Watson 0157

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I suppose it had to happen at some point, and that point arrived at about 1.53pm on Sunday the 20th of September 2009 in the bar of the local inn. Just like the distant rumble of thunder warns of an approaching storm, the distinctive sound of a battered old Landrover rattling and farting up the lane warns of an approaching Wannacott. The old green 'shed on wheels' sputtered into the carpark and old Watson Wannacott shambled out and hobbled into the bar.

'What's on ladies', the old farmer muttered.

'What's on Watson', we all replied in a somewhat apathetic manner.

'I u'll tell ee what's on', Watson mumbled, 'buy I a drap of sherry and I u'll relate me pridickyment'.

The pint of finest sherry was duely purchased and after taking a few delicate draughts the old boy looked up quizzically, tapped the empty glass and nodded for a refill.

'I needs zum shotgun cartridges', he explained, 'runned clean out I 'ave'.

'Didn't know a shotgun cartridge would fit into a musket,' the landlord quipped.

This little bit of humour cost him the price of a pint of his finest sherry and a look that would wither a willow wand.

'What's the panic', I asked, 'fox giving you some grief in the henhouse?'

'Naw', said Watson, 'I 'ave tu shoot ole Gem an' the young un'.

The whole assembly fell silent, Gem and the 'young un' were his two collie dogs, who, considering his age virtually ran the farm for him, or a least his livestock. Everyone was frantically wondering what possible catastrophe could have occurred for the old farmer to take such drastic action. I think it was Fernley who eventually summoned up enough courage to ask the dreaded question.

'Why do you have to shoot the dogs?', the words came out slow and deliberate.

'My lawd,' he exploded, 'do ee not keep up with curren' haffairs? It said on me transistor radio that there be volk a cullapsing everywhere with zum dire disease which is catched vrom collies. Um also zay 'tis particular dangerous to young uns an' us elderly zo I be taking no chances, them dowgs 'as gotto gaw.'

Now when Watson says he heard something on the transistor radio it usually means the old radio in the Landrover which despite the twisted metal coathanger placed in a rusty hole has never had particularly good reception. Couple this with the awful racket the vehicle makes along with the old boy being virtually deaf then one might forgive any form of mis-information.

'Watson, why are you wearing pink washing up gloves?', Fernley quizzed, changing the subject somewhat.

'Cos you hignorant fellow', the old boy expounded, 'um zaid that youm catched the collie disease by stroking animals, an' as ee knaw, I 'ave cattle and sheep that do a mix wi' me collies an zo they tu kin carry the disease, zo by wearing me zurgical gloves I be a protectin' mesself.'

Surgical gloves, yeah right, they were mother's best washing up gloves and there will be merry hell to pay when he gets home, if one wants to carry on breathing then it's best not to touch anything that remotely belongs to Mother.

They do say a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing and in the case of Gem and 'the young un' things were getting precariously dodgy, their only saving grace was the fact that Watson had run out of shotgun cartridges. At this point the landlord made some excuse about going out to clean the ashtrays in the smoking lounge which to be exact is a bit of corrugated tin nailed over an old gazebo. Within seconds the sound of snarling and snapping came from the carpark followed by the return of the landlord nursing a bleeding hand, a perfect example of 'curiosity killed the cat', or in this case, ' don't go prying in the back of Watson's Landrover because that's where he keeps his dogs.

'Hang on Watson', he bitterly said, 'I've got some cartridges you can have.'

At that point it seemed a good idea to explain to Watson his misconception although that was easier said than done. This task was delegated to 'Holy Moses' the vicar because being a man of God one would expect him to tell the gospel truth. It was then explained in very slow and concise terms that in fact the man on the transistor radio was talking about an illness caused by E.Coli and not collies and although it was true that it was particularly dangerous to young children and elderly folk it had only been contacted by people visiting petting farms. It appeared that all was going well until 'Holy Moses' mentioned the fact that the illness had been contracted at a petting farm then things began to slip a bit.

'Petting varm', the old farmer exploded, 'I bin a varmin' these yer moors vur nigh on siventy years an' I nivver heared of a pettin' varm, wat the 'ell be one of they?'

'Well', said the vicar, who was now going into sermon mode, 'it's where families take their children so they can meet and stroke farm animals which normally they wouldn't get the opportunity to do'.

You could literally see the cogs whirring in the old boys head, well no, you couldn't actually see them but I am positive you could hear them, bit like his old Landrover. Slowly his eyes glazed over, by then it was about 3.00pm and he had consumed three pints of sherry so nobody was sure whether it was the effects of the alcohol or his thought processes. Either way the vicar looked quite pleased with himself because he had minister to one of his flock in their time of strife. But you never get off that easy with Watson.

'Tell I vicar', he mused, 'do these volk pay to visit one o' they pettin' farms?'

Now in life there are certain times when the right word at the right time can have a profound effect on people's lives, in this case it was the obverse, the wrong word at the wrong time can have a profound effect on people's lives.

'Ow much do 'em pay', Watson demanded.

Everyone bar the vicar could see where this was going and willed him to think very, very carefully before replying, but alas no.

'Well', I am not completely sure', he said, ' but I know when we took the grandchildren to the Donkey Sanctuary it was free but we were asked to make a donation towards the running costs'.

'Ow much did ee give 'em,' Watson eagerly demanded.

Again everybody was on the edge of their seats wincing.

'Why I think I gave £20,' the vicar graciously replied.

Watson eyes lit up like an Osram light bulb, you could see by the fact that he was touching his figure tips with his thumb that there were some complicated mathematical calculations going on. We all held our breath as the old boy looked up with a wry grin.

'Yes?', we asked.

Watson said but not a word, he simply drained the last dregs from his glass, coughed, and walked towards the door.

'Don't you want those cartridges?', the landlord pleaded, still nursing a throbbing hand.

'What vur?', Watson replied.

I reckon it was about 7.00pm when I walked the dog down the lane and on approaching Watson's farm I noticed a tatty old sign draped over his gate. I suppose it was only to be expected after the afternoon's discussion, the only consolation was that Gem and the 'young un' were still alive. In fact there was no doubting this because once they saw me the pair came snarling and snapping down the farm track. Oddly enough Gem was covered in the same livid red paint that Watson's new sign had daubed all across it, obviously got to close to an artist in full flow. And just in case nobody believes me: