeahright. Direstraits. Gotalltheiralbums. Lissenreallygreattoseeyou. Mustdoagainmateytopnight. Bitpissedbettergohome.

"Lissenmustgofishingsometime. Heardaboutpikeinthevillagepond. Letsgocatchit. Givemeacallyah. Seeyoutomorrow. Wheresthefrickindoor. Julietthedicewasloadedbaby. Dicewasloadedfromthestart. Sultanswearethesultans. Sultansofswing. Seeyouseeyou. Bye."

I wave meekly, as Malcolm lurches into the night, still singing. "Right then," says the barman, as he heads towards the door to cut off any further escapes. "Who's on for a lock-in..?"

+++Monster pike in Village Pond rumpus mystery solved exclusive click here.

To the Village Pond, for a pre-breakfast session

It's time to put the pike in the Village Pond story to bed one way or the other. If I get up at 5am, I can give it an hour to see if it's a goer, as in there might - or might not - be a large pike, introduced to said water with intent of serious duck removal.

The roads are quiet, mainly because it's 5am, as I snap a trace on the single rod and sling a mackerel tail out in the middle. I've set the float at 6ft, but it still lies flat as I tighten up.

I set it at 4ft, recast and the orange blob sits up reassuringly, as I drop the rod beside the net in the reeds and sit on a park bench to roll a fag. The lights go on in the Village Shop, as the bread lorry arrives.

"Fifteen sliced Hun, fifteen bloomers and hev' you got any more o' them crusty rulls..?"

"Cor blast I dunno how many rulls I got on board darlin'. How many yew lookin' for..?"

"I rickun about 100 cos that's bridge club today an' they got a coffee mornin' at the church."

"Blast me I dunno if I got that many, darlin'. Carn't yew tell 'em to make do with samwidges..? I got some cheese here somewhere. That'll do 'em with a bit o' pickle."

The Bread Man's van lurches off up the lane. The float remains motionless, as kids begin queueing for the school bus. I reel it in to make my way to work, dropping the mackerel tail in the nearest dog poo bin. I pop into the Village Shop in search of sustenance.

"Yew the chap what was fishing when I open up for the Bread Man?" asks the Shop Lady. "Thought I'd give it a go," I shrug, as I eye up the pile of newly-made cheese and pickle rolls in the fridge.

"Well you'd better go back and catch a fish or summit," she smiles, as I open the door. "Cos yew can't have any of them - they're for the bridge club. I got sossidge rolls, mind. An' crisps."

There's a pike in the village pond, you know

"Much else happening in the village," I asked one of my parish council contacts I'd phoned to get the inside track on whether or not a Hollywood A-lister had bought a house in the area.

"Well now you mention it, there is something you might be interested in," he said. "I think we've got a pike, you know." What, as in it's gazumped Johnny Depp, I ask.

"Oh no, nothing like that," he said. "You know we've got a bit of a problem with the ducks in the village pond. Well between you and me, I think one of your lot's took some direct action and stuck a pike in there to thin 'em out a bit. Quite a big one too, by all accounts."

Monster pike in village pond stories surface from time to time in Norfolk. Mainly in villages with ponds, where not much else happens. The last time there was a big pike in village pond story doing the rounds, someone caught a 28lbs pike from said water.

The village in question also has no pedigree as far as pike fishing's concerned. But it does have a pond and an ongoing row over whether there are too many ducks, just the right number or whether the ducks will become the biggest threat to rural life since New Labour's landslide victory in the 1997 general election.

Last time I drove through the village, the water was covered with ducks. Young mums with toddlers in prams were chucking them bread.  Now signs warn ominously of a duck cull, when I go down there for a gander.

A 4x4 nearly ends up in the pond, as it swerves to avoid an old taggler zig-zagging up the lane on his bike. "Why don't you look where you're going, you silly old fart," shouts the driver through the open window.  "Up yours," responds the old chap.

The theme tune to The Archers drifts from a cottage on the village green, as peace returns - punctuated by the occasional defiant quack from the reeds around the pond. You're going to look really, really stupid fishing here, says a little voice in the back of my head.